Knocked Down

The heavy, dragging footsteps of the enforcers faded down the narrow alleyway. Torin immediately dropped to his knees on the scuffed floorboards. He reached out, gently hovering his hands over Martha’s trembling fingers as she scrambled to gather their scattered savings. Crinkled, faded dollar bills and tarnished loose coins lay dusted with the grit of the thugs' boots.

"I've got it, Mom," Torin said. His voice was a low, steady rumble, anchoring her in the quiet aftermath of the chaos.

He meticulously picked up every crumpled note and stray quarter, smoothing out the paper money before placing them back into her worn, hand-stitched fabric pouch. When he finished, he pressed the heavy pouch into her palms. Looking up into her unseeing, clouded eyes, a sharp ache seized his chest.

"I will be the sole breadwinner from now on," Torin vowed, his tone carrying an unshakable weight. "You and Dad are going to rest. And I promise you, I will search the ends of the earth to find a cure for your blindness."

Martha’s hands shook as she clutched the rough canvas pouch. A ragged sob tore from her throat, breaking the heavy silence of the room. Tears spilled over her scarred, weathered cheeks, tracing wet lines through the grime.

"Just hearing your voice... having you back home safe..." Martha choked out, her shoulders heaving with every breath. "Torin, the agonizing worry for you was the singular force keeping me alive these past three years. If I didn't hold onto the desperate hope of your return, my spirit would have broken long ago."

Witnessing her immense suffering, a sudden, burning rage ignited within Torin's chest. It roared through his veins, a surging torrent of emotion he could not hold back. He clenched his right hand into a fist, his knuckles turning stark white. He slammed it down onto the wooden dining table.

*Crack!*

The table shattered into a million jagged splinters, the heavy piece of furniture collapsing into a ruined pile of timber in an instant.

In the settling dust, a dark promise took root in his soul. *The Thornes and the Hayeses will pay a heavy price for this. I will dismantle their lives piece by piece for destroying my family.*

Sensing the terrifying magnitude of his fury rolling off him in waves, Martha frantically reached out. She grasped his forearms, her grip tight and desperate.

"Torin, please!" she pleaded, tears still streaming down her face. "Don't cause any more trouble. Just find a proper, quiet job. We can live in peace now that you're back. That is all I want."

Swallowing the acidic rage coating his throat for her sake, Torin smoothed his expression. He patted her hand, masking his true intentions with a gentle reassurance.

"Don't worry, Mom. I know exactly what to do," Torin lied smoothly, keeping his voice light. "I'm heading out to the streets for a bit."

Leaving the cramped confines of the house behind, Torin navigated toward the bustling city streets. His mind was a tempest of dark thoughts. He resolutely determined to track down Chloe. He needed to stand face-to-face with her and demand the unfiltered truth about her betrayal.

Enveloped in a blinding anger, Torin marched forward, his vision narrowed. His thoughts consumed him to the point of recklessness. He stepped off the curb and thoughtlessly crossed the busy asphalt without checking the oncoming traffic.

Tires screeched against the pavement. A roaring engine cut through his thoughts a split second too late.

A speeding, bright red Porsche blindsided him. The metallic crunch echoed down the busy block. The sheer force of the impact launched Torin’s body flying through the air. He hit the hard asphalt, rolling several times before coming to a grinding halt against the curb.

A catastrophic hit of that magnitude would have shattered a normal man's spine. It would have been instant, undeniable death. But Torin braced his core upon impact. He survived solely due to the rigorous, body-hardening martial arts training he endured under Titus back in the prison yard. His reinforced bones and hardened muscles absorbed the kinetic shock.

Before he could even fully recover his bearings and stand up, the Porsche’s driver-side door swung open.

A breathtakingly beautiful woman stormed out of the car. She wore an elegant white dress that hugged her curves and towering killer heels that clicked sharply against the pavement. Her face was twisted in rage, her eyes flashing with indignant fire.

"Why don't you look where you're walking, you blind idiot!" she shrieked at the top of her lungs, marching toward him with aggressive strides. She demanded to know why he had ruined her drive.

