"Well done, Nicholas. I do so admire a man of spirit. While you may be a little challenged in the speech department"—Salazar winked at him—"at least you have a modicum of c-c-c-courage."

Expressionless, Nick stared at him. And then, aware he couldn't take many more of Salazar's blows, he launched himself at his tormentor, forcing his battered body by sheer force of will into explosive motion, relying on the element of surprise to pin the older man's arms to his side in a bear-hug, to try to force him to the ground in the hope of smashing his head into the tiles, or throttling him, or gouging his eyes...or...or...something.

He hoped in vain. Salazar staggered at the impact but remained upright, as Nick struggled to maintain his grip, desperate to keep those brutal fists from inflicting more pain. He was shocked by the rock-hard musculature beneath the silk—this was clearly the physique of a fitness fanatic. Salazar must be twenty years Nick's senior, yet the younger man was powerless to prevent the muscled arms bursting free from his despairing embrace and sending him reeling away with a brutal shove.

The bloodied lips leered at him. "Enough dancing. Time to die, Nicholas."

Limping and unsteady, Nick once again backpedalled, heart pounding as he racked his brains for some plan of attack, for some inspiration to turn the tide and set him back on the offensive, scanning his adversary for a hint of weakness—something, anything—and finding none.

He risked a glance behind him, desperate to avoid being trapped again, and turned back just in time to see Salazar's right fist coming for his head; raising his arms in defence, he managed to block most of the punch's force, but as a consequence left his midriff exposed to the left's hammer-blow. Hunched over in agony, he barely kept his feet as he staggered backwards, while Salazar followed in remorseless pursuit.

"Fear, Nicholas. I'm going to teach you about fear." He landed a vicious jab to Nick's chin, snapping his head back. "Yes, and pain, too." He followed up with a crunching hook to his ribs. "You will come to know pain. Pain such as you have never experienced."

Smiling in contempt, determined that the gratification of this experience should not be over too soon, he once again shoved his reeling opponent away.

Head ablaze with agony, barely able to breathe, Nick retreated in a lurching stumble, any thoughts of victory in this farcical, so-called contest gone. His only wish was to end the suffering, his only thought escape.

That, and one other. As resigned as he may be to death, even through his haze of pain he realised he did not want to die at the hands of Salazar—the thought of his very last act on this planet being the satisfaction of a sadistic monster's bloodlust was too much to bear.

As broken and defeated as he was, he hoped it still might be within his power to prevent at least that. To salvage one small victory.

"Where are you going, Nicholas? Come now, we've only just begun. I have so much more to teach you." Shaking his head in mock disappointment, Salazar followed the shuffling, hunched figure. "It's time for your next lesson."

Heedless, Nick kept moving, as fast as his battered body would allow.

"Running away, Nicholas? For shame. Particularly after all your heroics tonight. Could it be that perhaps you're not so heroic after all? What will Mica say? I'll be sure to ask her when she is returned to me."

Nick's laboured steps slowed to a halt. Just yards from the rooftop's edge, he stood with his back to Salazar, swaying in the hazy moonlight. Beyond him, just above the distant horizon, the first rosy hint of dawn coloured the night sky.

"Oh, yes—you didn't seriously think she would escape, did you? Even if she has managed to leave the building, the Syndicate's resources will ensure she is soon tracked down. And then, just think of the reunion she and I will have, Nicholas. I have all sorts of special treats planned for her."

For a moment longer, Nick stood motionless. Then, squaring his shoulders, just a fraction—the movement almost imperceptible—he resumed his pained progress toward the edge.

For the first time it occurred to Salazar just what his quarry's intention may be. "Oh, no you don't, Nicholas. There's to be no third time lucky for you. You will die when when I am good and ready for you to die, and not a moment before. School is most definitely still in." He strode after him.

At the sound of the approaching footsteps, Nick accelerated as best he could, but it was clear to them both he wasn't quite going to make it.

"Pain and fear, Nicholas—just as I said." A yard or so short of the edge, the crime-lord halted Nick with a grip of iron on his shoulder. "Only when you have come to know them both, in the most intense and exquisite detail—only then will I send you to oblivion."

"Ob-b-b-blivion?" Without turning, Nick reached up and weakly clutched at Salazar's hand with both of his own. He gave it an ineffectual tug. "No."

The crime-lord laughed—a laugh cut short when the grip on his hand tightened.

"Thing is"—Nick hauled Salazar's arm across his chest, and thrust one of his own underneath it—"I've already b-been."

And with a convulsive heave, calling on every last iota of strength left in his exhausted body, combined with the muscle-memory of those long-ago sessions back in his hometown's dojang, he bent at the waist and flipped his attacker clean over his shoulder—and into the abyss.

He just had time to be astonished the move had worked—before realising it hadn't. As he went over the edge, Salazar seized Nick's left hand in a desperate death-grip, dragging him to the tiles with brutal force, his arm jarring almost out of its socket as it took the full weight of the fallen man. In desperation, he hooked a knee behind the shallow ledge that ran along the edge of the building, to prevent himself being dragged over.

Eyes bulging, Salazar stared at him. "Pull me up! Pull me up, now!"

"In your dreams, fuck-face," replied inner Nick. Real Nick busied himself with prying loose the fingers wrapped around his hand.

