Hǔtān paused for a long while, his exposed skeletal jaw moving slightly as he processed Tòumíng's command. The fear was still there, visible in his eyes, in the way his body trembled, but something else was fighting against it.
Then he started to giggle.
Not a laugh. Not a chuckle. A giggle. Quiet, almost childlike, completely at odds with his horrific appearance and the situation they were in.
Tòumíng was confused, his remaining eye narrowing. "What the hell is so funny?"
Another notification appeared:
SUBMISSION TITLE - INTERFERENCE DETECTED
Target possesses exceptional pride and indomitable spirit. These psychological traits are interfering with the title's fear-inducing properties. Effect reduced by approximately 70%. Target experiences fear but retains significant cognitive function and emotional control despite submission response.
Tòumíng was shocked. This man's ego, his sheer force of personality, was keeping him stoic even when faced with death, even when every survival instinct screamed at him to submit completely.
Tòumíng couldn't feel angry about it.
This was some badass shit.
This was... actually inspiring. To have that level of mental fortitude, that degree of self-control, even when your body was screaming in terror, it commanded respect despite everything.
Hǔtān looked at Tòumíng with faded eyes, the pupils dilated and unfocused, blood loss and shock clearly affecting him. Then he smiled, not the skeletal grin forced by his exposed jaw, but an actual smile, the skin around his eyes crinkling with what looked like genuine warmth.
"You look just like your father."
The words hit Tòumíng like a physical blow.
He grabbed Hǔtān by what remained of his near-melted skin, his fingers digging into charred tissue, and screamed directly into that skull-face: "YOU DON'T KNOW SHIT ABOUT THEM!"
But Hǔtān's smile didn't fade. If anything, it softened. The expression seemed more like someone remembering an old friend rather than anything cruel or mocking. His voice was barely a whisper, strained through his ruined throat:
"Min-woo... you cruel son of a bitch..."
Tòumíng dropped Hǔtān, his grip releasing involuntarily as confusion overrode rage.
"Who the fuck is Min-woo?"
Hǔtān's eyes rolled back. His body went completely limp. Passed out—or possibly dying—before he could answer.
"NO!" Tòumíng screamed, his voice cracking with desperation. "WHAT THE FUCK! NO NO NO NO NO!"
He shook Hǔtān, trying to wake him up, his remaining hand gripping those massive shoulders and jerking the unconscious body back and forth.
"WAKE UP! WHO IS MIN-WOO?! ANSWER ME!"
Nothing. No response. Just the shallow, irregular breathing of someone hovering on the edge of death.
Tòumíng's hand instinctively reached for his pocket to grab his phone and call for help—
Then he remembered. He was naked. Completely naked. His clothes had burned up in the blast. His phone was ash. Everything was gone.
"SHIT! FUCK!"
He looked around frantically, trying to get his bearings.
They were in what appeared to be a long-abandoned part of town, the kind of area where buildings stood empty for years, where squatters and gangs operated without interference because nobody with money cared what happened here.
No pedestrians. No traffic. No help.
Then he saw him. Scarface. Standing about twenty feet away near the edge of the rubble, staring with absolute horror at the two burned figures, one standing impossibly, one unconscious on the ground.
Tòumíng limped forward, each step leaving bloody footprints as the remaining skin on his feet peeled away.
Tears streamed down his face, or what was left of it, mixing with the exposed muscle tissue and creating pink trails down his ruined features.
He crossed the abandoned road slowly, his body screaming in protest, barely held together by Schrödinger's Heart and sheer stubborn refusal to die.
"Give me your phone... now."
His voice was a raspy whisper, but the command was absolute.
Scarface was terrified.
Not just of Tòumíng's appearance, though that was nightmare fuel, but of what Tòumíng had just done.
Survived an explosion.
Stood up when he should be dead. Made Hǔtān, HǓTĀN, retreat in fear.
He whipped out his phone with shaking hands. An old Nokia. A burner. The kind criminals used because they were hard to track, disposable, untraceable.
Tòumíng grabbed it, his charred fingers struggling with the buttons. His hands hovered over the keypad as his brain tried to process what to do.
Shit. He'd only memorized two phone numbers: Měi Nán's and his boss Zhāng Wěi's.
If he called Měi Nán and showed up looking like this, Měi would absolutely kill him.
Would lose his mind. Would probably have a complete breakdown.
But Zhāng Wěi... the mine was closed. Calling his boss wouldn't help.
Fuck.
He handed the phone back to Scarface, his brain working through limited options with the clarity of someone running on nothing but adrenaline fumes and spite.
"You got a car?"
Scarface nodded frantically and pointed to a 2014 Toyota Highlander parked nearby. Family car. Big. Practical. Not the kind of vehicle you'd expect a gang enforcer to drive.
