Digging Through a Trash Bin
Raymond didn’t rest for long.
Barely a minute had passed before he pushed himself off that human stool and started walking again—his body tired, but his will still burning.
Meanwhile, from fifty floors above, Michael stepped into the elevator. Calm. Composed. Slowly descending. He figured now might be his best shot—while Raymond’s stamina was still low.
By the time Raymond crossed into an empty plaza, Michael had already caught up.
They were maybe twenty meters apart now.
Raymond wasn’t paying attention. He just kept walking, shoulders heavy, eyes glazed.
Michael, on the other hand, scanned the area. Wide open space. No cover. No glass walls. Nothing overhead.
Not a great place to fight, he thought. If Raymond punched the ground, there’d be nowhere to dodge the shockwave.
Then Michael noticed something near a dumpster.
A man was digging through it—searching for bottles, cans, maybe scraps to recycle. He looked rough. Sunburned. Thin. Wore a pair of baggy gym shorts and a tattered undershirt.
It was Tom.
Michael casually walked over and crouched beside him—pretending to dig through trash, too. He didn’t want to blow his cover just yet. Raymond was still ahead, and Michael didn’t want to alert him.
Tom slowly turned and stared at Michael.
White dress shirt. Black slacks. Polished leather shoes. Gold-rimmed glasses. A briefcase in one hand.
A total outsider.
Tom didn’t say a word. He just gave Michael the most innocent, pitiful look imaginable. Like a puppy that just watched someone step on its food bowl.
Michael felt awkward. The guilt hit him fast—maybe because that stare was just… too human.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, and silently stuffed it into Tom’s shorts.
Tom didn’t flinch. No reaction. Just pocketed the cash and turned back to digging like nothing happened.
Didn’t even glance at Michael again.
And that—somehow—was worse.
Michael exhaled. At least the guilt faded a little.
Suddenly, the sound of Raymond’s footsteps echoed down the plaza.
Michael’s whole body tensed.
He turned and slipped toward a nearby wall—moving slow, careful, quiet.
Baddest Badass Rookie
Raymond continued down the alley. The place reeked—urine, rotting garbage, something unidentifiable. It was cramped, messy, and grimy. And every glass window he passed? Smashed to pieces with a single punch.
Michael followed from a distance, cautious. He studied the area—narrow, tight, surrounded by walls. A terrible spot for a fight. If Raymond used that ground-shattering punch here, it could easily take out everyone nearby.
Then he saw them: four young gangsters, kicking the crap out of a scrawny boy in pajamas with a dumb-looking bowl haircut. The kid was curled up, trying to protect his head. Michael had no idea who he was—but it was Benson.
Michael knew he couldn’t get any closer without getting spotted. So he did something unexpected.
He casually walked up to the group of gangsters.
One of them gave him a weird look.
“Yo, who the hell are you?”
“I just joined,” Michael replied flatly. “New recruit.”
Then—without skipping a beat—he crouched down, grabbed a dried-up, crusty piece of old dog crap off the ground, and stuffed it straight into Benson’s mouth.
Benson gagged and screamed.
“Please! I’m begging you! This tastes awful!”
The gangsters froze.
Then one of them muttered, “Holy shit…”
Another said, “Damn, this guy’s savage…”
“No hesitation, no remorse. That’s some next-level heartlessness.”
“He’s got the look too. Cold. Ruthless. I bet he’ll be a boss one day.”
Michael didn’t respond. He just wiped his hand clean—right on Benson’s pajama sleeve—and stood up silently.
At that moment, he spotted Raymond’s figure turning a corner and vanishing out of sight.
Without missing a beat, Michael slipped away—silent as ever—resuming his pursuit.
Behind him, the gangsters were still standing there, in awe of the cold-blooded newcomer.
They had no idea they’d just crossed paths with a top-tier professional.
And Benson?
Well… he was just a pit stop along the way.
Unexpected Third Wheel
They stepped out of the alley and onto a wide street.
Strangely quiet. No cars. No noise. Just… silence.
About fifteen meters behind Raymond, walking in the same direction, was a strange-looking couple.
The man? Looked like he was pushing eighty—dressed in a faded 1950s railroad worker uniform. Skin wrinkled, posture stiff, hair a mess. That was Lawson.
Holding his hand was a young woman with long, flowing hair and soft features. It was Monica—the delivery girl from a few days ago. Still glowing. Still innocent. Still way too young for him.
Michael noticed them immediately. The couple was on his left, just a few steps away.
Then it happened.
A girl walked past Raymond—heels clicking, eyeliner sharp, makeup compact in one hand.
She didn’t even look up.
But Raymond did.
Right as she passed him, his head snapped backward.
