The sound of shattering glass exploded.
The thugs swung their baseball bats at the restaurant's windows. Glass shards flew everywhere, the sign got knocked crooked, and the door frame caved in from kicks.
The old woman rushed outside.
"Stop! Please stop!"
Her voice trembled, hands stretched forward, trying to stop them.
"This is my only livelihood! The only thing my husband left me! Please!"
One thug stopped, looked at her, then laughed.
"Old hag, get lost."
He shoved her.
The old woman staggered backward, nearly falling, but rushed back and grabbed his arm.
"No! You can't do this! Without this restaurant I'll die!"
The thug shook off her hand. The others had already charged inside.
Tables flipped, chairs smashed, menus torn off the walls and ripped to shreds. From the kitchen came the sound of pots and dishes crashing.
The old woman stumbled into the shop and ran straight to Yoo In-yeong.
She dropped to her knees.
"Please! Make them stop! I'll sign! I'll sign anything!"
Her forehead hit the floor, again and again.
"Please! This is everything I have! Please!"
Yoo In-yeong looked down at her, face expressionless.
"Now you want to beg? Too late."
She turned and walked toward the door. The thugs kept destroying everything.
Joe Yabuki stood in place.
His fists clenched, fingers white from the pressure. But his hands were shaking, his whole arm trembling.
'Move.'
He gritted his teeth.
'Move already!'
His body felt heavy, like it was filled with lead. His legs wouldn't obey, vision blurring.
'Damn it...'
He bit through his lip. The taste of blood spread in his mouth.
His heart pounded, but his body refused to respond.
The old woman's crying continued.
A thug walked up to her and kicked away her outstretched hand.
"Annoying."
Another thug swung his bat at the kitchen refrigerator. The sound of denting metal was ear-splitting.
The old woman scrambled up and threw herself in front of the thugs, arms spread wide.
"If you want to destroy my shop, you'll have to kill me first!"
The thugs stopped, looked at each other, then laughed.
"Old hag, you think we won't?"
One of them raised his baseball bat, aiming for the old woman's head.
The old woman closed her eyes, body trembling, but didn't back down.
The bat fell.
But it didn't connect.
A hand caught the bat.
The old woman opened her eyes and saw a small back in front of her.
That back wasn't tall or broad, but it just stood there.
Ahead, the thug who'd raised the bat was on his knees, clutching his stomach, blood pouring from his mouth.
Joe Yabuki's right hand was still in a punching position.
His hand was shaking, but that punch had been clean.
At five foot nine, he wasn't tall. As a retired bantamweight boxer, his weight wasn't much either.
But in his prime, Joe Yabuki had been called the Messenger of Hell.
23 matches, 17 wins, all by knockout.
That told you one thing.
In his prime, Joe Yabuki had been a different class of predator.
And a predator, even old and sick, was still a predator.
The thugs froze.
A chill ran up their spines. They could feel they'd provoked something they shouldn't have.
But that fear quickly faded.
After all, there were nine of them and only one opponent. Plus the opponent had to protect an old woman.
Joe stood in front of the old woman, not looking back. "Don't worry. I'll handle this."
The old woman opened her mouth but couldn't speak.
The thugs laughed.
"Who do you think you are? Bruce Lee?"
"A sick bastard trying to play hero?"
"Boys, waste him."
Joe said nothing.
He rolled his neck. His fingers trembled, but his eyes were calm.
'Eight people.'
The thugs closed in from all sides.
The first one charged forward swinging his bat straight at Joe's head.
Joe sidestepped. The bat grazed his scalp and missed.
Left straight.
His fist smashed into the man's nose. Blood exploded.
The man hit the ground and didn't move.
'Seven.'
Two rushed him from left and right simultaneously.
Joe stepped back. The knife from the right one slashed his shoulder, tearing his clothes, blood seeping from the cut.
He ignored the wound. His left hand grabbed the man's wrist, right fist hammering into his temple.
The man went limp.
'Six.'
The left one's bat was already at his face.
Joe had no time to dodge.
He raised his left arm to block. The bat crashed into his forearm with a sickening crunch.
'Shit.'
He clenched his teeth. Right hook straight to the man's jaw.
The man's head snapped back, body flying backward, crashing into a table.
'Five.'
Joe's breathing grew labored.
Pain shot through his arm, vision blurring. His depth perception was failing. Distance felt wrong.
The remaining five didn't rush in alone.
