THE IRON FIST đ
Chapter Seven: Blood in the Bookshop
The rain hadn't stopped all day. It came down in endless sheets, hammering the streets of Florida until the gutters overflowed and the sky looked bruised. Silva walked with his hood pulled low, his bandaged ribs aching under the weight of each step.
He should have gone home straight after training with Chennai. But home wasn't safety anymore. Home was just walls, too thin to hold back the shadows that hunted him.
Instead, he went to the one place that still smelled of peace: his mother's bookshop.
The bell over the door jingled softly as he stepped inside. Warmth wrapped around him immediately, the air thick with the scent of paper, ink, and dust. The store was small, but every corner was crammed with shelves stacked high. His mother always said that books were her soldiers, and every shelf was an army waiting to fight back against the world's ignorance.
She looked up from the counter when he entered. Her smile broke through the gloom like light.
"You're late," she said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.
"Yeah," Silva muttered, forcing a small grin. "Lost track of time."
Her eyes lingered on him, sharp enough to see the stiffness in his movements, the shadows under his eyes. But she said nothing. Instead, she poured him tea from the kettle she kept behind the counter.
"Drink," she insisted. "You look frozen."
Silva sat by the window, listening to the rain drum on the glass. For a moment, he let himself believe he was just another boy in another bookstore, sipping tea while the storm raged outside.
But then he felt it.
That pressure. That silence.
The same unnatural stillness that had haunted him in the alley.
His fist twitched beneath the table, glowing faintly yellow.
The shop bell jingled again.
Silva's head snapped up.
Three men entered. Cloaked in black. Their movements too smooth, too precise. Rain dripped from their masks, their red eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.
The Hand.
Silva's heart slammed in his chest. His mother noticed nothing at first. She offered them a polite smile.
"Good evening," she said. "Looking for anything in particular?"
None of them spoke.
They moved down the aisle silently, their gloved fingers grazing the spines of books. Silva watched every step, his gut screaming.
Then one of them drew a blade.
It gleamed under the shop's weak light, cruel and hungry.
"Momâ!" Silva shouted.
The first strike came fast.
Shelves toppled as the assassin lunged across the room, slicing through the wooden counter. Books flew into the air, pages tearing like screams.
His mother cried out, stumbling back.
Silva was already moving. His fist blazed yellow, brighter than ever before, the glow painting the shop walls in violent light. He slammed it against the attacker's chest, sending him flying into a shelf. Wood splintered, books rained down.
His mother froze, eyes wide with horror.
"SilvaâŠ" she whispered. "Your handâ"
But there was no time.
The second assassin leapt at him, blade flashing. Silva blocked with his arm, pain ripping through his wound. He gritted his teeth and struck back, his glowing fist smashing into the blade. The steel shattered, fragments scattering across the floor.
The man hissed, retreating.
The third assassin circled toward his mother.
"No!" Silva roared. He surged forward, fist blazing, but the shelves blocked his path. He crashed through them, wood splintering under his strike.
The assassin had already reached her. His blade rested at her throat.
"Step closer," the masked man said coldly, "and she dies."
Silva froze, chest heaving, sweat mixing with rainwater dripping from his hood. His glowing hand shook violently, begging to strike.
His mother's eyes locked on his. She wasn't afraid for herself â she was afraid for him.
"Run," she mouthed.
But Silva couldn't.
The assassin pressed the blade harder against her skin, drawing a thin line of blood.
"The flame does not belong to you," the man whispered. "It will be extinguished."
Something inside Silva snapped.
He didn't think. He didn't breathe. He just moved.
His fist blazed brighter than ever, yellow fire flooding the shop. The light seared through the shelves, casting monstrous shadows on the walls. He leapt forward, every muscle screaming, and struck.
The assassin barely had time to react.
Silva's fist connected with his chest. The impact shook the shop like an earthquake. The masked man flew backward, crashing into the window. Glass exploded outward, the storm swallowing his body as it fell into the street below.
The other two hesitated, their glowing eyes narrowing. One dragged his fallen comrade out of the rubble, while the other carved a symbol into the wall with his blade.
A message.
Written in Silva's blood.
THE FLAME WILL DIE.
Then they vanished, slipping into the storm like ghosts.
The shop was ruined. Shelves lay in splinters, books shredded across the floor. Blood and glass mixed with rainwater, pooling on the tiles.
Silva stood shaking, his glowing fist flickering weakly, his chest heaving as if he had swallowed fire.
His mother stared at him. Her face was pale, her lips trembling.
"YouâŠ" she whispered. "Your hand. It wasâ"
He looked down at the glow, ashamed. "I didn't want you to see. Not like this."
She stepped closer, her fingers brushing his bloodied knuckles. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she pulled him into her arms.
"You are born to be a savior," she whispered fiercely. "But saviors bleed, Silva. And tonight, you bled for me."
Silva's throat burned. He wanted to believe her. But when he looked at the message carved into the wall, his stomach turned to ice.
The Hand wasn't finished.
This was only the beginning.
And the next time they came⊠they wouldn't leave him alive.