Tòumíng couldn't stop staring at himself in the bathroom mirror. He lifted his destroyed hoodie higher, examining every angle of his transformed torso.
Abs. Actual, visible abs. Not the kind you had to flex really hard and hold your breath to see. Real definition, the kind that showed even when he was standing normally, breathing normally, existing normally.
The fat reserves his body had burned through to fuel the twelve-hour healing marathon had stripped away the skinny-fat layer he'd been carrying his whole life. What remained was lean muscle, defined core, the kind of physique he'd seen on gym bros in his social media feeds but never thought he'd have himself.
"Holy shit," he muttered, turning sideways to check the profile. "These are actual abs."
He flexed. The muscles tightened, became even more pronounced, the definition deepening into proper six-pack territory.
"THESE ARE ABS!"
The scars didn't even bother him. If anything, they made it better. Fourteen circular marks from the bullet wounds arranged across his stomach and chest like some kind of brutal constellation. Two irregular scars from the stab wounds. Various other marks from the beating, the broken bones, the accumulated damage.
He looked like he'd survived a war. Which, technically, he had. A very short, very stupid war against five gang members in an alley.
But the scars looked badass. Gave him character. Made him look dangerous, experienced, like someone with a story to tell.
Tòumíng was severely tempted to take mirror pics right now. Shirtless bathroom selfie, scars on display, abs flexed, maybe caption it something mysterious like "what doesn't kill you makes you ripped" or "survived the night."
His phone was right there on the bathroom counter, still covered in dried blood from the alley but functional.
He picked it up, angled it for the perfect shot, flexed—
No. No, wait. If he posted this, people would ask questions. Questions like "why do you have fourteen bullet wound scars" and "is that from tonight" and "should we call the police."
Plus Měi Nán might see it. Would probably comment something teasing. Would definitely recognize the apartment bathroom.
Actually, that second part didn't sound so bad.
Tòumíng took the photo anyway. Just for himself. Just to document this moment. He snapped three different angles, making sure the lighting caught the abs properly, the scars visible but not too graphic.
Then he spent the next twenty minutes posing.
Different angles. Different flexes. Arms up, arms down, turning to show the profile, front view, three-quarter view. Some with his destroyed hoodie pulled up, some with it off entirely. Serious face, casual face, attempting a smolder that probably looked ridiculous but felt cool.
"You're being vain," Cupid observed.
"I'm being appreciative of biological transformation."
"You're taking shirtless selfies."
"For personal archival purposes."
"Uh-huh."
Tòumíng took three more photos, examined them critically, deleted one that made his face look weird, kept the other two. His camera roll was now just gacha game screenshots, that photo of Měi Nán's number, and shirtless bathroom selfies showcasing bullet wound scars.
A very balanced digital footprint.
Finally, after confirming from every possible angle that yes, he definitely had abs now, and yes, the scars did look badass, and yes, this was the best thing to come out of nearly dying in an alley, Tòumíng stepped out of the bathroom.
And immediately stepped in a puddle of blood-oil mixture.
"Oh. Right."
His apartment looked like a crime scene. Because it was, technically. Blood splattered on the floor in a trail from the door to the couch. Olive oil mixed in, creating slick patches that were definitely a safety hazard. Bullets scattered across the floor where they'd been expelled from his body. The knife still embedded in the wall. His destroyed hoodie and pants in a pile. Dark stains on the couch cushions that would probably never come out.
The place was a biohazard disaster.
Tòumíng grabbed the mop from his tiny utility closet, purchased two weeks ago in a fit of responsible adult behavior and never actually used until now. Found a bucket, filled it with hot water and whatever cleaning solution was under the sink, and got to work.
Mopping blood and oil turned out to be significantly harder than mopping normal dirt. The blood had started to dry, creating sticky patches that required serious scrubbing. The oil made everything slippery, turning the mop into a skating hazard. The mixture of the two created a substance that seemed to defy conventional cleaning, smearing rather than lifting.
He had to change the water three times, each bucket turning a horrifying reddish-brown that he tried very hard not to think about as he dumped it down the drain.
Thirty minutes of continuous mopping, scrubbing, wringing out the mop, scrubbing more, and the floor was finally clean. Or clean enough. There were still faint stains in some spots, shadows that suggested something terrible had happened here, but in the right light you could almost ignore them.
The bullets went into a plastic bag. Evidence? Souvenirs? He wasn't sure, but throwing them in the regular trash seemed wrong. He shoved the bag into the back of his closet with his cash stash.
The knife got pulled out of the wall, leaving a hole he'd need to patch eventually. That went into the closet too.
His destroyed clothes went into the trash. The white designer hoodie was beyond saving, fourteen holes and blood-soaked fabric that would never be wearable again. The cargo pants were similarly ruined. Another few hundred yuan of impulse purchases destroyed by poor life choices.
The couch cushions he just flipped over. Problem solved.
By the time he finished cleaning, Tòumíng was exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with physical damage and everything to do with having experienced twelve hours of excruciating healing followed by thirty minutes of crime scene cleanup.
He checked his phone. 3:47 AM. Late as hell. Or early. Depending on perspective.
His bed looked incredibly inviting. Clean sheets, actual pillows, the luxury of sleeping horizontally in a space designed for sleeping rather than a coffin-sized room with a mattress on the floor.
Tòumíng collapsed onto the bed without bothering to change into pajamas—he was already shirtless, and finding pants seemed like too much effort. He pulled the blanket over himself, his newly defined abs pressing against the fabric, his scarred torso a reminder of the absolute insanity of the past few hours.
He should probably be traumatized. Should be processing the fact that he'd killed someone, fought five armed men, been shot fourteen times, and spent twelve hours in healing-induced agony.
But the "Suicidal Idiot" title's decreased empathy was already working, apparently. Because all he felt was tired satisfaction and vague excitement about the abs.
His last thought before sleep claimed him was that he should probably buy more olive oil.
Just in case.
Then darkness, deep and dreamless, pulled him under.