Staring down the mob charging to end him, Anirudh's eyes stayed cool as ice—like they weren't killers, just a bunch of bleating sheep.
He spun, a slick side kick blasting the lead guy airborne, then flashed to the next, snagging his knife mid-swing. A wrist flick buried it in the dude's gut—he yanked it free before the howl hit, already on another. Blade to the shoulder, knee to the stomach—the guy crumpled, wailing…
Then vase-boy rolled up, hoisting his weapon high. Anirudh launched off one leg, foot smashing the vase with a deafening "bang." Shards sprayed like confetti, littering the ground.
The thug gawked as Anirudh rammed the knife into his shoulder, then cracked him across the face, sending him crashing…
"Thud…" And just like that, all dozen-plus goons were down—Anirudh's handiwork. Start to finish, two, maybe three minutes.
The pile of groaning bodies flipped even Laila's poker face. Who'd have bet this clean-cut kid could mop the floor with over a dozen punks solo?
But Anirudh wasn't finished. He strolled up to the checkered-shirt clown, still frozen in shock. "Don't make me play hardball?" he drawled, ice-cold.
Same line that the creep's lackey had tossed his way.
"You got any clue who I am?" The checkered-shirt guy blinked back to life, snarling.
Sure, Anirudh could scrap, but the world spun on clout, not fists. This punk didn't know who he'd crossed—he wouldn't dare touch him once he did!
"You're a dumbass…" Anirudh didn't let him flex, spitting the curse as he slammed a fist into his gut. The "bang" echoed—guy folded like a lawn chair, gagging hard, damn near puking his guts out.
"Smug pricks like you piss me off…" Another curse, another slap—five red fingers bloomed across his cheek, swelling fast.
"Strutting around like hot shit when you're just a clown…" Second slap, other cheek puffed up. Still buzzing, Anirudh laid into him—fists, boots, relentless—till the guy was a wheezing wreck, teetering on blackout.
Finally, chill. Anirudh yanked his collar and grinned, all casual. "Oh yeah, you were bragging—what's your big-shot deal? Who are you?"
"Pfft…" Blood sprayed, eyes rolled, and the dude was out cold.
Beat him to a pulp then ask his cred? Didn't even let him talk!
"Man, what a wuss—passes out before spilling his name. Lame…" Anirudh chucked him down like trash, dusted his hands, and turned to Eleanor and the crew, all gaping like fish.
"Done, Eleanor—mess cleaned up. Let's bounce…"
"That's it?" Eleanor's brain was still buffering.
"Yeah, what, stick around to play doc? They came for us—this is straight self-defense!" Anirudh shrugged, cool as ever.
Self-defense? Eleanor, Aurora, and Rosalind swapped eye-rolls. Self-defense that leaves a guy half-dead?
Still, bailing was the move—these weren't choirboys. Why wait for their backup to roll in?
Eleanor didn't fight it, dragging Anirudh toward the lot, Aurora and the rest on their heels.
"Oh, tell your boss I'm Tommy Jones, Chicago Genius U. Swing by for revenge anytime…" Halfway to the cars, Anirudh hollered back, smirking widely.
Aurora, Rosalind, and the girls nearly ate pavement. Tommy Jones? Chicago Genius U? This kid was still screwing with them! They'd hit this spot plenty, no real names dropped—no one'd track them. Grins snuck out—he was a damn riot…
The goons, sleazeball included, burned "Tommy Jones" into their skulls…