Years of conditioning kicked in automatically. Tòumíng's shoulders slumped forward, his posture collapsing into the familiar shape of someone who expected to be beaten. He made himself smaller, weaker-looking, easy to intimidate. Three years of survival instincts overriding everything he'd learned in the past few weeks.
Tòumíng's eyes immediately found Scarface, one of Hǔtān's enforcers, recognizable by the distinctive scar running from his left eyebrow down to his jaw. He was getting way too close to a young woman who looked deeply uncomfortable, his arm around her waist, pulling her against him.
"Come onnn baby," Scarface's voice was oily, predatory. "Let's have some fun. Upstairs. Private room. Just you and me."
The girl tried responding playfully, her voice forced and tight. "Stawwwwwp, not here—" But her body language screamed discomfort, her shoulders tense, her smile not reaching her eyes, clearly trying to deflect without angering him.
Scarface finally noticed Tòumíng standing near the entrance. His face lit up with recognition and something crueler, the expression of someone who'd just spotted easy entertainment.
"BROTHER TOU!" His voice boomed across the restaurant, drawing everyone's attention. "Been a while! Been a while, indeed!"
Tòumíng felt his insides turn to ice.
His heart rate spiked. Despite everything, despite the supernatural abilities, despite beating gang members, despite fighting at Ghost Claw's side, his body remembered this fear on a level.
Scarface stood up, abandoning the uncomfortable girl who immediately took the opportunity to escape toward the bathroom.
He walked over to Tòumíng and physically propped him up like a mannequin, draping an arm around his shoulders like they were old buddies reuniting.
"And three days early, no less!" Scarface announced to the room, his grip on Tòumíng's shoulder tight enough to hurt.
"Look at this upstanding citizen! Early payment! Model debtor!"
The gang members scattered around the back tables erupted in laughter, mocking, cruel laughter that Tòumíng had heard variations of dozens of times over the past three years.
Hǔtān sat at the bar area, his back to the commotion. He didn't even turn around. Didn't acknowledge Tòumíng's presence.
Just lifted a shot glass to his lips and drank, his massive framed back, the tiger tattoo on his bare back showing the price tag: "1 billion won."
Another gang member, a huge guy everyone called Smoke—walked up and smacked Tòumíng across the face. Not hard enough to cause real damage, but hard enough to sting, to humiliate.
"Oi! Got a staring problem, bud?" Smoke's voice was aggressive, confrontational.
"We're the only ones you gotta talk to. Stop looking at the boss like you're worth his attention."
Cupid's voice exploded in Tòumíng's chest, urgent and frustrated. "OHHHHH here it comes! Come on! What's the quote? Give them a one-liner! Activate Naked Gun! Fight back!"
But Tòumíng didn't respond. Couldn't respond.
Three years. Three years of these men beating him. Three years of coming here with cash and fear and hoping it would be enough. Three years of conditioning that went deeper than supernatural abilities or enhanced strength.
It didn't matter that he could kill multiple men now. What mattered was what Tòumíng thought of himself when meeting oppressors he had history with.
And right now, in this moment, surrounded by their laughter and their casual violence, Tòumíng thought of himself as weak. As a nobody. As the same terrified teenager who'd inherited impossible debt and had been ground down month after month.
And he was being treated exactly as such.
Fuckkkkkk.
The gang members erupted in fresh laughter as Smoke's slap connected. Scarface's grip on Tòumíng's shoulder tightened, almost affectionate in its cruelty.
"Ay, Smoke, cut him some slack, will ya?" Scarface's voice dripped with sarcasm, his tone making it clear he meant the exact opposite. "Lay off my friend or I'm gonna have to step in and defend his honor!"
More laughter. Louder this time. The other gang members were loving this, enjoying the familiar entertainment of watching Tòumíng get humiliated.
Oh, how Tòumíng wanted to cry. Wanted to break down right there, let the tears come, let the terror and shame and three years of accumulated trauma just pour out.
He was so scared. Despite everything. Despite Schrödinger's Heart. Despite immortality. Despite supernatural abilities.
No matter how many punches he could throw, no matter how many gang members he'd beaten, no matter how many mines he could work—mentally, emotionally, he was forever trapped by Hǔtān and his crew.
The conditioning ran too deep.
Cupid's voice rose to a desperate yell. "COME ONNN! SWING A FIST! DO SOMETHING! FIGHT BACK!"
But Tòumíng didn't hear him. All he could hear was the laughing. The cruel, mocking laughter that had soundtracked his worst memories for three years.
Finally, something broke inside him.
"Stop." His voice came out as a tearful whisper, barely audible over the noise.
Smoke stopped laughing. His expression shifted from amused to dangerous. He squatted down to be eye level with Tòumíng, his face inches away, his breath reeking of cigarettes and alcohol.
"Huh?!?" His voice rose aggressively. "'Stop'? You telling ME to stop? I oughta break your jaw again because of that! Remember last time? Remember how long it took to heal?"
The crowd erupted in fresh laughter, louder and crueler, feeding off Smoke's escalation.
Tòumíng's tears started falling. Actual tears, streaming down his face, his body shaking with suppressed sobs and rising fury.
The crying turned to something else. Something darker. Rage building beneath the fear.
"Stop..." His voice was still quiet but carrying more weight now.
"Stoppp..." Louder. Steadier.
"STOP!"