She lit a cigarette, not because she smoked, but because it looked good for the nonexistent cameras.
“Then tell him,” she said, exhaling smoke into the Bangkok night, “that the Hi Kix Kick Ass Model Habit doesn’t take notes. She takes necks.”
She was the Hi Kix Kick Ass Model Habit. A mouthful, yes, but so was a roundhouse to the teeth. By day, she graced magazine covers in Milan. By night, she was a mixed-fighting retrieval agent for a shadow syndicate that paid in uncut sapphires. Her habit? She never lost. And she always, always kicked high. She lit a cigarette, not because she smoked,
She stood, wiped her shin on his silk shirt, and walked out through the casino’s kitchen, past stunned cooks holding ladles like weapons.
She smiled. “I’m dressed for a photoshoot . The fight is just cardio.” A mouthful, yes, but so was a roundhouse to the teeth
Kandy entered the VIP lounge barefoot. Her dress was a liquid gold slip, slit to the hip. The bouncers saw a model. Serpien saw a ghost. He was a pale, scaled thing—actual reptile grafts on his neck—sitting in a velvet chair, surrounded by six Muay Thai killers.
The fourth and fifth came together. Kandy flowed between them like water. Elbow to the jaw. Knee to the liver. Axe kick to the collarbone. Each strike was precise, elegant, and utterly devastating. The sixth man hesitated. She stepped inside his guard, grabbed his wrist, and used his own momentum to throw him into a slot machine. Jackpot. Bells rang. Her habit
Serpien stood up, his forked tongue flickering. “You think you’ve won?”
Kandy knelt beside him, pulled a tiny magnetic scalpel from her hairpin, and sliced open the skin at the base of his skull. One click. The fang-drive was hers.
Kandy’s left leg whipped up so fast the air cracked. Her shin met his temple. He dropped like a sack of wet cement. The second threw a hook—she ducked, pivoted, and landed a spinning back fist, then a kikku —a jump kick to the third man’s chest that sent him crashing through a glass table.
Kandy stepped into a waiting tuk-tuk and gave the driver an address—a rooftop bar where the champagne was cold and the stairs were a perfect warm-up for a 720-degree kick.