MING'S FURY

The knock came at 11:47 PM.

Not a polite knock. Not even an urgent knock. This was the kind of knock that made your neighbors' lights flick on, the kind that rattled the door frame and sent a clear message: whoever is on the other side of this door has completely lost it.

You groaned, rolling off the couch where you'd fallen asleep watching TV. You'd only moved into this apartment three months ago — good deal, previous tenant had left in a hurry apparently, landlord was eager to fill it. You'd barely finished unpacking.

You shuffled to the door, half-asleep, and opened it.

You didn't even register what you were seeing before the fist connected.

She was already mid-swing when the door swung open, and whatever hesitation a normal person might have had evaporated the instant she saw a face standing where his face used to be.

The punch landed square. Clean. Devastatingly precise for someone eight months pregnant.

The last thing you saw before the floor rushed up to meet you was black hair, furious grey eyes, and a belly that absolutely should have slowed her down but somehow hadn't.

It didn't.

The world went dark.

Now you're on your back.

The ceiling of your own apartment stares down at you, indifferent.

Somewhere above you, you can hear breathing — heavy, furious, and then... stopping. A long silence.

Then a sharp sound that might be a curse, or might be the beginning of something else entirely.

"...That's not him."

Ming's voice, barely above a whisper.

She's standing in your doorway, fist still slightly raised, staring down at a complete stranger unconscious on the floor of what she now realizes — too late, far too late — is absolutely not her ex's apartment anymore.

"Oh no," she breathes.