Foreigner

Chapter 47: Blood

Christian's POV

Before dawn, present time
Stadium

The floodlights hum overhead, too bright, too clean for what's about to happen. The snow under our feet is thin and uneven, crushed into gray patches where maintenance carts have passed earlier. Every step leaves a clear imprint.

The man stands a few feet away from me, shoulders twitching, knife hanging loose in his hand. His grin is wide and wet, gums showing.

"This is for you, bro," the vengeful homeless man whispers, his breath fogging in the freezing air.

Then he charges.

The kitchen knife comes at me in a diagonal slash aimed for my chest. Too wide. Too emotional.

I pivot sideways. The blade grazes my hoodie, slicing fabric and kissing the skin beneath. A shallow line of heat blooms along my upper arm.

He laughs, breath rattling in his throat.

He swings again, faster but just as reckless. This time, I step in instead of back. My palm cracks against his wrist, forcing the knife off trajectory. I drive my elbow straight into his throat.

Cartilage pops under the impact.

He chokes but doesn't drop. His eyes are too wide, pupils swallowing everything. He doesn't process pain correctly.

He tries to bite me.

I slam my fist into his ribs — once, twice — feeling bone under my knuckles. He staggers but keeps swinging. The knife arcs toward my stomach. I catch his wrist with both hands and twist hard.

The joint bends wrong.

The knife slips from his fingers and vanishes into the snow.

For a fraction of a second, I see clarity in his face — anger replacing the manic grin.

"You don't even remember him," he snarls.

"I remember enough," I say evenly, my tone dry. "I remember him breaking her nose, beating her. I remember him coming at me with a knife. I remember telling him to stop."

His expression flickers as I recount the events of that fateful evening.

"He was going to kill me. It was self-defense."

He roars and throws himself at me, no technique, just weight and fury. I sidestep and drive my knee into his stomach. The air leaves him in a harsh wheeze. I follow with a straight punch to his jaw. His head snaps back. Blood sprays from his mouth.

He drops to one knee.

I step forward to finish it — to knock him out clean and end this before it spirals.

His hand moves fast toward his waistband.

I see the second blade too late.

A short, narrow pocket knife.

He drives it forward into my abdomen, above the right hip bone, angling it into the soft tissue, through the muscle.

I feel the metal slide in.

The pain hits. Hot. Deep.

My breath leaves me in a short, involuntary sound.

He's close enough now that I can see the burst blood vessels in his eyes.

"There it is," he whispers, delighted, his rancid breath burning my face.

I step back.

The knife stays in me.