John didn't waste a second the moment he left Danny's dojo. The quiet in the street around him didn't calm his nerves—it only amplified the sense of urgency pounding in his chest like war drums. The moment Danny had revealed the next target of Khan's underlings was a residential block not far from where Avalon stood, John knew there was no coincidence. It clicked almost violently when Danny shared the exact location—an address too familiar, too intimate. It was Hobbie's neighborhood. The one place a young boy had managed to smile despite everything life had thrown at him. And now that place was a target, not by gang members or some local bullies, but a focused strike from a mystical criminal network guided by ambition, greed, and cold disregard for collateral damage. As he slipped through the back entrance of Avalon, the click of the lock behind him felt like the last sound of peace before the storm. He headed straight into the storage closet behind the shelves of ramen and plastic-wrapped pastries and pulled out his personal gear. His thicker clothes—stitched from thrifted jackets, layers of canvas, and denim—weren't sleek, weren't streamlined, but they had weight, padding, and just enough resistance to save his skin from a blade if it came to that. He pulled the jacket over his shoulders, fastening it with short, concentrated movements, and laced his boots tight. The Tiger Gloves slid onto his hands next, the metal cool but comforting against his palms, the fingertips tipped with etched silver talons from the previous fight. They weren't flashy, but they had history now. Tucked inside the inner lining of his sleeves, he slid two short metal pipes into hidden pockets—unassuming and simple, but solid in the hand and capable of turning a block or counter into something decisive. He wasn't going in Rambo-style; there would be no reckless charges, no rooftop leaps, and definitely no heroic monologues. This was stealth. Precision. He would pick his moments, strike only when necessary, and vanish just as quickly. His only concern now was not the fight itself—but Lorna.
He stepped lightly into the front room of the bodega where Lorna sat on a stool, sipping water from a ceramic cup and flipping through one of the science magazines she'd salvaged for the den. Her eyes tracked him before her voice followed. "Where are you going with all that on?" Her tone wasn't sarcastic, just level, slightly edged with suspicion. He hesitated, stopping at the counter and resting his gloved hands against the worn surface. "I'm going out to meet Bob and Danny. There's been a development," he said slowly. "Another move from Khan's people. They're planning something." Lorna tilted her head, sensing the evasion, then stood and crossed her arms. "And you weren't going to tell me because…?" John looked down at his gear, the heavy jacket, the weighted steps, the tension in his shoulders, and sighed. "Because I didn't want you to get hurt. I know what we've built. I know what you're capable of. But this isn't some spar in the den. This is real. There's no rulebook. No second takes. And I just—" He paused, the next words tight in his throat. "I don't want to see you get hurt because of some dumb bravado mission we decided to pull tonight. This isn't your burden. It's mine." Her arms remained folded, but her expression softened, and for a long moment, she just looked at him, truly looked, like she was seeing something in him she hadn't quite named until now. "You're saying that because you care," she said gently. "You're saying that because you'd rather face this alone than see someone you care about in danger." John exhaled, the tension in his chest dropping like a stone. "Yeah. That's exactly it." She stepped forward then, slowly, and placed a hand on his chest, her fingers resting over his heartbeat. "But this is my fight too. Hobbie is my friend. He's part of Avalon. Part of what we're building here. And I didn't go through all this training to sit on a stool and hand out water while you throw yourself into the fire." She smirked then, just a little. "Besides, if you get stabbed, who's going to manage inventory?" He laughed once, quietly, and nodded. "Alright. You're in. But we stay quiet, we move as one, and no unnecessary risks." She returned his nod and disappeared briefly to retrieve her coat—lined with magnetically charged stitching, her gloves sliding on with practiced ease, hair tied back in a simple knot. Together, they called Danny's dojo. The meeting point was a narrow alley behind an old bakery three blocks west of Hobbie's street.
The night air cut through the streets with an edge of early autumn, and as John and Lorna moved through the quieter roads toward the meet-up, they felt not so much like vigilantes but sentinels—unseen and determined. They arrived to find Bob already leaning against the alley wall, a plastic bag of cold tea in one hand and his tiger-striped luchador mask already over his face, his usual street clothes wrinkled and layered for warmth. He nodded to them, offering nothing but quiet solidarity. Danny arrived moments later from the far end of the alley, walking as if the night air meant nothing. He wore his green martial arts uniform—tailored and reinforced, a golden dragon tattoo curling across his bare chest beneath the open neckline. A loose, almost ceremonial half-mask covered his upper face, casting shadows over his eyes. No guns among them. Just bodies trained by practice, steel formed from intent, and silence sharpened into a blade.
They moved as one through the shadows toward the apartment complex. Hobbie's street loomed ahead, washed in dim sodium light, the buildings lined like weary sentinels. They took their positions—Danny to the east, Bob toward the west alley behind a stack of trash bins, and John and Lorna crouched beneath an old fire escape near the building's rear. The plan was simple: intercept and disable. No killing, no theatrics. Just make sure no one got to Hobbie's family. John adjusted one of the metal pipes in his sleeve, felt the comforting weight shift into place. Lorna's gloves glowed faintly with controlled magnetism, her breath steady. They waited.
Time passed in silence. And then they saw movement—four figures creeping through the back alley, dressed in muted tones, faces obscured, moving with practiced caution but without elegance. One held a blade. Another had a baton. One reached for a lockpick. They were close. Too close. John shifted, preparing to signal. But in that moment, a shape emerged from the dark behind him—silent, swift, brutal. A blunt force slammed into John's side, right under the ribs. It wasn't sharp. It was thick, fast, and strong enough to steal the breath from his lungs. He staggered, gasping, the world spinning for a heartbeat as the metal pipe clattered from his sleeve onto the ground. Lorna's eyes widened. She moved instantly, drawing metal from her coat to form a small defensive arc between them and the source of the blow. Danny and Bob snapped their heads around just as the silhouette vanished back into the dark, no sound, no trace. John clutched his side, teeth gritted, pain radiating through his torso. "They're here," he hissed, every word like a stitch being pulled tight.
From far above them, hidden in a sliver of rooftop darkness where no streetlight reached, an unseen figure watched. The group didn't know yet. They couldn't know. But this individual had followed, had seen, and now knew they were not alone in the shadows.
And the night, finally, began to move.