Couch, Smoke, and Easy Points
They say sometimes you don’t even need to move — the points just roll in.
Canello was sprawled out on the couch in his little mob hideout, eyes locked on the screen. Well, not TV exactly — more like a porn video running on loop. He bounced one leg lazily, cigarette hanging from his lips, looking more bored than entertained.
On his wrist, the digital watch glowed. The score underneath had already climbed to a solid two hundred.
A bunch of his underlings showed up, dragging in five or six middle-aged uncles and aunties with their hands and feet tied.
Canello barely shifted on the couch.
“So… you guys giving up or what?” he asked, voice lazy, almost bored.
The group nodded, muttering, “Alright, just let us go. We forfeit. You win.”
His watch gave a soft beep — six more points.
Canello glanced at the glowing numbers and let out a sigh.
“Man, scoring is way too easy these days. Haven’t even taken a single step all day.”
And just like that, he’d secured a spot in the final thirty-two.
One of the underlings eyed one of the aunties in the group.
“Boss,” he said to Canello, “this one’s got a real full figure. I like ’em big and plump. Mind if I… you know… take her?”
Canello didn’t even turn his head. He took a slow drag from his cigarette and said,
“Do what you want. Just don’t let it slow down your hunting. I want each of you bringing in at least ten people today.”
“No problem, boss,” the guy grinned. “I’m quick. Three minutes, tops.”
“Then get moving,” Canello said flatly.
The underling dragged the woman into a shadowy corner of the alley. Moments later, the air was split by the kind of animalistic screams you didn’t want to trace back.
Canello took another drag from his cigarette, eyes dropping to his watch.
Bored out of his mind, his thoughts drifted back to a winter years ago.
Snow and Shirts
He remembered the snow — thick, steady, swallowing the streets in white.
Back then, it was him, Sean, Robinson, and Robinson’s kid brother Grayson, all trailing behind Jason as they wandered down a snow-covered street.
Canello and Robinson had always been like sailors cut from the same cloth — same style, same grit. Every day, the two of them would square off, trading blows, pushing each other to the edge. Three, sometimes four hours at a stretch, hundreds of rounds, and still no clear winner.
One day, the snow was coming down in sheets. They were at it again — but this time, it started over a pack of fries. Robinson had snatched the longest fry without a second thought, and that was enough to light the fuse.
They went at each other in the McDonald’s parking lot, fists swinging, boots crunching in the snow, locked in for hours. By the time they were brawling near an old steamboat display, two familiar figures appeared.
Everyone else around was bundled up in heavy coats, but these two? White dress shirts, half the buttons undone, cold be damned — Jason’s chest muscles catching the snowflakes. And right beside him was Sean.
Jason, the boss of all three, stepped right between Canello and Robinson, sliding a long iron rod into the space between them.
“Enough! Stop fighting!” he barked.
They froze, panting clouds into the cold air.
Robinson eyed him curiously.
“Boss Jason… why the hell are you out here in this cold, wearing just one shirt?”
Jason shrugged, unfazed.
“It’s ’cause my pores are naturally small,” he said. “My body temperature never really rises, so I only fear the heat. Cold? Doesn’t bother me at all. Weather like this—this shirt is perfect.”
Beside him, Sean was shivering so hard his teeth chattered, lips cycling through colors — black, purple, white, almost transparent — then back to purple again. He looked ready to keel over, but still puffed out his chest and said through the tremors,
“I’m not cold either. I’m a man’s man. This kind of weather doesn’t affect me one bit.”
The King of Thieves
While the four of them were talking, a middle-aged man walked up. Martial arts uniform, black belt — everything about him screamed fighter. He stopped in front of them, and they all looked at each other, puzzled. Was he here to rob them? Couldn’t be — nobody in this city was dumb enough to rob them.
Then he said, “I’m here to rob you.”
One of them blinked. “Say what?”
In this town, just hearing their names made people’s knees buckle — and yet here was someone brazen enough to try and rob them.
The man sighed. “I lost everything in the stock market. All my savings, gone. Still owe the bank a fortune. So I’ve switched careers — I’m a robber now. People call me… the King of Thieves.”
Robinson and Canello didn’t even hesitate. They lunged at the same time, fists swinging in perfect sync. But the man dropped into a Taichi stance, hands spinning in wild loops. Their punches twisted off course — straight into each other’s faces. Both dropped to the ground, stunned.
Sean just stood there, too cold to move, trembling so hard he looked like he was vibrating. His lips went black, then purple, then white, then almost transparent, then back to purple again — on loop. He looked about one cycle away from death.
Jason stepped forward. “Alright. I’ll take your challenge. If you can beat us, I’ll give you all the money we have.”
Not that it was much — combined, they didn’t even have twenty bucks. They never paid for their meals anyway. The King of Thieves had clearly picked the worst targets possible.
Jason struck first, swinging his long iron staff in one clean arc. The martial artist spun midair, twirling his stick — but his swing went wide and slammed into a passing bystander, dropping the poor guy like he’d been sliced by a demon’s blade.
The King of Thieves nodded. “Impressive. That’s some serious power.”
Jason smirked. “You’re not bad yourself. Your footing’s solid.”
They traded a few more words of mutual respect, then stepped back into position.
