Time slowed.
Pedestrians turned. Someone gasped.
The other four froze for half a second, processing what had just happened.
Then knives appeared.
Four blades.
The scene clicked into place. Four against two. But really, four against one.
I kept my voice calm. "Mila. Get back."
I didn't see her move. But I felt it. The shift in the air as she stepped away.
The first man lunged.
I caught his wrist mid-strike, twisted it back toward him, and drove my fist into his face. His nose crunched. Blood sprayed. He dropped, unconscious before he hit the ground.
That set off the other three.
They came at me together.
It wasn't a fair fight.
For them.
I swept the legs out from under one—his head slammed into the pavement like the opposite end of a teeter-totter. Out cold.
Two left.
They circled, more cautious now. One lunged. I sidestepped, felt the blade nick my forearm—a shallow cut, barely more than a scratch.
Then they were too close.
I grabbed both of them, one arm around each neck, locking them in a chokehold.
They still had their knives. It was a risk. But when my arms tightened, cutting off blood flow to their brains, they panicked. Clawed at my forearms. Dropped their weapons.
I squeezed.
One went limp. Then the other.
I eased them to the ground.
The guy with the broken arm was the only one still conscious, scooting away on his ass, eyes wide with terror.
I straightened, breathing steady, and glanced around.
Pedestrians stared. A few had their phones out—not filming, just frozen.
Then someone started clapping.
Others joined in.
Someone spat in the direction of the Algerians, muttering something in French that sounded like a curse.
I'd heard the immigrants were a problem in France. Gangs. Petty crime. But this—this felt personal for the locals.
