After the beginning encounter, Zughaib sighed, looking at the group of Asian men staring at him in contempt; Zughaib removed the eviction notice from the door and went into Zaid's apartment room. The doorman looked confused, so as his crew.
Zughaib tear up the eviction notice until it became confetti; he stood still, staring at the apartment door, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. The doorman and his crew of Asian thugs were outside, pounding on the door, their muffled curses in rapid-fire Chinese echoing through the walls. They wielded a variety of improvised weapons—metal pipes, nailed baseball bat, a wrench or two—things that could do serious damage if used correctly.
With a quiet sigh, Zughaib let his eyes drift across the apartment. It was nearly empty, save for the bare essentials. The once cluttered room had been stripped down to its pre-loaded furniture, a sign that Zaid had already prepared for something like this. The eviction notice had been a warning, but the real threat was now at his doorstep, literally banging down the door.
His gaze fell on the fridge, and he opened it without a second thought. Inside, among a few leftover used containers, sat the raspberry energy drink he had stored earlier. He grabbed it, feeling the cold metal of the can against his palm, and held it at his side as he positioned himself in the middle of the room, his eyes fixed on the door that was about to give way.
The banging grew louder, more insistent. The wooden frame of the door splintered, and Zughaib could hear the jeers and taunts of the men outside.
BANG!
The door finally gave in, crashing inward with a loud splintering sound. The doorman led the charge, his face twisted into a smug grin as he stepped into the apartment. Behind him, the group of men filed in, all armed and ready for a fight.
"You really think you could just ignore our words?" the doorman sneered, flexing his hands, his iron knuckles glinting under the flickering lights. He gestured to the men behind him, who stood grinning like hyenas, weapons raised. "We're gonna enjoy this."
Zughaib remained calm, not moving from his spot in the center of the room. He slowly raised the energy drink from behind, his grip tightening around the can. As the doorman was about to hit Zughaib face on front, Without a word, he hurled it at the doorman's head with a force that caught everyone off guard.
The can blasted into metal can pieces and aerosal juice, the side of the doorman's skull was heard with a sickening thud. He staggered, eyes wide with shock as blood trickled down the side of his face. He stumbled back, disoriented, but was swiftly punched to the stomach by Zughaib as the doorman fell to the floor, momentarily subdued.
That was all the invitation Zughaib needed.
The first of the men, a big guy, rushed at him with a wild swing of a metal pipe. Zughaib ducked under the swing, stepping into the man's space and delivering a swift karate chop to his neck. The man gasped for air, his body crumpling before getting stomped to the head; a slight neck crack heard, as Zughaib moved on to the next.
The second thug, wielding a wrench, came at him from the side. Zughaib sidestepped, delivering a precise knee strike to the man's leg, collapsing him before subduing him with an elbow to the side of his neck, onto the floor with a groan. A third came at him, outward with adrenaline despite his short stature, but before he could even raise his weapon, Zughaib had already closed the distance, grabbing the man's arm, flipped him and throwing him into the nearby wall with a thunderous crash; breaking through the cheap thinwall.
The room was a whirlwind of movement, the furniture getting knocked around as Zughaib took down the men with ruthless efficiency. One by one, they fell, each attempt to attack met with brutal precision. Knees were shattered, throats were chopped, and bones cracked under the weight of his attacks.
Amidst the chaos, a faint sound cut through the air—the distant wail of police sirens. They were still far off, but Zughaib's ears picked it up. He knew he had little time before things got worse.
The doorman, bleeding from the head, struggled to his feet, rage in his eyes. He staggered forward, iron knuckles raised, intending to strike at Zughaib's face.
But Zughaib was faster. He dodged the punch and grabbed the doorman by the arm, twisting it painfully before launching him toward the window with all his strength.
The doorman's body crashed through the glass, shards exploding in every direction as he fell backward out of the window, his screams cut short by the thud of his landing outside.
Before Zughaib could catch his breath, another one of the thugs charged into the room, weapon raised. But before the man could swing, there was a sharp crack, and his head snapped back violently. Blood sprayed from his temple as he crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
Zughaib's head whipped around to see two cops standing at the door, their pistols raised, smoke curling from the barrel of one of their guns. Their eyes locked on Zughaib, but their expressions were unreadable.
Without waiting to see what they would do next, Zughaib made a split-second decision. He turned and leapt through the broken window, tucking into a roll as he hit the ground below. The impact sent a jolt of pain through his body, but he pushed it aside, scrambling to his feet.
Behind him, he could hear the shouts of the cops, followed by the angry cries of the remaining Asian men. They had regrouped and were coming after him, their weapons clattering as they gave chase. The sound of footsteps—heavy and urgent—echoed off the walls of the alley.
Up ahead, the stolen convertible came into view, parked haphazardly on the side of the street near the complex where he had left it earlier. Zughaib sprinted to the car, dodging pedestrians as he made his escape. He pushed himself harder, his legs burning as he closed the distance and vaulted over the side of the car into the driver's seat.
Just as he started the engine, one of the men—an older thug with a scarred face—leapt into the passenger seat, a knife in hand. The blade glinted in the dim streetlight as the man lunged at him, aiming for his throat.
Zughaib reacted on instinct. He blocked the attack with one arm while his other hand shot up, throat-blocking the man with a forceful jab. The man gasped, choking on his own breath as he dropped the knife and clutched at his neck, his body convulsing before slumping over in the seat, which Zughaib push him off from the car as his body rolled through the tar; only to be run over and pushed off by a cop car.
With the immediate threat neutralized, Zughaib floored the gas pedal, the convertible screeching as it peeled away from the curb. He glanced in the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of the chaos behind him—the Asian men, the police, all left in the dust as the convertible sped down the street.
The city stretched out before him, but there was no time to savor the victory. He was being hunted from all sides—by Asian thugs and by the law.
Zughaib's hands gripped the wheel tightly, his knuckles white as the car roared through the empty streets. His mind was racing, every thought focused on survival and what came next.
This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
And now, with enemies closing in from every direction, Zughaib knew he had to find a way out of this deadly game—or die trying.