The fight didn't end with the throw. The professional scrambled to his feet, eyes wild with embarrassment and rage. He came at Andrew like a thresher, punches flying in a chaotic blur.
But something had shifted. Andrew wasn't just defending anymore. He was enjoying it.
The world narrowed down to a single point of focus: the rhythm of violence. *Snap. Duck. Crunch.* Andrew wasn't thinking about spreadsheets or quarterly reviews. He was thinking about torque, leverage, and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.
A fist clipped his jaw, splitting his lip. Andrew grinned, his teeth stained red. He looked like a wild beast released from a cage of polite society.
He saw the opening—the fighter overextended on a right cross, leaving his chin unguarded.
*Now.*
Andrew didn't hesitate. He pivoted on his lead foot, his body whipping around like a coiled spring. His shin connected with the fighter's chin with a sickening *crack*. It was a perfect Muay Thai roundhouse, executed with the desperation of a man fighting for his soul.
The professional fighter didn't stagger; he just crumpled. His eyes rolled back, and he hit the dirt face-first, motionless.
Silence crashed into the alleyway, heavier than the noise had been. The bloodthirsty mob was stunned into mute shock. The gamblers lowered their cash. The shouting died in their throats.
The only sound remaining was the jagged, terrifying sobbing of the little girl.
Andrew stood over his opponent, chest heaving, knuckles raw. He wiped the blood from his lip and turned to the corner.
The Rhino was sitting there, a mountain of bruised flesh, his daughter burying her face in his massive side.
"Are you ready?" Andrew rasped, his voice rough with exhaustion. He walked over, towering over the sitting giant. "To listen to my story?"
The old man looked up. His eyes were open, but the shutters were down. He remained silent, his hand absentmindedly stroking the girl's hair. He didn't nod. He didn't speak. He just existed in the aftermath of pain.
Andrew waited. One second. Two. The silence stretched until it snapped his hope.
*He's too far gone,* Andrew thought, the adrenaline draining away, leaving him cold and aching. *I didn't find a crew member. I just stopped a murder.*
"Forget it," Andrew muttered. He picked up his bag, the leather strap feeling alien in his battered hand. "At least you're safe."
He turned his back on them, shoulders slumping. He had failed his first test. He wasn't a leader. He was just a guy who got into a street fight. He took a step towards the streetlights, ready to disappear back into the anonymity of the city.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over him. It was immense, swallowing his own shadow on the pavement whole. The air shifted, heavy and warm.
Andrew stopped. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.
A deep, gravelly voice rumbled from behind him, vibrating through the soles of his shoes.
"Bruce..." the voice said, slow and tectonic, like stones grinding together. "Bruce is the name of this old man."