Chapter Text
1.
Yellowclad body hits concrete, narrowly missing a puddle of stale rain water. A heavy foot comes to step on the fallen fighter's chest to prevent him from getting back up, but quick hands grab and hold it from stomping down. The Hongkonger grunts and shoves him, sending the other tumbling backwards, crashing into a parked car nearby full force. The car's alarm blares to life at the impact. Looks like that's going to be their match bell.
His opponent picks himself up from the ground and yanks Luke by the forearm.
"We gotta go," he says as he drags them out into the main street. They're both stumbling, bruised and tired from the fight. The alarm is still going. It's only a matter of time until someone comes to check on it, or worse, call the cops on them even though neither were breaking into the car. The setting sun bathes the two men in a nostalgic glow, but they're not focused on that at the moment.
Luke pulls his arm free and stops them in the evening crowd. He could swear it was just in the middle of the afternoon when they started fighting.
"Where the hell are you taking me?" he asks with a harsh tone, eyes still burning with as much intensity as when they bumped into each other.
"Where? Not jail at least. You wanna get caught or somethin'?" his opponent answers flippantly, holding a hand up as if to wave off the stupid question, "if you didn't set the fucking alarm off, I would have won."
"As if! Did you forget who was on the ground earlier? If you just took the loss and stayed down, then none of this would be necessary!"
"That's rich coming from someone who couldn't finish his own fight." The braided man rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. How the heck does this guy keep ticking him off?
"Then just say you're sorry." Now it's Luke's turn to scoff, annoyance resurfacing. He steps closer.
"I didn't do a damn thing wrong. You're the one who needs to say sorry."
The fire is rising in their hearts again, their hands itching for a hard punch to their opponent's faces. But before either could act on it, a jaunty tune starts ringing from the shorter one's pocket, cutting the tense atmosphere. The owner swiftly takes out his phone, looking at the screen. He turns to the side and answers the call, speaking in Cantonese. Luke looks at him as if he's gone crazy.
"Yes, Grandma? No no, I'm not doing anything important...Mmhm...Sure, I'll be right there. Love ya," he finishes the call. Another tap to hang up and he puts his phone away.
"Looks like it's your lucky day. I'm leaving."
"What? Finally accepting you lost? Go ahead." The taller male grins, but before he could continue gloating, he gets tugged by the collar of his shirt and pulled down eye to eye.
"Oh, this ain't over. If I see you on my turf again, I'll pound you to dust," he growls. They feel each other's breaths at this range. Luke catches a hint of something herbal and bitter. He remembers his opponent's fighting style involving a lot of swaying. Has this guy been drunk this whole time?
"The only one getting pounded here is gonna be you," Luke retorts, eyes scanning the man's face, committing it to memory. They lock gazes for what feels like an eternity, then suddenly those sharp eyes crinkle up in amusement.
"Better come at me with all you've got then, pretty boy." The hand on his shirt lets go as its owner steps away, going towards Chinatown. He holds a hand up as he walks, almost like he's waving goodbye, and says his last piece, "make it a freakin' date."
Luke watches him go into the crowd.
That fucker gave him a middle finger before he disappeared.