Michael flinched.
Oh shit.
Did he see me?
Without thinking, Michael lunged sideways—and grabbed Lawson’s hand.
Now Lawson was holding Monica’s hand with his left… and Michael’s with his right.
Just like that, they were suddenly walking as a trio—shoulder to shoulder—like some weird family out for a stroll.
Lawson turned to shout—
But something about Michael’s face made him freeze.
Those calm, sharp eyes behind the golden-rimmed glasses.
Brian.
It wasn’t Brian… but it felt like Brian. The Golden Eyes.
Lawson didn’t know Michael, but the trauma flashed in full force. He stiffened. Panicked.
Michael leaned in slightly—his voice low and dead serious:
“Don’t say a word. Don’t move. No sudden shit.
Or I’ll blow your head off, you old geezer.”
Lawson nodded fast. Swallowed hard. Then muttered—
“By the way… just so you know… I’m only eighteen.”
Michael didn’t even glance at him.
“Whatever.”
Monica looked over, confused—but caught a glimpse of Michael’s cold, calculated expression.
Something about it hit her.
It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t hate.
Just that tingling feeling again.
A tiny blush crept up her cheeks.
Then—
CRACK.
Raymond, still ahead of them, casually threw a backhanded punch—shattering the girl’s pocket mirror as she touched up her lips. Glass exploded in her hands.
She spun around, furious.
“What’s your problem, dude?!”
Raymond didn’t respond. Didn’t flinch. Just kept walking.
She didn’t follow.
Michael exhaled, quietly—
“Oh shit… safe.”
Raymond kept walking—right into the mouth of the subway station.
Michael instantly let go of Lawson’s hand like he’d just touched a live wire, then darted off—hopping the rail and diving into the stairwell behind Raymond.
Lawson and Monica stood frozen in place.
Hands still warm.
And heads spinning from the weirdest 10 seconds of their lives.
Awkward Small Talk
The subway station opened into a wide underground space. A huge concrete pit surrounded by columns and crisscrossing metal beams above. The setup would’ve been perfect for avoiding ground attacks—if not for the steel pillars connecting floor to ceiling. With Raymond’s shockwave punches, this whole place could shake itself apart. Not ideal.
As Raymond continued forward, a soft violin melody drifted through the air. It was… unexpectedly beautiful. A little sad. Kind of haunting.
Michael scanned the space—saw dancers, mimes, even a guy painting upside-down.
But then, right near the middle of the space—stood someone familiar.
Sean.
The self-declared Local Hero. White dress shirt halfway buttoned, red cape fluttering dramatically behind him. His chest proudly puffed out as he played a violin with full emotion.
Michael squinted.
There was no wind down here.
Then he saw it. A portable fan, buzzing just behind Sean.
Figures.
Sean had the violin tucked beneath his chin, fingers moving gracefully along the strings. His head tilted slightly—deep in the moment. It looked like something out of a movie.
Michael took the chance to blend in. He casually walked over, like they were old friends bumping into each other.
“Yo. Isn’t this our Local Hero? What’s a guy like you doing playing violin underground? Don’t heroes get paid?”
Sean didn’t stop playing but chuckled.
“I never got licensed, man. Technically I’m just a hero… for fun. This is more of a hobby.”
Michael widened his eyes.
“No way. What happened? Wait—don’t tell me… it’s because of those three years you did in jail? That show up in your background check or something?”
Sean immediately stopped playing. His expression soured.
“Hey, hey, hey. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you better shut it. You wanna get sued for slander?”
Michael just smiled and rubbed the back of his neck, playing it cool.
“My bad, man. Chill out. Just messing with you.”
Sean narrowed his eyes… but then laughed a little. Something about Michael felt easy to talk to—surprisingly chill for someone with a reputation for being cold and calculated.
He started to say,
“You know… maybe we could actually be friends—”
But before he finished the sentence, Michael’s expression shifted.
He spotted Raymond, already walking up the subway stairs, heading back to the surface.
Michael immediately turned, expression cold again, and walked away—without a word.
Sean blinked, stunned by the switch-up.
Michael didn’t look back.
In his mind: “I’m not really into this kind of awkward small talk.”
And just like that, he disappeared into the shadows—still trailing Raymond, silent as ever.
Robinson vs Raymond
They arrived at a park. Peaceful. Old folks strolled along the paths. A few young women jogged past in sports bras, earbuds in, lost in their own worlds.
Raymond and Michael kept walking.
Then, up ahead, they saw someone in the middle of an open clearing.
Red tank top. Black athletic pants. White sneakers. Slim build.
It was Robinson.
He stood alone, slowly waving his arms around in tight, elegant circles—like a slow-motion dance. He was practicing Tai Chi. His movements were steady, focused. Peaceful even.
