THE IRON FIST đź‘Š
Chapter Four: The Watchers on the Roof
Silva didn't sleep that night.
He sat frozen at his window, watching the silhouettes crouched on the rooftop across the street. Their stillness was unnatural, like statues carved from shadow. Their eyes glowed faintly red, and though they never moved, Silva felt their gaze pierce straight through him.
His glowing fist pulsed under the moonlight, each heartbeat making the yellow fire burn hotter beneath his skin. He tried to hide it, clutching his hand to his chest, but the light bled through his fingers, betraying him.
The watchers didn't attack. They didn't need to. Their message was clear: We see you.
By dawn, the figures were gone.
But the fear remained.
At breakfast, Silva's mother noticed his pale face and trembling hands. "You're sick," she said softly, reaching across the table. "Stay home today."
Silva shook his head quickly. "I'm fine."
"You don't look fine," she insisted. "You've been different lately. Bruised. Restless. Hiding something."
Silva froze. His father lowered the newspaper and studied him with narrowed eyes. The man had always been stern, but now his gaze felt like judgment.
"What have you gotten yourself into, Silva?" his father asked.
"Nothing," Silva lied quickly. "I just… I'm tired."
His father leaned forward. "I've served this city long enough to recognize when someone is lying. Whatever you're doing, stop. Florida isn't kind to fools who think they're bigger than the streets."
Silva's throat tightened. He wanted to tell them everything — about Chennai, about the training, about the old man and the glowing fist. But the words stuck in his mouth. They wouldn't believe him. Worse, they might try to stop him.
So he said nothing.
His mother's eyes softened, but her voice carried a quiet warning. "Be careful, Silva. The world eats boys who think they can save it."
Silva skipped school and ran to the alley.
Chennai was waiting, as though he had known Silva would come. The plumber's gaze swept over him, sharp as a knife.
"You've seen them," Chennai said.
Silva's stomach dropped. "Who?"
"The Hand."
The name alone made Silva's blood run cold. "You… you know them?"
Chennai's jaw tightened. "Everyone who's walked the path knows them. Shadows with blades, killers who bleed oaths in silence. They are older than cities. Hungrier than war. If they've found you, it means your fist has awakened."
Silva stared at his hand, remembering the burning glow. "What are they after?"
"Power," Chennai said. His voice was like stone grinding against stone. "They always are."
Silva swallowed. "How do I fight them?"
Chennai's eyes narrowed. "By becoming something they fear. But fear is not learned in comfort. Fear is learned in pain."
The training that followed was worse than any before.
Chennai blindfolded Silva, striking him from all directions, forcing him to listen to the sound of air cutting before each blow. He tied ropes around Silva's arms, making him fight without freedom, to teach him desperation. He submerged Silva's head in icy water, holding him under until his lungs screamed for air, then released him only when he thought he would die.
Every exercise broke Silva down. But every time, Chennai forced him to rise again.
"You think the Hand will show mercy?" Chennai barked as Silva coughed water onto the floor. "They will gut you while you beg. Learn now. Or die later."
Silva's body shook, bruised and battered, but inside, something hardened. He hated Chennai in those moments. But he also knew: this was survival.
That evening, Silva stumbled out of the basement, every muscle screaming. The city's streets blurred before his eyes. He leaned against a lamppost, sucking air into his lungs.
That's when he saw them again.
The Watchers.
Three figures, standing on the far end of the street. Cloaked in black, their faces hidden behind masks that glowed faintly red. They didn't move closer. They didn't need to.
One raised a hand, slowly, deliberately — and drew a finger across his throat.
Silva's stomach turned to ice.
He backed away, nearly tripping over the curb. When he looked again, the figures were gone.
But the message lingered.
They weren't just watching anymore.
They were promising death.
That night, Silva locked his bedroom door, sitting on his bed with his fists clenched. His hand glowed again, the yellow fire flickering stronger than before. He stared at it, terrified and awed, as the memory of the old man's voice echoed in his skull.
The Hand waits. When the fist glows, blood will follow.
Silva's chest tightened as he realized the truth. The watchers weren't waiting forever.
The next time he saw them… they would not be standing still.
They would be coming for him.