His bottom lip splits open and swollen as it already was, a thick drop of blood blossoms on the open wound, staining his chin. He spits, again, though this time he misses the guy's pants. Just barely. Shinjirou wants to try again, aim right and hit -- but he jerks in the man's sudden grip, gurgling as he tries to breathe. This isn't some show of domination, the guy's out for revenge.

Shinjirou's wheezing by the time the ground's coming closer. The spreader bar gets caught on the bench and for a second he hopes in vain that means he won't crash into the floor, but no. His shoulder slams into the cold surface, the bench following along to land on his chest. For a moment, his vision is gone, replaced by bright dancing dots. He should stop trying to fight the man. It's useless.

"I know," he says and his throat hurts so much he never wants to speak again, "I know you like the pretty ones better. Just go, asshole."