The blast erupted out of the barrel of the shotgun. The recoil surprised Gyun; he had never shot a shotgun before, though he had seen them online. As the Hound was blasted back, there was a small explosion of blood and organs as the shotgun shell quite literally tore a hole through his chest.
Stepping back as he moved away from one of the subordinate Hounds who charged forward, "Fucking bastard, you should have just given us the money!"
Pumping the shotgun, he blasted the second hound, also putting a hole through his body as he was sent back, leaving a bloody mess. As the second corpse hit the ground, Gyun had already pumped the shotgun a third time, stopping the charging lead Hound in his tracks.
Hound smiled nervously as his eyes darted to the muzzle of the shotgun, "Why we don't call it even here the-"
*Click
Hound froze as he heard the audible click as the shotgun didn't fire, his words caught in his throat. He stared at the barrel of the shotgun as a confused grunt came from the helmeted 'Van Gogh'.
"Hmm, I forgot about that"
Looking back to Van Gogh, the shotgun was flying toward his face by the time he blinked, instinctually raising his arms. The shotgun clattered against his arms, but he fell back and coughed as he felt a sharp pain in his stomach.
Van Gogh was holding a small curved knife as Hound fell to his knees, pressing his hands to the wound.
-What the hell I didn't even see him?!-
"This is why amateurs shouldn't get greedy," the low, emotionless voice seemed to echo within the silent club's dance floor as the man walked towards him. The knife blade seemed to reflect the neon lights as he took every step; Hound panicked as he crawled backward, dropping his knife, holding his stomach as blood seeped through his shirt.
"Hey, wa-wait, calm down for just a second here..." He didn't finish his sentence as police sirens were heard in the distance. Van Gogh paused his advance, glancing at a watch on his wrist, sighing before moving back to grab the duffel bag he'd set down.
"If I see you again...well, I guess you already know." The reflective visor of the motorcycle helmet seemed to reflect the lights just right because Hound swore he could see the man's eyes, and he could see no shred of lies within those frightening eyes.
"You motherfucker, I'll kill you!" He yelled to Van Gogh's back as he ran off with the money.
Hound collapsed to the ground as he lay on the ground, hearing Van Gogh's retreating footsteps; he sat looking up at the ceiling of the dance floor.
He heard the sirens getting louder as the police approached the club; Hound couldn't just take this lying down. He crawled the small pouch from within his trenchcoat; pulling it out, he unzipped the red pouch with a white cross. From within, he grabbed a pair of syringes, flicking it twice; he gazed at the liquid before plunging them into his arm.
He took a deep breath as he pulled the syringes out. That was more than a gram of adrenaline shot, and he felt the effects nearly immediately. His blood was pumping, and his heart was pounding as he stood up shakily, swaying side to side.
Tossing the syringes aside, he picked up his knife, sliding it back into his sheath as he hobbled to the exit, cradling his side.
"fuck it hurts."
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Speeding down the Seoul streets, he weaved between the traffic with the duffel bags strapped to him. His arm throbbed with pain, but it was important that he first dropped off the money at the storage unit before he did anything else. He could go to a hospital later, and he had just avoided the police leaving only a minute before they arrived.
The bleeding had seeped through his jacket's sleeve, leaving a stain as he drove; he glanced at the electronic display on his bike as he sped past a car. He was going slightly over 100 kilometers an hour as he passed a van before slowing down slightly as he made a turn; the city felt strangely alive at times like these.
Speeding up again, the wind whipped past him, and the streetlights flew by in a blur, their light reflecting off his visor. He was enjoying the Seoul nightlife as he drove through the crowded streets.
His head whipped around as he heard something speeding behind him; time seemed to slow as his eyes from within his helmet made eye contact with the person within the car just before he was sent flying.
"Son of a bitch"
The back of the motorcycle was rammed by the car, sending Gyun into a tailspin he couldn't recover from, causing him to careen into the car in the lane over that had stopped at the red light. Hitting the car, Gyun was sent over the top of the car and flew into the traffic. To his luck, there were fewer cars on the road at this time.
