"I hope he isn't dead. If he is, you know what'll happen," the bartender said calmly, skillfully cleaning a glass.
He didn't bother to look at them, his crimson gaze on the glassware.
They, on the other hand, gulped in fear, their faces ashen.
This was District R, one of the many groups under the direct protection of the Heavenly Monkey, the number-one cyberpunk in all of T. Hill.
His rules were simple: do what you want — I just don't want any blood on my turf.
The rule did not mean that he was a pacifist.
It was just annoying for a German shepherd to clean after a poodle.
"H...he's not dead..." one of the cyberpunks stammered,
He quickly rushed to Michael's side, checking his pulse to see if he was alive.
But then...
"Argh!" he screamed in agony, holding a glass shard which was plunged into his eye.
No one had seen what had happened.
He had bent down and now was up, screaming — a glass shard in his eye.
"So I can do anything as long as the person is still breathing?" Michael rose to his feet, blood dripping from his scalp.
His silver hair was drenched crimson, teeth dyed red as he smiled maniacally, like a demon rising from a pool of blood.
His appearance sent shivers down their spines, his cold gaze looking down on them.
"He..." the burly man, slightly shaken, stammered but quickly regained his composure.
It was clear Micheal wasn't a punk, mainly due to the lack of external cyberware.
Michael's provocation was just a bluff, a squirrel trying to look tough by spreading its arms.
What if they couldn't kill him? Anything else was fair game.
"Hey, you think you are tough " he growled, his clenched fist moments away from Michael.
Before Michael could process anything, the clenched fist met his face. Teeth cracked, jaw shaken — yet he did not fall, instantly using the momentum to throw a punch of his own.
Crack!!
His fingers broke as they made contact with the hard exoskeleton of the burly man.
"What the fuck am I doing anyway?" he wanted to stop.
He was in pain; his bones were screaming, he felt dizzy, yet he didn't want to fall. He didn't want them to think he was easy.
He knew for sure this wasn't him, yet he was in control —a type of pride, no, more like his ego holding him up, like the compulsion of a drug addict.
He couldn't overcome it.
This was for sure not his own; he had no such ego.
Maybe, in the face of hopelessness, he might display such stubbornness, as there was no need to plead; you would die anyway.
But this was different; it was clear there was a no-kill rule here.
He could just beg for forgiveness.
Hire some bodyguards and get out of town.
They were small-time crooks, after all.
But he didn't do any of that.
He felt it was beneath him to beg, beneath him to grovel at the feet of people like them.
The concept of "live to fight another day" seemed absent from his dictionary.
This could lead to his death, even if death wasn't allowed here.
He thought of it logically, yet his body did otherwise.
His ego wasn't allowing such.
Crack!! Another punch landed on his face and he once again counterattacked, seemingly out of habit, or reflex; yet against the hard exoskeleton of the punk before him, all was futile.
"That's enough..." the bartender finally spoke, his sharp gaze directed at the burly man.
Cold, with an unspoken authority.
"He is still alive, why should we..." the burly man retorted.
"You are dirtying my pub with his blood — take it outside." With those words, he averted his gaze, going back to his cleaning.
The burly man looked at the mess he had made: blood sprayed the walls, broken glass, crimon adding its chaotic aesthetic to the neon-lit bar.
"Tch..." He clicked his tongue in annoyance but knew he had to stop; District R had a dangerous reputation after all.
He then turned his gaze to Michael, who stood there weakly, the flame of indignation yet to die.
"Arg, you checkin' out?" Michael, through bloodied teeth, taunted, a mocking smile on his torn lips.
This made the burly man snap. A powerful punch thrown Michael's way, but this time he was prepared; he sidestepped, the punch brushing over his left eye.
With a twist of his body, he delivered a counterattack — a glass shard to the exposed chip outlet at the man's temple.
The burly man staggered, an electric current shooting straight into his brain.
And just as fast as it came, it disappeared, but he felt something was amiss.
The outlet was connected to the neuro-implant in the brain — a device responsible for internet browsing, control of equipped cyberware, and transfer and receiving of data and many others.
The sudden jolt could mean anything, but whatever it was, it could be dangerous considering 70 percent of his body was cyberware.
"What have you done?" he roared in rage, his horizontal slit bloodshot, fist clenched, poised to kill; but before he could move,
He lost sense with his body, his rectangular slits watching his headless burly frame.
"I told you that you are dirtying my pub," a disdainful voice echoed in his ears.
Though he couldn't see the owner, his gaze fell on the woman standing before his headless corpse, a glowing thread twirling around her fingers.
She stood there, adorned in a red flower-embroidered Chinese dress, her curves beautifully outlined in it, black hair falling down to her waist.
His last vision of the world of the living
As he slowly blacked out, the headless corpse falling to its knees.
The place fell silent, even the mist slowing down.
Everyone held their breath, none daring to speak.
They were reminded of how fearsome District R was.
Follow the rules and you wouldn't see their fangs; go against them, and they will be the last you see.
"You!!" the boss finally spoke, teeth gritted as he forced down his rage.
They couldn't kill, but what had just happened — his best man's death — had occurred just like that.
"You have overstayed your welcome," a seductive voice rang through the silence.
The woman who stood before the burly man's headless corpse spoke.
"I wi—" the boss once again held his tongue.
He knew a small-time crook like himself couldn't get on their bad side.
It had been long, quite a long time since someone stirred the still waters of District R.
Gnashing his teeth, he and his crew took their comrade's body, each shooting a death glare at Michael as they exited the pub.
They couldn't do anything to District R, but Michael was another matter altogether.
His days were numbered, and they would be keeping watch of those numbers.
"Thank you, I thought I was going to die there," Michael, in his bloodied state, bowed to the lady; everyone was once again caught in awe by his strange actions.
He had just been acting like a street fighter moments ago, but now he was like an innocent child.
"Don't mention it..." the lady smiled seductively, but before she could finish her words, Michael fell face-first, finally collapsing from exhaustion and excessive blood loss.