Michael hid behind a nearby tree, one hand resting against the trunk. Half of his body concealed, eyes locked forward.
Suddenly, Robinson froze mid-movement.
He had spotted Raymond.
His expression turned dark.
Raymond—the man who had wrecked his shopping mall. The man who crippled his underlings. The man he had sworn to make pay.
Robinson stepped forward, voice steady but firm.
“Stop right there. You killed and maimed a lot of my guys the other day. Lucky for you, I was out of town.
But today… I’m here. And your luck just ran out.”
Raymond didn’t even look at him. Just kept walking.
Robinson gritted his teeth, spun twice on the spot, and launched himself into the air with a fierce spinning kick.
Raymond calmly raised one arm. Blocked it with his forearm. The blow deflected harmlessly.
Robinson crashed to the ground.
Raymond stepped forward and unleashed a barrage of concussion punches—a brutal combo, each punch like a miniature explosion.
But Robinson wasn’t shaken. His arms moved in smooth, controlled circles, dissipating each punch’s force with effortless Tai Chi deflection.
In his mind, Robinson was already analyzing the rhythm:
“This guy’s strong. Real strong. But his punches aren’t fast enough. I can follow his movement. I can handle this.”
Ten. Fifteen. Twenty strikes—all dissolved into the air like smoke.
Raymond paused, then lowered both arms. Calmly drove one massive fist into the ground.
BOOM.
A wave of concussive force burst outward like a ripple on water.
Robinson saw it coming.
He leapt into the air, flipping backward. As long as he wasn’t touching the ground, the energy couldn’t reach him.
It was working.
The ground trembled. Even Michael, standing fifty meters away, felt it. The tree beside him quivered.
“Goddamn,” Michael muttered. “Even from here, I can feel that.”
Robinson landed—light on his feet.
Then—
BOOM.
Raymond slammed his other fist into the ground.
Another shockwave.
Robinson had just touched down.
The concussive force surged through his legs, into his spine, rattling every cell in his body.
He froze.
Blood trickled from his ears, nose, mouth, and even the corners of his eyes. His knees buckled slightly, but he stayed upright—barely.
Raymond didn’t even glance at him. He knew it was over. He walked past, heading toward the park’s exit.
Michael followed.
As he passed Robinson, he spoke without stopping:
“You don’t have to act tough. There’s no one around. No gang. No audience.
Just fall, man. I know you can’t hold on anymore.”
Michael kept walking.
Behind him, Robinson’s eyes rolled back.
And then—
Thud.
His body collapsed. Face-first. A faint cloud of dust puffed up beneath him.
The Perfect Arena
After a few minutes of walking through the city, they finally arrived at their next stop—
a massive shopping mall.
Raymond walked in first, bare-chested now—his pink apron long gone, torn to pieces during the explosion. His skin was still bruised, ribs faintly exposed, but his posture was steady. He stepped through the front entrance like he owned the place.
Michael followed shortly after, passing through the rotating doors, his eyes sharp and scanning. He was keeping his distance. Still watching. Still tracking.
Right as he stepped inside, a familiar voice called out:
“Yo bro! Isn’t that Captain Lam? What brings you here?”
Michael turned and spotted a skinny figure in an oversized white lab coat—
Mildy.
His wild hair was flattened slightly by humidity, and his hands were stained with something you didn’t want to ask about. He pointed casually toward a blood-soaked puddle on the tiled floor, where a man lay sprawled and clearly very dead.
“Just wrapped up a bit of emergency surgery,” Mildy said, wiping his hands on his already-bloody coat. “A worker dude fell off an ad rack. Snapped his femur clean in half. I tried to help, y’know— I kinda accidentally… sliced his artery.”
He smiled faintly, like he’d overcooked a steak.
Michael blinked. “…Same old Mildy.”
But then his eyes drifted upward—to the steel frames holding up dozens of massive ad boards.
Now this… this was the perfect arena.
Strong overhead beams. Elevated supports. Plenty of places to leap and climb.
If Raymond fired off one of those AOE shockwave punches, there’d be plenty of spots to dodge—if you were fast enough.
Just then, a series of loud cracks echoed through the mall—
glass shattering.
Raymond had already started.
Michael turned sharply. “Mildy. Get out of here. Now.”
Mildy blinked, still processing.
“I said leave! Run. Don’t come back. GO.”
Finally snapping out of it, Mildy spun around like a startled rat and darted toward the exit—coat flapping behind him, eyes wide with panic.
Michael turned back toward the sound of destruction.
It was happening.
This was it. The stage was set.
And he and Raymond?
They were evenly matched.