Blug!
Min collapsed to the floor, face going green.
Ahrie spotted him and shouted, "Oii, you good?" then hustled over to help.
Min looked up, wild-eyed. He lurched, grabbed Ahrie by the collar with both hands like he was hanging on for dear life—then—Ughhhk!—he puked straight into Ahrie's face.
"You son of a biiiiit—" Min gagged.
"Ughhhk!"
Ahrie went full pissed. "FUCK OFF! GET OFF, YOU STUPID SHIT!" he snarled and shoved.
Min clung on like glue. Ahrie shoved harder—cloth strained, seams popped, and Ahrie's shirt tore under the grip. He cursed, yanked, hissed.
Enough. Ahrie delivered one clean, controlled chop to Min's neck—no gore, just the sort of smack that drops someone cold. Min's eyes fluttered, his grip slackened, and he crumpled, out like a cut lamp.
Ahrie stood over him, breath heavy, shirt ruined, hands shaking a little from the aftershock. "Geez," he muttered, wiping puke off his sleeve.