Yet it didn't make it feel any better as he was sent into the three-way intersection at 100 kilometers an hour through the air.
Having just enough time, he managed to brace himself for impact as an oncoming SUV hit him; all the air exited his body as he rolled over the windshield and off the car, bouncing off the concrete. He rolled with the motions but could no longer move his shoulder as he hit the concrete.
-One...two...three....four...five...six, how many times have I seen the sky?-
Gyun thought just as he slammed into a parked car at the end of the intersection, the back of his helmet hit the car, and he lost consciousness.
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A pair of boots stepped out of the car, the unconscious biker, their gruff voice reassuring the citizens and bystanders, pushing them aside with a cigarette in their mouth. The boots clacked on the pavement as they walked through the stopped cars,
"Everyone step back from the man now!"
Their trenchcoat swayed slightly in the wind as they approached the unconscious biker, a huge dent in the side of the car, as the man was almost embedded into the parked car. The biker's helmet visor had partially broken away, and the helmet was missing a large chunk from the side; blood poured down the helmet, dripping onto the concrete, and the man's arm hung at an odd angle. His head hung unmoving,
"Damn, you flew at least 8 meters."
Flicking the cigarette away, the boots crossed the intersection, the shattered glass crunching beneath the boots.
Glancing at the duffle bags on the ground a few meters away from the unconscious motorcyclist, they had not broken open during the crash, fortunately.
Hound still had a hand tightly pressing down on his stomach, but now a white bandage covered the wound, though it was still bleeding somewhat despite the emergency staples he'd given himself.
Reaching from within his trenchcoat, a large knife was produced; smiling, he stopped directly in front of the unmoving biker.
"Van Gogh, you awake?"
With no answer, he squatted down directly in front of him, pressing the tip of the blade into the man's shoulder. To his surprise, it didn't pierce through.
"Guess not...well, I said I'd kill you;* chuckle*... but you've got some nice shit. Its quality must be pretty nice to hold up after a crash like that."
Grabbing Van Gogh's helmet, he pushed it up, stabbing at the man's now-exposed neck.
The tip of the knife stopped just as it drew blood on Van Gogh's neck; a gloved hand shook as it held onto the blade.
Through the semi-broken visor, a single violet eye looked at him with extreme hatred, "You mother fucker, you're really dead now." The voice emanated anger; though it was in Korean instead of Cantonese, Hound still understood the meaning. It was less like a human voice and more like a low growl.
"Fuck!" Hound jumped back, narrowly dodging a kick, and took a few steps back. "You bastard! Still alive, huh?!"
As Van Gogh stood up, forcing his way out of the contorted car frame that his body was embedded in, standing up, his legs trembling. One of his arms hung limply as his visible eye locked onto him; it was bloodshot, and blood poured through from within his helmet.
He removed the plate carrier on his chest using one arm, dropping it to the ground. The metal clanged as it fell onto the street.
Taking off the jacket exposed the broken arm as a piece of bone pierced out at the elbow. Dropping the helmet to the ground, there seemed to be a large cut at the top of his head as blood poured down his face; his black hair had a slight red tint that seemed to shine under the streetlights.
Taking off his trenchcoat himself, Hound tossed the knife aside, "You're a pretty one, ain't ya?"
A shout came from amongst the bystanders who watched from a distance away, "You need to go to the hospital!"
"Shut your fucking mouth" Van Gogh was smiling; it was an inhuman-looking smile; there was no happiness emanating from it, only rage. He was panting; he took up no stance. Van Gogh instead leaned forward, bouncing on his feet like an animal about to charge.
Charging forward with a scream and a flurry of strikes, even with only one arm he found gaps, putting Hound immediately on the back foot, nearly having his legs buckle underneath him as a punch landed on his chin.
Grabbing Hound by the collar of his shirt, Van Gogh slammed his head into Hound's, nearly knocking him out, punching Van Gogh in the face as he used his other hand to try and break Van Gogh's grip.
