THE IRON FIST 👊
Chapter Five: First Blood
The night was too quiet.
Florida's streets usually hummed with noise — car horns, drunken laughter, sirens in the distance. But tonight, silence hung like a trap. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Silva felt it before he saw it. A pressure in the air, heavy, suffocating. His glowing fist pulsed inside his pocket, like a warning heartbeat.
He wasn't alone.
He had just left Chennai's basement. His ribs ached from training; sweat clung to his skin. He was too tired to think, too weary to fight. But the silence forced his nerves awake. Every corner seemed sharper. Every shadow deeper.
Then he heard it.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Soft footsteps. Not hurried, not careless. Deliberate. Calculated.
He turned into the alley — the same one he had been bullied in for years. A cruel symmetry.
And there they were.
Three masked figures, cloaked in black. Their eyes glowed red through the slits of their masks. They moved like liquid shadow, blades gleaming at their sides.
The Hand.
Silva's throat tightened. His body screamed to run. But his feet froze in place.
One of them stepped forward. His voice was low, distorted, crawling under Silva's skin.
"The boy carries the flame."
Another replied, colder. "Then the boy must bleed."
The first strike came fast. A blade whistled through the air. Silva barely ducked, the steel grazing his cheek. Pain seared hot as blood trickled down his face.
Instinct took over. His fist flared yellow, blinding in the dark. He swung blindly, the glow cracking against the wall and sending sparks through the alley. The Hand recoiled — but only for a second.
They came at him together.
Silva blocked one strike with his arm, but another slashed across his shoulder. He screamed, stumbling back, his glowing fist shaking with uncontrolled power. He swung again, this time connecting with one attacker's chest.
The impact thundered.
The man flew backward, slamming against the brick wall. The glow burned through his armor, leaving a smoking imprint shaped like Silva's fist.
The man didn't rise.
For the first time, Silva realized the truth: his power could kill.
And the others knew it too.
"Dangerous," one hissed. "Untrained."
"Break him."
They attacked again, faster this time. Silva's blood roared in his ears. Every strike rattled his bones, every dodge barely saving him. He wasn't fighting men — he was fighting predators.
But beneath the fear, something awakened. A rhythm.
Chennai's voice echoed in his head: Pain teaches you. Fear sharpens you. Use it.
Silva gritted his teeth. He stopped retreating. He planted his feet.
When the next blade came down, his glowing fist met it.
The steel shattered.
The Hand staggered back, stunned. Silva's fist pulsed brighter, burning hotter. His heart and the glow beat as one.
He struck again, slamming the second attacker into the ground. The pavement cracked under the force.
But before he could breathe, a sharp sting pierced his side.
The third assassin had cut him deep.
Silva gasped, clutching his wound. Blood poured between his fingers. His vision blurred.
The assassin leaned close, whispering through the mask. "This is only the beginning."
Then they vanished. Just like that. Shadows dissolving into the night.
Silva collapsed against the wall, his glowing fist flickering weakly. His breath came ragged, shallow. His blood painted the alley red.
He had survived. But barely.
And as his vision dimmed, he saw something worse.
On the rooftop above, more red eyes glowed in the dark. Watching. Waiting. Counting his breaths.
Silva understood then.
Tonight was not victory.
It was a warning.