Of course the bastard moved like he was something out of The Matrix, dodging Santo's punch and returning to deliver his own while Santos was still recovering. Santos<em>knew</em>he wasn't slow, but shit, what was this guy?<br/><br/>The hand-slam to his chest drove all the air from his lungs in a low, rough grunt, his ribs aching and frozen, unable to gasp back the breath that he had just lost. His cellmate spun around and Santos stumbled as his weight went off balance - then the whore's son grabbed his leg - and the floor slammed into his back and head. Santos writhed and struggled to breath, managing to gasp in halting, shallow pants. The heavy fall had made his brightly aching shoulder scream with pain, so much he could barely stop his eyes from rolling back. Concentrating too much on the agony and getting his breath back after being winded, he heard a whimper before he realised that it had come from his own throat.<br/><br/><em>"You're a dead man,"</em>he wanted to snarl at his cellmate, but forming words was beyond him for now, but at least he could hold back any more humiliating, weak sounds that scrabbled at his throat. He could only glare his ire, and let his fury burn through them.