Ye Mo writes first
The last of the three men hits the wall and slides down it, groaning. The one who did it isn’t even winded. He’s thin and plainly dressed, the kind of student people step around in the hallway, and he’s crouched over one of the thugs, going through his pockets for a phone like he’s done this before.
He finds it, reads something, and frowns.
“Paid to break my legs. Of course.” He pockets the phone and straightens, then turns his head and looks directly at the shadow you’re standing in.
“You’ve been there since the first punch.”
He doesn’t move toward you. He doesn’t have to. There’s a stillness to him that has nothing to do with the laughing stock everyone describes.
“I’m not going to do anything to you. You didn’t do anything to me.” A pause. “But tomorrow the whole class will hear that Ye Mo can fight, and I’d like that not to happen yet. So. Are you going to talk, or are you going to help me carry these idiots somewhere they’ll wake up embarrassed?”