Tòumíng weighed his options.
If Scarface decided to attack him now, to take advantage of his weakened state, Tòumíng was absolutely sure he would die.
No question.
He had nothing left.
No strength reserves.
No skills available.
Just a body held together by supernatural interference and willpower.
He sighed, the sound wet and horrible through his damaged throat.
"Start up the car."
Scarface practically ran to the vehicle, fumbling with his keys, desperate to comply with anything this walking nightmare asked.
Tòumíng walked back to Hǔtān's unconscious body. He looked down at the massive man—six-foot-six-plus of muscle and bone, even with chunks burned away—and assessed the physics of what he was about to attempt.
His back strained as he bent down. His remaining arm screamed in protest as he positioned himself. His legs threatened to give out as he lifted.
But he managed. Barely. He got Hǔtān into a piggyback position, the unconscious man's weight distributed across Tòumíng's destroyed back, and started walking toward the car.
Every step was agony. Every movement pulled at burned tissue. Every breath brought dust and pain.
But he made it. He reached the Highlander and dumped Hǔtān into the back seat as carefully as he could manage, the body landing with a heavy thud against the leather upholstery.
Tòumíng climbed into the passenger seat, leaving bloody smears on everything he touched.
Scarface didn't dare look at him. Just stared straight ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, or what passed for white given that his own hands were bruised and swollen from the earlier fight.
He drove.
Pulled away from the abandoned area, heading back toward civilization without being told where to go. Just... driving. Escaping.
Tòumíng's enhanced metabolism was screaming for energy.
He needed calories.
Needed fuel to power the healing that Schrödinger's Heart was attempting.
"You got any food?" His voice was barely audible.
Scarface's hand shakily opened the glove compartment, revealing a McDonald's Happy Meal box. Unopened. The toy still in its wrapper.
Tòumíng was slightly surprised. "You eat Happy Meals?"
"It's for my boy." Scarface's voice was quiet, ashamed.
"Well... I don't have custody. But today I was supposed to be picking him up. Visitation day."
Tòumíng looked around the car with his remaining eye.
It WAS a family car. Big enough for kids.
Car seats in the back. A child's jacket on the floor.
Scarface was a family man.
Which made Tòumíng even more disgusted.
A family man who would tear apart and torment other young families. Who would beat teenagers for being late on debt payments.
Who would participate in the cycle of violence that had destroyed Tòumíng's own family.
But he held his tongue. Just grabbed the Happy Meal and started eating with his one functional hand, tearing into the burger with desperate hunger.
Eventually they passed the restaurant where this had all started. Tòumíng recognized the area.
"Stop right outside the alley." He pointed with his remaining hand. "The one between those warehouses."
Scarface complied immediately, pulling over exactly where indicated.
Tòumíng stepped out of the car, his movements stiff and agonizing. As Scarface looked down at the passenger seat, he saw chunks of flesh and lots of blood soaked into the upholstery.
Shit. That was gonna take weeks to get rid of the smell.
Tòumíng hopped out, though "hopped" was generous; it was more like "fell out and managed to catch himself", and grabbed Hǔtān again, pulling the unconscious body out of the back seat and draping the man's arm over his shoulder.
He looked back at Scarface through the open car door.
"Leave. And don't ruin your relationship with your son. Be better than this."
Scarface nodded, something like gratitude or shame or both flickering across his bruised face. He drove off quickly, the Highlander's taillights disappearing around the corner.
Tòumíng stood there for a moment, holding Hǔtān's massive weight, his body threatening to collapse.
Then he started walking.
Past the first warehouse. Past some other buildings. Each step leaving bloody footprints. Each breath rattling in his dust-filled lungs.
Finally, he reached Ghost Claw's building, the abandoned office structure that served as her team's base.
He was about to pass out. His vision was tunneling. His remaining strength was measured in seconds.
He pushed open the door.
Inside, Sven was mopping the floors—probably cleaning up after the earlier raid, his usual nervous energy focused on the repetitive task.
Tòumíng tried to speak. His throat produced sounds that might have been words:
"Ca... call... Ghost..."
Then his legs gave out. He collapsed forward, still somehow managing to keep Hǔtān from hitting the ground too hard even as his own body failed.
Darkness took him.
Sven screamed, a high-pitched girly sound of pure terror.
Doors burst open. Footsteps thundered.
Svetlana's voice cut through: "Swedish boy, vhy are you scr—OH MY GOD, VHAT HAPPENED TO ATTRACTIVE TWIG BOY!"
She ran over to Tòumíng's collapsed form, her eyes going wide as she processed the extent of the damage, the missing arm, the exposed muscle, the skull visible through burned flesh.
"GHOST CLAW!" she screamed.
"SASHA! MEDICAL EMERGENCY! NOW!"