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Being a degenerate is okay these days
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Kimiko was strong, but she was smaller than him. Cristo ought to be able to stop her, to talk her down, to do something that wasn't completely useless, but no words came in time.

Maybe that was irony, in a way.

For a second, Cristóbal thought that Kimiko had just hit him. He tried to recoil from the impact, tried to breathe in, and the glass caught him inside, a stinging embedded in his chest. As Kimiko wrenched out of his grip and dashed off, Cristo's brain refused to catch up, still trying to draw in breath even as he felt the dampness spreading in a patch on his shirt.

Cristo stumbled a few more steps in Kimiko's direction before the pain really hit him and he tried to gasp and the gasp became a deep, shuddering cough that sent blood welling up his throat. He spat instinctively and looked uncomprehendingly at the dark red splatter on the warehouse floor.

Kimiko had stabbed him, he realized, in the same not-breath that he realized that he couldn't breathe in anymore without tasting blood.

With a strangled gagging noise, Cristóbal fell.
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."
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Prepare to Burn · The Warehouse