Some scientist once said: nerves always react faster than thought.

  Before my mind even had time to catch up, my dangerous instincts had already ordered my finger to act first. The crossbow bolt flew out and lodged right into the long-faced thug’s left eye—most of it still outside his skull. Because it was a close-range shot, the bolt’s force slammed his head hard into the wall, and at the same moment, the AK in his hand spat out a muzzle flash. The bullet whizzed past me—it must have been fired one-handed, and the recoil of the AK is brutal, plus I’d already shot him in the head—so it didn’t hit me.

  As soon as I saw the bolt pierce his eye, I let go of the crossbow and charged straight at Big Nose. In my hand was the cavalry saber my brother had taught me to thrust from below—an upward stab into the back to avoid the ribs and strike the lung directly: a silent, lethal move Special Forces use to take out a guard.

  But the blade didn’t penetrate Big Nose’s back. Maybe because I was farther away when I shot the long-faced guy and didn’t have any body contact, I felt no sense of killing him. But being this close to Big Nose—his smell of sweat, the heat of his body, even that disgusting fox-like stench—it all reminded me he was a living person. My strike unconsciously slowed. His back was turned to me, and as the long-faced thug fell, he hadn’t turned yet—but in that instant of hesitation, he twisted sideways, sensed something behind him, and swept his right gun-arm backward. My blade missed his ribs and nicked his forearm; the force of our bodies colliding drove the tip of my saber into his shoulder.

  Seeing I hadn’t killed him, panic set in. I slammed him against the wall and drove the sword home again and again. Blood splattered all over my face. The gun clattered to the floor, and everything went black in my vision as Big Nose punched me in the face with his left fist so hard I flew back onto a counter and crushed it flat. He tugged at the cavalry saber—its serrated edge stuck fast in bone, and he couldn’t pull it free. Instead, he drew a combat machete from behind his back and lunged at me. I yanked the three-sided combat dagger from my belt and in my left hand the Strider MT “Tiger Tooth.”

  I knew the three-sided dagger well—my uncle was in the military and we had a Type 56 bayonet at home that I played with, and my brother taught me knife-fighting—but I’d never really fought anyone before. In those first blows with Big Nose it was obvious he was a brawler. In just a few strikes he’d carved four or five cuts into me. Fortunately I dodged well, and since he was left-handed his wounds weren’t fatal—but I couldn’t find an opening, and as the fight dragged on I felt my courage drain away.

  Then I noticed his right arm was hanging uselessly, bleeding out. I started dancing around his right side, waiting for him to weaken so I could win. Big Nose must have noticed, because suddenly he pressed his attack—strike after strike—driving me backwards, quicker and quicker. When I hit something hard with my back, I realized he’d trapped me in a corner. There was no escape.

  Big Nose sneered, “Come on, kid. Quit dancing and come over here. I’ll gouge your eyes out.”

  With no route left, I had to risk it all. Gritting my teeth, I charged into his chest. He saw me coming and grinned—a savage, cruel grin—and his left blade flashed toward my heart. I’d noticed before he liked to stab for the heart or slice at the throat, so I was ready. I parried with my right dagger, and my left Strider MT sank into his right chest. That MT blade—sharp enough to slice a helicopter’s skin—went in with a “squelch,” the full 16 cm embedding itself in his heart. Blood sprayed like a burst valve, coating my face, blinding me in a red blur. Then I felt heat on my shoulder—he was still alive. By instinct I drove the dagger in my right hand down toward his left heart. The resistance, then a sudden release of pressure, told me the full 32 cm had passed through. He clutched my neck and we both crashed to the floor.

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  He still had strength in him, choking the air out of me. My vision dimmed. I pulled the MT free, plunged it in again, over and over—until my hand went numb with cold blood. My neck no longer burned; I felt air again and stopped. Wiping my face, I saw the ruin of his chest: pale sternum exposed, the right side caved in, ribs shattered, entrails laid bare like a burst bag.

  I pulled the sword from my shoulder and stood up. The metallic stink of blood hit my nose and my stomach churned—I nearly vomited up breakfast.

  Seeing the corpse before me, for the first time I really felt: I’d killed someone. Killing wasn’t hard. It was like stabbing through a water-filled leather sack. Those textbooks talk about fear, icy limbs—none of that happened. Apart from nausea from the stench, I just felt utterly exhausted. Pulling the saber from my shoulder let the pain flood in—I’d felt nothing during the fight—but now I writhed on the floor in agony.

  Then the radio crackled and reminded me I was still in danger: “Park Soon! Seo Deok! That guy didn’t come down yet—he’s still upstairs! Keep looking! He heard our plan. We can’t leave any survivors!”

  “Park Soon! Seo Deok! Did you hear me? He’s still up there!”

  “Park Soon! Seo Deok! You fucking hear me?!”

  The voices over the walkie brought me back to life. From Big Nose’s body I stripped his weapons and backpack and rifled through his pockets. Just as I tore off some clothes from the nearby stall, the elevator pinged. I grabbed everything and fled. By the time the doors opened I’d ducked into the stairwell and sprinted up to the sixth floor.

  Hiding in a corner there, I took out the jungle knife and opened its pommel—hoping the replica Machete carried some meds. Good luck: it actually had first-aid supplies. Bandages and disinfectant—threw away the fishing line and compass I didn’t need. I cleaned and dressed my wounds; my shoulder cut was the worst but didn’t stop me using my arm. I swallowed two antibiotics. Exhausted and hungry after so much blood loss…

  Thank God I’d grabbed food from the supermarket. I ate quietly, but my phone buzzed again. I answered.

  Xiaobai’s “friendly” voice crackled in my ear: “You fucking idiot—why aren’t you answering? Where the hell are you? I heard there was a robbery downtown—I was gonna go gawk. Don’t come back; just stay there!”

  …

  “Xiaobai, listen: it’s a robbery downtown, but I’m in that building. I think Deok’s here too. I just killed two thugs. I’m hurt—why would I want you there? Your call nearly got me spotted and shot! Don’t fucking screw things up!”

  “You’re kidding, right? Boss, what are you talking about?” Xiaobai thought I was joking.

  “I’m not kidding! Ten bodies outside that door! I’m covered in knife wounds! How the hell am I joking?”

  “Why don’t you call the police?” Xiaobai realized I wasn’t messing around.

  “Police? They’re all outside; their squad cars got blown up! They can’t get in. Oh—hold on, gotta hang up! And don’t call Deok or you’ll get him killed!”

  I remembered Deok had a phone too. The ring was too long—better send a text, hope he’s on vibrate, so people won’t know we’re connected.

  I texted him in my girlfriend’s tone: Where are you? Are you okay?…

  A moment later the phone rang—it was Deok, but he said nothing. I just heard people weeping, thugs cursing, police sirens. Smart move: no words, but I knew he was on the first floor.

  I sighed. I just hoped he’d be all right…