"I'm just here to get some groceries, man. I don't need any trouble," Jordan said, hands raised, his voice steady but his heart racing.
The leader of the group smirked, stepping out from the shadows. His face was rough, scarred like someone who never backed down from a fight. "As if we could believe that crap," he said, spitting to the side. "Your brother—yeah, that guy—used to beat us into a pulp. Seven years ago, he vanished. And now look who's walking into our street like he owns the place."
Jordan glanced around. Three of them. Maybe four, if the guy behind the truck wasn't just pretending to fix something. No way he was fighting his way out of this.
"Nah, man. I'm cool," Jordan said, trying to keep his voice calm. "And like you said, my brother's been gone for seven years. I don't even know where he is now."
"Maybe not," the bandit leader sneered, "but blood don't lie. You've got the same eyes. Same walk. Same mouth that used to tell us we were weak."
Jordan took a small step back. "I'm not him."
"That's what he said before he broke my nose."
Suddenly, one of the thugs moved. Fast. Jordan flinched just in time to dodge the swing—but as the knife slashed past his face, something strange happened. The air cracked. Like lightning, but without light. A deep humming sound vibrated through the street. Then—
Everything froze.
The bandits. The wind. The falling leaf that was mid-air a second ago.
Only Jordan could move.
"What the hell…" he whispered.
A glowing circle of symbols pulsed beneath his feet, faint and blue, like the memory of a dream. And then—before he could blink—
The ground gave way.