The rest of them froze. Cigarettes slipped from fingers and hit the concrete with tiny sparks. Mouths hung half-open, some trembling. Fear rippled through the group like a cold wind blowing through a thin coat — sharp, sudden, undeniable. A few men instinctively stepped back without meaning to, like their bodies tried to protect them before their brains caught up.

Then someone finally found his voice — and lost it again in the same breath.

"FUCK! It's Arthur Kane!"

He half-screamed it, half-choked on it, the words breaking like glass in his throat.

The name hit the crowd like a bomb dropped right in their middle. Everything changed in an instant. Whatever swagger they had twisted into something uglier — panic hiding behind clenched teeth.

Anger bubbled up under their skin, desperate and shaky, the kind people use to cover fear they don't want anyone to notice. Some stepped forward like they wanted to prove they weren't scared. Others clenched their fists so hard their knuckles went white, trying to hold their courage together by force.

But fear was still there. Sitting heavy in their stomachs, twisting hard.

And when fear gets too loud, it turns into rage — because rage is easier to pretend with.

So they charged.

Arthur still didn't remove his hands from his pockets. Not even an inch. He shifted his weight by the smallest amount — a calm, almost lazy adjustment — like he was stepping around a puddle, not facing ten grown men sprinting at him with murder in their eyes.

They lunged in a chaotic wave of fists, boots, and shouts.

Arthur didn't block the first swing. He let it slide past him by a hair's width, the air brushing his cheek. Then his foot flicked sideways, tapping the attacker's knee at the exact right angle. The man didn't even scream — he just collapsed, legs folding like paper.

Another rushed behind him, arms wrapping around Arthur's shoulders. Arthur pivoted with the smallest twist of his torso, letting the man's momentum pull him forward. He guided the attacker straight into the wall, head-first. The thud echoed down the street, heavy and sickening.

A third man tried a full-body tackle from the front. Arthur's foot planted like he owned the ground beneath him. His knee shot up like a piston, striking with perfect timing. The man gagged, breath torn from his lungs, and crumpled.

Arthur moved like water slipping between rocks — no hesitation, no wasted motion. No unnecessary anger. Every strike was precise, cold, almost quiet. He didn't grunt, didn't shout, didn't even breathe harder. He was simply… efficient. It made him more terrifying than if he'd been screaming.

By the time dust settled — and it didn't take long — all ten men were on the ground. Some groaned in pain, clutching limbs that no longer worked. Others lay still, eyes dazed and unfocused. A few tried crawling away, dragging themselves like injured animals.

Arthur brushed a bit of dust off his sleeve — a slow, calm motion, like he'd simply bumped into a dirty railing. He glanced once, maybe half a second, at the mess behind him, then turned away with the same quiet confidence he walked in with.

His heartbeat hadn't even changed.

He stepped past the gate like the fight had been nothing more than a brief interruption in his evening.

Leon

Leon approached the back alley entrance with that loose, cocky swagger he liked to wear — the kind that looked casual on the outside but was tight with nerves beneath. He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, trying to bleed some tension out.

The alley ahead was lit by a twitching yellow bulb that buzzed like an angry insect. The light flickered over trash cans, broken bottles, and graffiti-stained walls, making everything look twice as grim and twice as dangerous.

Five or six guys lounged near the entrance like they owned it — smoking, laughing too loudly, claiming the space like stray dogs marking a corner. They looked big under the warped light. Their shadows stretched out long and mean across the wall.

Leon spotted them and smirked, slow and sharp. That grin wasn't empty bravado — it was Leon's way of stepping into the fight mentally before his body ever moved.

"Come on, pieces of shit," he said, voice bouncing off the brick walls like he'd thrown a rock into a still pond. Not scared. Not pretending. Just calling them out like he was inviting them to play.

The men turned, irritation flashing across their faces first, then surprise. They hadn't expected a teenager to walk right into their space with that kind of tone.

Leon didn't give them time to react.

He launched forward like a released spring. His fist smashed into the first man's nose, sending blood flying in a bright, messy arc. The second swung back — Leon's elbow met his chin mid-motion, cracking upward.

A third fumbled for a knife, hand shaking — Leon didn't let him finish the action. His knee slammed into the man's ribs, a hard, precise strike that stole the air from his lungs.

Leon fought like chaos had a personal schedule and he was running right on time. He shouted insults as he moved, the words tumbling out as fast as his punches. He wasn't trying to scare them — it was just how his adrenaline came out, raw and loud.

He didn't move gracefully. He didn't need to. He bulldozed through them — fists, elbows, knees, kicks — whatever angle he had, he used. Bodies hit the pavement one after another with thick, unpleasant thuds. Someone screamed. Someone else spit blood. Someone tried crawling away only to get kicked aside.

Within seconds, they were all down.

Leon stood in the middle of the alley, chest heaving, sweat making his skin shine under the flickering light. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his jawline, and let out a low chuckle.

"Too easy," he whispered, almost disappointed there wasn't more challenge.

Then he kept walking.

The deeper he went, the darker the alley became. Shadows thickened like someone had poured ink down the walls. It was quiet — too quiet. The air felt different here, colder, tighter.

Bodies lay scattered on the ground — more than he'd expected. Some unconscious, sprawled in awkward poses. Others rolled weakly, groaning, clearly beaten before Leon had arrived.

Leon crouched beside one man, eyes narrowing. The bruise pattern wasn't random. The clean arc on the ribs — sharp, controlled — wasn't the work of a sloppy street brawl.

Someone trained had been here.

And recently.

Leon's smirk faded, replaced by something harder, colder. His instincts sharpened immediately. The hairs on the back of his neck lifted.

He rose slowly, slipping a hand into his pocket, fingers brushing the cool metal of his phone just to ground himself. His breathing steadied. His muscles tightened without him asking them to.

Then—

A voice cut through the dark.

"Yo!"

The word bounced around the alley like a pebble thrown into a tunnel — simple, casual, but carrying too much weight.

Leon froze for half a second, then straightened completely.

His grin didn't come back this time.

His eyes narrowed, razor-sharp. His posture shifted just slightly — ready, coiled, alert.

The silence around him felt suddenly alive, as if something hidden in the dark had finally decided to step forward.

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