How to Punch Soren McKinin | ✓

The cheers of the crowd were deafening, a brutal symphony accompanying the sickening crunch of bone. I gasped, watching as a bloody body crumpled to the ground. Above him, a boy loomed, chest heaving, fists clenched. Black hair, damp with sweat, clung to his forehead as he slowly surveyed the cheering faces.

Someone slammed into me, screaming in excitement, then jumped onto a friend's shoulders. Every phone in the vicinity was out, recording the grim spectacle. My stomach churned, but my feet moved, pushing through the throng towards the still form on the ground.

No one else moved, no one bothered to check if he was dead. His hair, wet and matted with crimson, felt cool as it slipped through my fingers when I cupped his head. My hands trembled, the crimson liquid staining my skin.

The boy's eyes, cloudy and vacant, stared somewhere past me, a chilling, electric blue.

“He’s not dead.” A husky voice, rough as gravel, cut through the cheers. “Son of a bitch should be dead, but he ain’t.”

I looked up, meeting Soren’s gaze. His eyes were blank, devoid of emotion, betraying nothing of the pain his red knuckles must hold.