The alley felt narrower now. The walls seemed to pull closer, the broken concrete vibrating beneath each footfall as Bob stepped forward again, the white glow around him blooming larger with every breath he took. It wasn't just a shimmer anymore. The tiger aura moved now—visible to all, outlined in phantom limbs and spirit muscle. Where before it merely traced him, now it loomed behind him like a guardian spirit, its eyes glowing above his shoulders, its form stalking the edge of perception with silent, primal dignity.
The Ninja's smirk faltered briefly. Just briefly. But then it returned sharper, hungrier. "Yes," he hissed, licking his lower lip. "Now we're talking." His fingers flexed around the hilt of his black katana, and the shadows around his boots rippled and stretched. The air around his form darkened, not from light fading but from something deeper—his suit, already dark, became like a living bruise, swallowing the alley's dim light until he looked more like a silhouette than a man. And then he moved.
The Ninja blurred forward, his blade whistling through the air. Bob moved to intercept, bringing his forearm across in a hard parry, and the two collided with a crack that sent dust flying in both directions. The aura around Bob brightened again—no longer a flicker but a roaring pulse that left white streaks in the air every time he swung. He countered with a quick double palm strike, forcing The Ninja to flip back, landing low and sliding along the cracked pavement.
They came together again in a flurry of movement—Bob's Tiger Claw strikes tracing arcs of white, while The Ninja danced around them, his blade slicing low, high, sideways, the very shadows aiding his movement, giving him unnatural pivots and bursts of acceleration. The impact of each exchanged blow echoed like drumbeats in a thunderstorm. Fists against sword. Light against shadow. The alley had become a dueling ground of ancient and modern force.
But Bob, though strained, did not yield.
And The Ninja, despite his power, began to feel the pressure.
His strikes, once playful and cruel, now grew sharper, tighter. He began to grunt with effort. The blade that once seemed to carve space now met invisible resistance each time it passed near Bob's aura. Every time he stepped too close, the white glow surged, slowing his movement, dulling his cuts.
The realization crept over The Ninja's face like a shadow at dawn.
The Tiger Medallion—Bob's—wasn't just defense. It was suppression. Each talisman, forged in the ancient crucibles of K'un-Lun, drew from chi, and chi was light, balance, harmony. Shadow had no balance. The darker The Ninja became, the more his blade dragged. The harder he tried to disappear, the more the medallion pulled him into view.
He hissed in frustration, stepping back again, katana raised, breathing shallow.
"You're… cheating," he growled.
Bob, chest heaving, raised his fists. "I'm standing. That's enough."
"You're restraining my gift," The Ninja spat. "That medallion—it's poisoning the field. My shadows won't shape. My speed—"
"—isn't enough," Bob finished for him.
The Ninja's eyes blazed. Then he looked down—at the orange Tiger Medallion pulsing at his chest. He reached for it with sudden clarity, fingers brushing the smooth metal. "Then I'll stop fighting like you. I'll embrace the tiger properly."
But someone else had been waiting.
Lorna had not moved for several minutes, hidden behind a broken loading crate a few yards behind The Ninja. She had been watching. Breathing. Building her strength. The moment he reached for the medallion, her body snapped into motion. Her gloved fingers extended, and her mind shot like a bullet down an invisible thread.
She could feel the medallion.
The chain that held it. Thick links of iron folded around The Ninja's neck. Forged metal. Reactive metal. And now—it was hers to pull.
She inhaled deeply, eyes narrowing.
Then yanked.
The force of the magnetic pull blasted through her spine, her arms trembling from the effort. The medallion flew from The Ninja's hand just before he could wrap his fingers around it, the chain snapping from the back of his neck like a rope cut mid-tension. It soared across the air, humming, spinning, and slammed into her palm with the weight of a wrecking ball.
The Ninja spun, eyes wide with disbelief. "What?!"
The moment he saw her, crouched and panting behind the crates, the orange medallion clutched in her shaking hand, his face contorted into pure fury.
"You—" he started, stepping toward her.
But John was there.
Between them.
He blocked the path with a shoulder, a metal pipe in one hand, the other balled into a fist. His stance was off, his body limping slightly, but his eyes burned with the same fire he'd had since day one.
"You're not getting past," he said quietly.
Lorna was on her knees now, the exertion from the magnetic pull draining her like a sudden fever. Her heart pounded too fast. The medallion in her hand felt like a sun. Her hands stung. Her lips were dry.
But she held it.
She had it.
John stood between her and the storm, pipe raised, Tiger Gloves cracked and dented. The Ninja didn't charge. He didn't move. He stared for a moment, calculating.
Then, slowly, he lowered the katana.
"You think this is over?" he whispered, voice sharp like glass. "You think I'll let you take what belongs to Khan?"
No one answered.
The Ninja looked down at the snapped chain still dangling from his neck.
Then up—his eyes burning into John, then Lorna.
"I won't be played for a fool," he muttered.
And the shadows around him began to shift again.