Infuriated by her blatant audacity and lack of remorse, Torin opted to remain seated on the coarse ground. He dusted his shirt and fired right back, his voice dripping with icy disdain.

"Which one of us is actually blind here?" Torin demanded, his voice slicing through her tantrum. "You were obviously the one speeding, and you knocked into me. It is a damn shame you possess such a pretty face but harbor such a foul, abrasive mouth."

Her eyes widened. Utterraged by the sharp insult, the haughty woman stepped right up to him. She forcefully raised her stiletto heel, aiming the sharp metal spike right at his thigh. She was fully prepared to plunge the makeshift dagger directly into his body.

"Genevieve, stop!"

A weak, wheezing voice called out from the vehicle, desperately ordering her to halt.

The rear passenger door opened. A pale, breathless middle-aged man emerged from the luxurious backseat. His trembling hands heavily clutched the car's frame to support his rapidly failing body. He gasped for air, his chest rising and falling in shallow, desperate stutters.

"Get back in the car," the man wheezed, his voice straining. "Hurry to the hospital... ignore this trivial dispute."

Seeing her father's dire state, Genevieve instantly abandoned her attack. She rushed back to his side to support his sagging weight, wrapping her arm around his waist. Reaching into her designer bag, she pulled out a thick stack of cash.

In a final act of dismissal, she carelessly tossed the ten thousand dollars directly at Torin. The bills scattered over the road.

"Take the money and leave!" she rudely commanded. "We have an incredibly urgent medical matter to attend to."

Ignoring the scattered cash on the ground, Torin slowly stood up. He brushed the dirt from his jeans and studied the struggling man's physical symptoms. He took in the bluish tint on the man's lips, the specific rattle in his chest, and the strained expansion of his ribs. Torin evaluated him with a clinical eye.

"There is no need to rush to the hospital," Torin announced calmly. He stated bluntly, "It is already too late."

He turned his back to leave, wanting no part of their drama.

Genevieve rapidly stepped forward, blocking his path. Her eyes blazed with fresh fury as she furiously demanded a thorough explanation.

"What did you just say?" she demanded. "Explain your dark curse right now, or you aren't going anywhere!"

Torin met her fiery glare with unshakeable calm. He meticulously detailed his observation. "Your father's condition is extremely dire. It stems specifically from a severe, hidden injury in his left lung. In less than five minutes, he will suffer from catastrophic breathing difficulty. He will suffocate to death. Tell me, can your sports car magically reach the hospital within that impossible timeframe?"

"You malicious bluffer!" Genevieve accused loudly. She adamantly claimed, "My father is merely suffering from the common flu!"

"Genevieve!" her father barked, though the effort nearly collapsed his lungs.

The middle-aged man stepped forward. His eyes were wide with pure astonishment. He looked at Torin as if seeing a ghost.

"Young man," he asked humbly, "how could you possibly know my left lung was injured in the past?"

"You wouldn't understand the complex medical mechanics even if I bothered to explain them," Torin replied dismissively.

He prepared to walk away once more, pivoting on his heel.

Suddenly, an intense, agonizing coughing fit seized the older man. He bent double, hacking uncontrollably as if trying to expel his own heart. Desperate, he urgently reached out and firmly grabbed Torin's arm.

"Wait," the man pleaded, his grip surprisingly tight. "Since you can flawlessly diagnose my deeply hidden sickness, you must possess the ability to treat it. I am willing to pay any price to have my life saved!"

With trembling fingers, he thrust a pristine business card forward.

Initially reluctant to get tangled in their wealthy affairs, Torin paused abruptly. His eyes scanned the crisp text printed on the card. He realized the weight of the name.

"You are the philanthropic CEO of the Mercer Group?" Torin questioned with a raised brow. "Robert Mercer?"

Robert nodded earnestly in confirmation, his breathing growing thinner by the second.

Without wasting another second, Torin extended his hand in a blinding flash. His fingers formed rigid points, swift and precise, striking Robert's major acupoints before either the father or the daughter had any time to react.