Kicking Van Gogh back, Hound breathed heavily, trying to recover his bearings his legs felt like jello, and the world seemed like it was spinning.
Roaring Van Gogh didn't relent; flying forward with a knee, Hound managed to dodge the brunt of it as it slammed into the window of a car.
-Shit, he's backed me up to the cars already?-
Hound stumbled briefly as Van Gogh kicked his leg; in his momentary loss of balance, he was grabbed and thrown onto the hood of a car. Groaning as his head hung off the hood, he saw a screaming Van Gogh jump in the air.
He had just enough time to dodge a downward elbow that would have broken his neck; rolling off the hood, he ended up taking a hard kick from Van Gogh to the head, barely managing to get his hand in between Van Gogh's shin and his head protecting him from immediately being knocked out.
Swinging wildly with punches as he stumbled backward, Hound tried to get some space between Van Gogh. A feral scream erupted as Van Gogh charged through the punches, his hand stabbed forward like a blade into the recently stapled knife wound that he'd given him earlier.
"Was it here?! You fucking trash?!" That inhuman smile was still on his face as it plunged even deeper into his side, his entire hand inside Hound's abdomen.
Hound screamed in pain as pain incomparable to anything he had ever felt in his life consumed his body. Gone was the arrogance, the anger, and the need for revenge; all that was left was a desperate desire for survival.
Desperately punching and battering Van Gogh as he screamed in pain, tears streaked down his eyes. Despite dwarfing Van Gogh, he fell to his knees as his punches had no effect. Blood splattered as Van Gogh was clearly getting hit, but he didn't care.
Grabbing hold of Van Gogh, he headbutted him in the nose; there were screams from the bystanders as Van Gogh momentarily stopped, and he had a moment of clarity about his actions in front of innocents. Giving Hound enough of an opening to gather his strength to follow up with an uppercut, pushing up with his legs as he did, sending the indomitable Van Gogh back a step.
Hound moaned as he gripped his stomach. Blood was pouring out, and he felt more solid objects trying to fall out of his abdomen. Fear was written all over his face; he had gathered all his strength in that punch, and it merely wobbled Van Gogh?
Pushing his hair up, Van Gogh spit out blood that had gathered in his mouth, snapping him back to his adrenaline-filled lunacy. A laugh erupted from him as one of his arms still dangled uselessly; the other arm that he had been using to punch was still bleeding profusely as a chunk was missing from his forearm.
It was a delirious laugh with little sanity in it, "I'm going to rip your fucking heart out you son of a bitch!"
Leaping forward again towards the practically defenseless Hound, with his hands forced to be down to keep his organs from falling out of his stomach.
His face was left defenseless; sinking his fingers deep into Hound's eyes with his one usable hand, Van Gogh picked him up and smashed his head into the side of a car. Hound's hands instinctively went up, but it was too late; pinning his head to the car, Van Gogh drove his knee into the man's head.
At that strike, Hound's eyes lost all focus and went blank as he groaned before collapsing to the ground, unmoving. Van Gogh leaped onto him, beating him mercilessly with his one hand, "You motherfucker, who gave you permission to die?!"
Blood sprayed the dark concrete and the white car as Hound no longer moved; his hands lay at his side despite the punches Van Gogh rained down on him. He had died from the knee strike that had instantly killed him,
Van Gogh screamed as blood of his own poured down from the top of his head into his eyes, his violet irises accented by the bloodshot whites of his eyes. Someone grabbed hold of him amidst the cries of the onlookers; no, it wasn't just one person.
"Hold him back!"
"Calm down, an ambulance is on the way!"
Resisting, he broke free, hobbling away to the duffel bags. Slinging them over his shoulder, he shoved his way through the crowd. He walked away with the bags over his shoulder as he limped down the street as sirens sounded in the distance.
The crowd could only watch as he disappeared into the distance amidst the carnage and blood all across the intersection.