The next morning, sunlight pried Andrew's eyes open. He woke with a sharp intake of breath, his ribs protesting the movement. Every inch of his body ached, a dull, throbbing reminder of the previous night's brutality. He was in a cheap motel room, the sheets scratchy and smelling of stale cigarette smoke.
*Bruce,* he thought, the name cutting through the morning fog. He sat up, panic spiking. Had he dreamt it? Had he walked away?
Then he saw it. On the scarred bedside table, next to his room key, was a piece of scrap paper. Written in heavy, block letters was an address.
Andrew showered quickly, the hot water stinging his cuts, and forced down a greasy breakfast at a nearby diner. By the time he hit the streets, the sun was high and unforgiving. The city was a humid oven. Sweat plastered his shirt to his back as he navigated the maze of concrete, stopping to ask directions from locals who looked through him rather than at him.
Hours passed. The heat was relentless. Just as he was about to give up, he found it.
It wasn't a street. It was a narrow fissure between two crumbling apartment buildings, barely wide enough for a man to walk through. A hidden vein in the city's heart.
Andrew squeezed through the alley, the brick walls scraping his shoulders. He emerged into a different world.
It was a small, secluded courtyard, reclaimed by nature. Ivy strangled the brickwork of a small, old house. Wildflowers burst through cracks in the concrete. It was quiet here, the roar of the city muffled to a distant hum.
And there he was.
Bruce sat on a creaking wooden chair in the center of the garden, looking like a statue carved from granite. He was watching a little girl running through the tall grass, chasing white butterflies with joyous, clumsy leaps.
Bruce turned his head slowly. His eyes were clear today, the fog of the fight gone.
"Oh," Bruce rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "You came... boy. Come inside."
The little girl froze mid-run. She spun around, her eyes widening as they landed on Andrew. A bright, gap-toothed smile split her face.
"It's the handsome uncle!" she squealed, abandoning the butterflies to rush toward him. She grabbed Bruce's massive arm, shaking it. "See, Papa? The handsome uncle who saved Papa! He went boom! Boom!"
She threw a series of punches at the air, mimicking Andrew's Muay Thai moves with adorable, wobbly enthusiasm. She added a high kick that nearly toppled her over.
Andrew felt the heat rise in his cheeks, a blush that had nothing to do with the sun. He rubbed the back of his neck, managing a pained, embarrassed smile.
He crouched down, wincing as his bruised ribs complained, until he was eye-level with the child.
"You've got a mean right hook," Andrew said softly. "What is your name, little warrior?"