The streetlights flickered on, casting long, wavering shadows across the deserted road. Evening had settled in, cloaking the city in a quiet, expectant hush. Andrew, Keal, and Jack moved in silence, their footsteps echoing softly against the cracked pavement. The air was thick with unspoken tension, a weight that pressed on their chests.
"I actually wanted to go talk to the middle schoolers myself," Andrew suddenly said, breaking the silence. His voice was low but determined.
Keal shot him a sideways glance, a hint of concern flickering in his eyes. "After the brick incident? Your mom's already worried. If you went with us , she'd probably lock you inside."
Jack chuckled softly, trying to lighten the mood. "Relax. Keal handled it fine. That speech alone probably scared all gangs straight.
Andrew offered a faint smile, but his eyes remained focused ahead. "Fear wasn't the point," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
They continued walking, the street stretching out before them. Suddenly, they came to a halt.
At the alley's end, three figures stood motionless, blocking their path. Shadows cloaked their forms—black hoodies pulled tight, hands hidden beneath dark sleeves, faces swallowed by darkness.
Andrew felt it immediately—the shift. An almost imperceptible change in the air. The way the atmosphere grew tense, the sound around them seeming to contract inward.
"This street was empty," Jack muttered, voice tense.
More movement—behind trash bins, from doorways, at the far end of the alley. One by one, figures emerged, closing the gap without a word. The alley became a trap.
Keal swallowed hard. "This feels… planned," he said quietly.
Andrew's eyes scanned the scene—no clear exits, no way out. Just a tight circle of enemies.
Then, a figure stepped forward. Hood tilted back slightly, revealing a cold smile, eyes glinting with menace.
"Waiting's over," he said, voice smooth but dangerous. "Showtime."
Andrew's chest tightened, a familiar, primal instinct stirring within him. Old memories, old fears, resurfacing.
The man's gaze shifted, narrowing as he looked directly at Keal.
"So," he said, voice calm but threatening, "which one of you is Keal?"
Silence stretched thin. Then a quiet, mocking laugh echoed from the shadows.
"My friend here's been talking," the man continued, voice dripping with disdain. "Meetings with middle schoolers. Telling them not to fear us."
His smile faded slightly, replaced by cold resolve.
"My boss, Sojo, didn't like that."
The circle closed in further. Tension snapped taut.
"He said—beat Keal," the man ordered.
Another step forward. The threat clear.
"And make an example."
Keal exhaled slowly, shoulders squared. His voice was steady but resolute.
"This has nothing to do with them."
Andrew immediately turned to Keal, concern flashing in his eyes. But Keal shook his head, a quiet determination in his stance.
"I'm the one you want," he said firmly.
The man nodded slowly, a cruel smile curling on his lips.
"Good."
He snapped his fingers. Instantly, chaos erupted.
The first kick landed squarely on Keal's side, folding him sideways. Keal gasped, air bursting from his lungs as he staggered back.
Andrew reacted instinctively—hands grabbing shoulders, slamming him into the wall. But a voice—calm, almost soothing—whispered near his ear.
"Don't," it urged. "Try to be a hero."
Jack swung wildly, trying to intervene, but another man caught his arm, wrenching it painfully behind his back. The alley echoed with the sounds of struggle.
Andrew's gaze locked on Keal, who was on the ground, winded but defiant.
"Stop!" Andrew shouted, voice cracking with desperation.
Another kick—Keal went down, then more boots followed. The assault was brutal, relentless. Andrew's heart pounded—fear, rage, helplessness all swirling into a single focus.
A man bent down, lifting a metal rod, weighing it in his palm.
"I'm sorry," he said casually, eyes cold. "Orders are orders."
He raised the rod, the threat clear.
"I have to break his hand."
A sharp, internal snap ignited within Andrew—not rage, but decision. A surge of resolve.
He drove his heel backward, the crack of bone echoing through the alley. The grip on his shoulders faltered for a split second.
That moment was enough.
Andrew lunged forward with a punch, connecting with the man's jaw. The rod-wielding figure was lifted off the ground and slammed into the wall, metal clattering to the pavement.
The alley erupted into chaos.
Andrew moved—precise, controlled, not wild. A strike to the throat—breath cut off. A sweep that knocked two bodies to the ground hard. A final blow—someone skidded across the concrete and didn't get up.
He staggered, catching himself against the wall, breathing heavily. His hands trembled slightly, then steadied.
He looked down at them—steady, controlled.
Then at Keal, who was trying to sit up, coughing weakly.
"I'm here," Andrew said softly, kneeling beside him. "You're okay."
Keal forced a grin, blood on his lips.
"…Man," he muttered, voice hoarse, "you hit hard."
Jack limped over, eyes wide as he looked at the fallen men—then at Andrew.
No words were spoken. They simply turned and walked home in silence, each step heavy with unspoken memories.
But Andrew knew. Deep down, he knew this was just the beginning.
Whatever had been set in motion tonight wouldn't stay quiet for long.
And the real fight was only just beginning.
Night deepened over the sprawling city, shadows stretching long across rain-washed streets. The air was thick with the scent of wet asphalt and distant car horns, a restless hum that never quite settled.
High above the chaos, on the edge of a rooftop slick with rain, a lone figure stood motionless. His back was turned to the glowing neon lights that flickered intermittently, casting a fractured glow across the darkened sky. His coat fluttered gently in the wind, the fabric rippling like a flag of quiet authority.
Sojo gazed over the cityscape as if it belonged to him—an empire of concrete and neon, all under his silent rule.
Behind him, one of his men knelt, head bowed low, breaths ragged and uneven. Fresh bruises darkened his face, a testament to the recent confrontation. His body trembled slightly, exhaustion and fear etched into every movement.
"…It didn't go as planned," the man said carefully, breaking the heavy silence. His voice was strained, cautious. "The kid wasn't normal."
Sojo didn't turn. His posture remained relaxed, almost indifferent, but there was a flicker of sharpened focus in his stance.
"He moved differently," the man continued, voice trembling a little. "Not like a fighter. Not angry. Not sloppy. He was… precise. Like he already knew how to dismantle us."
A pause. The wind swept across the rooftop, carrying the distant, muffled sound of traffic—a ceaseless lull that contrasted sharply with the tension hanging in the air.
"So he's the one," Sojo said at last, his tone calm, almost bored. As if the revelation was merely a passing curiosity.
The man hesitated, then added, "Andrew. That's his name."
Sojo finally turned, his face relaxed—too relaxed. That unsettling calm that suggested he wasn't worried, not even surprised. His eyes gleamed faintly in the darkness, assessing, calculating.
"Send word," he commanded softly. "Pull everyone back."
The man looked up, confusion flickering across his face. "Boss… shouldn't we—?"
"I said pull them back," Sojo repeated, voice steady and unwavering.
The man swallowed hard, nodding. "Yes, sir."
He hesitated again, then asked cautiously, "What about the kid?"
Sojo stepped closer to the rooftop's edge, his gaze drifting downward toward the city streets. The neon glow cast shadows across his face, but his expression remained composed, unreadable.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.
"I'll handle him myself."
The city lights flickered again, as if the darkness itself was responding to his words. Somewhere below, Andrew lay awake, unaware that his name had just crossed a line from which there was no return.
The night held its breath, waiting—knowing that the storm was only just beginning.