They spread out, forming a circle.
"He's done."
"All at once. Don't give him time to breathe."
All five moved together.
Joe saw them coming, but his body reacted a half-beat too slow.
A bat struck his back. He stumbled forward.
Another bat swept at his knee.
Joe dropped to one knee, right hand bracing against the floor.
'Get up...'
A kick to his ribs.
'Get up now!'
His vision swam. His stomach spasmed.
A thug walked up to him and raised his bat.
"That's it?"
The bat fell.
Joe's head snapped up. Left hand grabbed the bat, right fist shot upward.
Corkscrew punch.
His fist drilled into the man's abdomen, force spiraling like a drill. The man's eyes bulged, body folding like a shrimp as he collapsed coughing blood.
'Four.'
Joe stood, swaying.
One thug circled behind the old woman, grabbed her hair, and pressed a knife to her throat.
"Don't move! Move and I'll gut her!"
Joe stopped.
The old woman burst into tears. "Don't worry about me! Run!"
The thug grinned. "See? You can't protect shit."
The other three thugs seized the opportunity and closed in.
A bat struck Joe's shoulder. He tilted sideways.
Another bat swung at his head.
Joe ducked. The bat grazed his hair and hit the face of the thug behind him.
That man screamed and fell.
'Three.'
Joe spun around. Left hook to the nearby thug's temple.
The man's eyes rolled back. He collapsed.
'Two.'
The last standing thug held his bat but didn't dare advance.
Joe stared at him, walking forward step by step.
The man backed away, bat trembling in his hands.
"Don't... don't come closer..."
Joe rushed forward. Right straight to the man's face.
The man flew backward, hit the wall, and slid down.
'One.'
Joe turned toward the thug holding the old woman hostage.
The knife in the man's hand trembled.
"You... don't come closer! I'll really stab her!"
Joe didn't stop.
His steps were slow but steady.
"Let her go."
"I said don't fucking come closer!"
The thug's voice cracked.
Joe took another step.
The thug broke. He shoved the old woman aside and slashed at Joe.
Joe sidestepped. The knife tore his shirt, grazing his ribs.
He didn't retreat.
Left jab to the nose. Right hook to the gut. Final uppercut to the chin.
The man's body left the ground, crashed hard, and went still.
'Zero.'
Joe stood there, gasping for air.
Injuries covered his body, blood soaking through his clothes. His right arm barely lifted, legs shaking.
But he was still standing.
Yoo In-yeong was stunned.
She looked at the nine bodies on the floor, then at the blood-covered Joe, face pale.
She slowly backed away, turning to run.
Joe walked over and blocked the door.
"Ms. Yoo, after all this, you think you can just leave?"
Yoo In-yeong stopped, voice trembling. "You... you know what you're doing? Smile Capital won't let this go! They'll kill you!"
Joe said nothing, just kept walking forward.
Blood dripped from his face—mostly the thugs', but some his own.
It was late at night, the air cold. With each word, white mist puffed from his mouth.
"I."
One step.
"Don't."
Another step.
"Care."
Yoo In-yeong backed against the wall. Nowhere left to go.
"Wait! I can give you money! My boss appreciates people like you! He'll give you a position, give you whatever you want!"
Joe shook his head.
"Don't need it."
He raised his right fist.
Yoo In-yeong screamed. "No—"
Right straight.
His fist hit her face. Her body went limp, hit the wall, and slid down.
Joe stood there, looking at the fallen Yoo In-yeong.
Not because she wasn't beautiful, but because in his eyes, there were only two kinds of people.
Himself, and his opponent.
Who the opponent was, what gender, what status—none of it mattered.
His fist only knew one thing.
Knock out the opponent.
Joe took a deep breath, then his legs buckled. He dropped to his knees.
He braced against the floor, trying to stand, but his body wouldn't obey.
His vision blurred, ears ringing.
The old woman ran over.
"Young Joe! Young Joe!"
Her voice grew distant.
Joe collapsed. His eyes closed.
***
He didn't know how long it had been.
Joe opened his eyes to see a white ceiling.
His body hurt everywhere. His head felt like it was splitting.
He slowly sat up and saw the old woman sitting in a chair beside the bed, head resting on the back, asleep.
This was a hospital.
Outside the window, it was still dark.
Joe looked at the old woman, stayed quiet for a moment, then lay back down, staring at the ceiling.
'Seriously...'
His right hand was still shaking.
But this time, he smiled.