Round two was about to begin.
Second Round
The King of Thieves made the first move in round two.
He spun twice in place, then launched himself into the air with a tornado kick. The force behind it was brutal.
Jason caught it on his left arm, but the impact still sent him skidding several meters across the icy ground — the slick surface turning his defense into an unplanned slide.
He jammed his iron staff into the ground to stop himself, the tip biting into the ice. Using the rebound, he shot forward like a spring-loaded spear, closing the gap in a single leap.
He slammed into the martial artist head-on — or at least, tried to. The King of Thieves twisted mid-spin, absorbing the hit and redirecting all of Jason’s momentum.
The next thing anyone saw was Jason hurtling sideways, smashing straight through McDonald’s glass wall in an explosion of shards.
Jason wasn’t just some street brawler — in this city, he was top-tier. Not quite an Elite Fighter, but the step right below it.
He slammed his staff into the ground, sending a shockwave rippling through the ice. The vibration shattered the surface and raced straight toward the King of Thieves’ feet.
The martial artist sprang aside just in time, dodging the burst. But Jason was already gone from sight — only to reappear behind him in a blur.
The staff came down in a crushing arc. The King of Thieves swung his arms in frantic circles, catching the blow just enough to drain its force. But with no time to redirect it, all he could do was bleed off the power and keep from being flattened.
But that swing from Jason’s staff? It was just a feint. Barely a fraction of his real power was in it.
The rest — the real force — was already coiled in his left fist.
So while the King of Thieves was busy neutralizing the push from the staff, Jason’s punch came from the blind side. One clean blow, straight through the man’s chest.
The martial artist froze, blood spilling from his mouth.
“You… really are strong,” he managed to say — and then collapsed on the spot.
Back to the Present
The four of them acted like nothing had happened. Without a word, they each grabbed a limb of the martial artist’s body and casually tossed it onto a heap of trash by the roadside. Then they turned and walked away.
As they left, Robinson noticed something sliding out from inside the man’s clothes — a thin book with bold black characters across the cover: Tai Chi Chuan: The Secrets of Tai Chi. He stuffed it into his pocket without hesitation.
That book changed everything. After that day, Robinson went home and studied it obsessively. Day after day, he drilled every move until the style became second nature.
Back then, he and Canello had been evenly matched in strength and speed. But once Robinson mastered Tai Chi, the balance shattered — Canello could no longer touch him. Over the years, their sparring sessions simply stopped. Not because they didn’t want to train together, but because there was no point anymore.
Canello also remembered something else from that time — the very next day, Sean had gotten sick. Spent two whole weeks in bed, unable to get up. All because he’d seen Jason strutting around in that thin shirt and decided to copy him, thinking it looked cool. Instead, he froze himself half to death. They’d gotten him to the hospital just in time; otherwise, he might not have made it.
And then — snap — we’re back in the present.
Canello sat smoking, eyes locked on the screen in front of him. The woman on screen was moaning, the man’s hips moving rhythmically, but none of it registered. He wasn’t watching the video at all. He was thinking about when it was that he first started losing to Robinson.
Just then, a few more underlings came in, hauling another batch of bound contestants into the hideout.
Among them was a face Canello knew well — Norman. Even his hands and feet were tied up tight.
Norman looked at Canello with wide, innocent eyes, as if to say I have no idea how this happened.
Canello stared back, equally baffled. Norman was supposed to be one of the strong ones. How the hell could someone like him get caught?
Norman’s Rescue
Norman finally spoke up, his voice flat with boredom.
“Man, here’s what happened. I was bored, so I just lay down on my belly on the sidewalk, like a dog, right next to an electric pole. Fell asleep there. Next thing I know, I wake up all tied up. That’s it. That’s the whole story.”
Canello’s face lit up with excitement.
“Everyone else can surrender,” he said, “but not you, Norman.”
Opportunities to beat down someone this strong didn’t come often. And Canello was not about to waste the rare chance to give Norman the thrashing of a lifetime.
Norman sighed, shaking his head. “Oh, shit… you’re not seriously gonna beat me up, are you?”
He didn’t even get to finish before Canello’s fist smashed into his face, swelling it instantly. Canello pulled back for another punch — but a steel staff suddenly came down between them, blocking the blow.
On the other side stood Dave, with a pack of scrappy little dogs growling at his heels.
Norman blinked. “How the hell did you even find me?”
“Easy,” Dave said. “I saw a few dogs on the street and told them to find you. They sniffed around, went straight to you. I’ve got no clue what they were saying, but I just followed them — and here we are.”
Before Canello could react, Dave launched a flying kick that slammed into his chest. The impact sent Canello crashing into the window, coughing up blood against the glass.
“You’d better surrender,” Dave said coldly. “You’re not our match.”
Canello just laughed. “Over my dead body.”
He turned and leapt out the window, forgetting it was the fifth floor. The fall ended with a brutal thud, and by the time they looked down, he was already being carried away.
Canello’s watch went dark — tournament disqualification. Dave’s watch beeped, adding a single point to his score.
He untied Norman, and the two exchanged a look.
“Let’s find a good steakhouse,” Dave said.
Norman grinned. “Yeah — and then dine and dash.”