“You’re on your own out here,” he says quietly.
Behind me, the street is empty.
No witnesses.
No safety in numbers.
Phil’s hand finds mine briefly.
He squeezes once.
Then lets go.
“Christina,” he says, without turning around. “Go.”
I don’t move.
“Phil—”
“Go,” he repeats, sharper now.
And then it happens.
Too fast to stop.
One of them steps forward and swings.
The sound of the impact is sickeningly solid.
Phil stumbles, the force driving him sideways, but he doesn’t fall.
Not yet.
He stays between them and me.
Always between them and me.
Phil sways, but he doesn’t go down.
He absorbs the impact like his body has decided falling isn’t an option. His shoulder hits the brick wall beside him with a dull thud, and for a second I think he might recover. That he might be able to hold them off long enough for something to change.
Then the second one steps in.
It all happens so quickly. Just movement. A fist driving into Phil’s ribs with a force that folds him forward, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp, involuntary sound I’ve never heard him make before.
“Stop!” I shout.
None of them even look at me.
The first man grabs the front of Phil’s jacket and shoves him back against the wall.
“Thought you were a hard man, didn’t you?” he says, his voice low and vicious now that there’s no audience left to perform for.
Phil doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t plead.
He straightens as much as he can, forcing himself upright even as another blow lands, this one catching him across the side of the face. His head snaps to the side, the sound of it echoing off the narrow walls of the alley.