"Nicholas!" gasped Salazar. "Nicholas, listen to me. I'll give you anything. Anything you want. Money, drugs, women, Mica—whatever you like. I'll free all those girls in the basement. I'll disband the Syndicate. Name your price. Anything."

Lubricated by sweat, the clutching fingers began to slide. In silence, Nick kept on prying.

"Please!" begged Salazar. "Please, you can't. Don't be a fool. I'll make you rich. I'll give you everything I have. I...I'm sorry. I'm sorry about Mica. About everything. I'll be good," he sobbed, "I promise I will. Just don't let me fall. It can't end like this. Please, Nicholas—Nick. Please, I don't want to die!"

Even in the extremity of the moment, Nick couldn't help but appreciate the irony of their relative situations, given the way his journey that night had started out. It seemed as though fate—if perhaps there was such a thing—had a sense of humour.

With a final, emphatic jerk, he pulled his hand free. And watched as Jaime Salazar plummeted away from him, his forlorn, wailing cry of "No!" only coming to an end when, with a faint and muffled crash, he plunged into a dumpster thirty-seven stories below.

Humour, and—maybe, just occasionally—a sense of justice, too.

What with the mist and the moonlight and the oncoming dawn, there were still no stars to be seen. But Nick knew they were there. And that was enough. He took comfort in their invisible presence, sailing through the heavens above, oblivious to him and the building upon whose summit he lay and the city around him and the ceaseless, petty strivings of all the other insignificant, ephemeral beings who dwelt within its bounds. The stars didn't care. The stars simply were.

Must be nice.

Marble tiles really had no right being this comfortable. His assorted bruises, contusions, scrapes and strains were so numerous he could no longer tell one from another, yet he felt as though he could lay here forever, at rest, just staring at the sky.

Natalya Zima had other ideas.

"What have you done?"

Nick sighed. Exasperation—that was his primary reaction, at realising the Russian woman had joined him on the rooftop. He was just too tired to be afraid. So, exasperation, and maybe a little resignation. Mostly due to the fact he was probably going to have to get up, but also because he'd love to respond to her question with, "Taken out the trash," but knew he'd never pull it off. Too many Ts.

He settled for glancing at the edge, before turning back to her with a simple, "Whoops."

Even if it had been funny, somehow he doubted she would have laughed. It wasn't and she didn't. Divested of her jacket, white shirt damp with perspiration, breathing heavily, it would be fair to say the expression on Zima's flushed features displayed the diametric opposite of amusement. She cracked her knuckles.

"Time to die."

Nick rolled his eyes. Yeah, good luck with that, lady. It's not as easy as it sounds.

"Get up."

With a groan, he started to do so. And then thought better of it. If he was going to die, he may as well do it in comfort. He settled back on to the tiles.

"I said, get up."

"B-b-bite me."

She drew her gun. "Do not toy with me, mudak. I am in no mood for games."

Nick rolled his head to look at her. "Shame. We c-c-could play fuck off. You first."

Zima stared at him. At the architect of her ruin. At the incompetent bumbler who had stumbled into a world of which he knew nothing, and proceeded to lay waste to her meticulous plans, plans which after years of striving and sacrifice and effort, had been just on the very cusp of fruition.

"On. Your. Feet!"

Given he was an inoffensive sort of guy, Nick was a little surprised at the level of animosity being directed his way this night. I mean, sure, he'd smashed up the place a bit, shot some guy, smashed up the place a little more and then chucked this lady's boss off the building. But it wasn't like he'd started any of it. And if someone chucked Jayden off a building, he'd probably shake their hand and offer to buy them a drink.

In any case, given engaging with these people only seemed to make things worse, he decided perhaps the best option might be to...not. At least, not in words. So, in response to Zima's strident demand, he restricted himself to a modest middle finger. He was developing a whole new appreciation for the value of the bird.

To which she responded with a gunshot, the bullet ploughing a furrow in the tiles just inches from Nick's head. "The next one is between your eyes," she snarled. "Now, get up!"

He considered. Given she'd already said she was going to kill him, he couldn't help but feel she wasn't in the strongest negotiating position. Plus, he wasn't sure he could stand up, even if he wanted to. Deciding to stay right he was, he closed his eyes—and waited.

"Very well. Goodbye, Mr De—"

There was a dull thud. Followed by another. And then silence.

He frowned. Dull thuds? That didn't sound right.

"Nick! Open your eyes."

That voice didn't sound right, either. Nevertheless, he did as he was bid—to see a wide-eyed Mica, standing over Zima's fallen form, with something clutched in her upraised hand.

"Th-that's a...a..."

She looked at the object in question. "A meat tenderiser. Yes. I found it in a bag, down the stairs. I thought it would be more useful than the power drill." Brow creasing in concern, she transferred her attention to the woman at her feet. "Oh, Nick—do you think she'll be alright?"

He gazed up at her—even after all she'd been through, this woman could still find compassion in her heart for the lowlife scum who had made her life hell. She was a wonder. Even though he was a little more ambivalent as to the state of Zima's health, he couldn't help but appreciate the sentiment.

"Fingers c-c-crossed," he replied. And then, after the deepest breath his bruised and quite possibly fractured ribs would allow, he held out a hand. "H-help m-me up?"