Yellow Teeth ran out of bullets. The gun clicked empty again, useless metal in his shaking hands. He threw it aside and pulled a knife from his belt, a hunting knife, six-inch blade, the kind designed for gutting deer.
"DIE FUCKER!"
He charged, arm raised, blade gleaming under the dim alley light.
Tòumíng cocked his arm back, winding up for another haymaker, his broken body moving on pure adrenaline and rage.
"He's aiming for your shoulder!" Cupid warned. "Dodge left!"
Tòumíng DID NOT care.
The knife plunged into his right shoulder, punching through muscle and tendon, the blade scraping against bone as it buried itself to the hilt. Pain exploded through his arm, white-hot and all-consuming.
At the exact same moment, Tòumíng's haymaker connected with Yellow Teeth's jaw.
CRACK.
The sound was distinctive, different from the impact of fist on flesh. Something fundamental breaking, something that wasn't supposed to bend that way.
Yellow Teeth's head twisted at an angle that necks absolutely should not twist. His eyes went wide, then vacant. His body dropped like a marionette with cut strings, hitting the ground beside Bob's unconscious form, the knife still embedded in Tòumíng's shoulder.
Donny and the three remaining gang members stared in horror at their two fallen companions.
Then they ran.
Scattered like roaches when the lights came on, footsteps echoing as they fled down the alley in different directions, leaving their guns and their friends and their dignity behind in a panicked scramble to escape whatever the fuck Tòumíng was.
"WHAT'S THE MATTER?!" Tòumíng screamed after them, stumbling forward, blood pouring from fourteen bullet holes and two stab wounds. "YOU CAN STILL WIN! I AIN'T DONE YET! COME BACK AND FIGHT!"
He managed three steps before the adrenaline wore off.
All at once. Like a switch flipping. The chemical high that had been keeping him upright and functional just... stopped. And everything that had been suppressed came crashing back with catastrophic force.
The pain.
Oh god, the pain.
Every gunshot wound screaming. Every broken bone grinding. The stab wounds pulsing with each heartbeat. Blood loss making his vision swim and darken at the edges.
Tòumíng's knees hit the alley floor. He gasped, trying to breathe through broken ribs, each inhale sending spikes of agony through his chest.
He wouldn't die. Couldn't die. Schrödinger's Heart kept him in quantum uncertainty, alive and dead simultaneously, the state refusing to collapse into just "dead."
But that didn't mean it didn't hurt like an absolute bitch.
"Owwwww," he whimpered, the sound pathetic and broken. "Owww, fuck, oh god, ow ow ow."
"You're a fucking idiot," Cupid said, but his voice carried relief underneath the exasperation. "An absolute, unmitigated, weapons-grade moron. But I'm glad you're alive. Relatively speaking."
Tòumíng crawled toward the wall, leaving a blood trail behind him, and propped himself up against the brick. The knife was still in his shoulder. Probably shouldn't pull it out. That's what they always said in movies, right? Leave the knife in or you'll bleed out faster.
Not that bleeding out would kill him. But it would hurt more.
Everything hurt more.
"Since you didn't beat all five of them," Cupid continued, "you might only get one or two powers instead of three. Still, combat experience gained, trauma overcome, system should reward—"
A notification chimed.
Blue text materialized in Tòumíng's vision, sharp and clear despite the blood loss and head trauma.
COMBAT ANALYSIS COMPLETE
EXPERIENCE GAINED: SIGNIFICANT
NEW SKILLS ACQUIRED: 1
SKILL 1: METABOLIC HEALING
Description: User can convert stored calories and body fat into accelerated regeneration of physical injuries. Healing speed and effectiveness scale with available energy reserves.
Current Damage Assessment:
2 broken ribs 2 stab wounds (shoulder, stomach) 14 gunshot wounds (7 entry, 7 exit) Fractured cheekbone Broken jaw Multiple facial fractures Estimated blood loss: 0.5 gallons
Calories Required for Full Recovery: 24,000
Current Stored Calories: 1,200
STATUS: INSUFFICIENT ENERGY - UNABLE TO HEAL
Tòumíng stared at the notification through blood-blurred vision. "Cool power. Can't use it because I'm not fat enough."
"That's... actually a massive limitation," Cupid said. "You'd need to eat constantly to maintain healing reserves. Become a walking calorie storage unit."
"Great. So I survived getting shot fourteen times but I'm too skinny to heal from it."
"The irony is palpable."
Another notification appeared.
NEW TITLE ACQUIRED: SUICIDAL IDIOT
Perks:
Biologically incapable of fearing death
Enhanced pain tolerance during combat
Increased recklessness in dangerous situations
Cons:
Decreased empathy toward self-preservation Reduced ability to assess danger accurately Others perceive you as unstable/insane
"SUICIDAL IDIOT?!" Cupid's voice rose with incredulous amusement. "The system literally gave you the title 'Suicidal Idiot'! That's your reward! Not 'Fearless Warrior' or 'Undying Fighter' or something cool! SUICIDAL. IDIOT."
"It's not that bad..."
"It reduces your empathy! You already had questionable decision-making skills! Now you're systematically becoming worse at keeping yourself alive!"
"But I can't die, so who cares?"
"YOU CAN BECOME A PUDDLE! WE'VE BEEN OVER THIS!"
Tòumíng laughed weakly, then immediately regretted it as his broken ribs ground together. "Worth it. Totally worth it."
"You tanked fourteen bullets to test a theory!"
"And the theory was correct! I'm unkillable! This is amazing!"
"You have a knife in your shoulder!"
"Minor detail."
"You're sitting in a pool of your own blood!"
"Aesthetic."
Cupid groaned, the sound echoing inside Tòumíng's chest. "The title is accurate. You ARE a suicidal idiot. The system knows you better than you know yourself."
Tòumíng grinned through broken teeth, blood still dripping from his mouth, his white designer hoodie completely destroyed, fourteen holes ventilating his torso, and somehow still conscious and joking.
"At least I got powers out of it."
"Powers you can't use!"
"Yet. Can't use yet. Just gotta eat twenty-four thousand calories and I'll be good as new."
"That's like... twelve days of normal eating!"
"Or one really big meal." Tòumíng's vision was starting to fade at the edges, darkness creeping in. "Gonna... gonna need to hit up a buffet..."
"Stay awake! Don't pass out in an alley!"
"Just gonna... rest my eyes... for a second..."
"TÒUMÍNG!"
But consciousness was already slipping away, the pain and blood loss finally overwhelming even his superhuman determination. His last thought before darkness claimed him was that he really, really hoped nobody stole his bike while he was lying here bleeding out.
Then nothing.
Just the quiet alley, two unconscious gang members, and Tòumíng propped against the wall like discarded garbage, his chest still rising and falling in shallow breaths despite all logical laws of biology saying he should absolutely be dead.
Schrödinger's Heart beat on.
Alive and dead.
Neither and both.
Refusing to collapse into just one state.