Ramen Above the Chaos
It was a typical noisy afternoon at the mall’s food court.
The air was thick with oil smoke and the sound of kitchen exhaust fans. Neon signs flickered above ramen stalls, burger stands, and fried chicken counters. People bustled in and out—until chaos struck.
In one corner, a nearly naked man sat quietly at a table.
He wore nothing but a pair of pink triangle-shaped women’s underwear.
His body was absurd—like someone had photoshopped muscle onto muscle.
He sat still, focused, slowly eating a bowl of ramen.
This was Dave.
The man known throughout the city as The Underwear.
But elsewhere in the mall, two street gangs had erupted into a full-on brawl.
One side was led by Canelo, loud and aggressive, backed by his reckless crew.
The other side—Robinson’s gang—was fighting to take over protection of the mall.
Tables flipped, soda machines exploded, food trays flew through the air. Shoppers screamed and ran in every direction.
Amid the chaos, one of Canelo’s underlings was grabbed by the neck and flung like a ragdoll—crashing directly into Dave’s chair, shattering it into pieces.
CRACK.
The stool broke.
But Dave didn’t move.
Even with the seat gone, he continued sitting in the exact same position, floating in the air like nothing had happened.
Still eating ramen. Still calm.
Like Buddha. But buffer. And in panties.
The gang fight raged on.
Chairs were thrown. Bottles smashed. The air smelled like sweat, fear, and miso broth.
But Dave?
He stayed right there—levitating on pure muscle and inner peace.
Eventually, Canelo noticed.
Everyone else had run.
The food court was empty.
But that one dude… was still sitting there.
Still eating ramen.
Still terrifyingly unmoved.
Canelo, blood on his lip and irritation in his voice, stomped over.
“Hey! We’re fighting over here!
What the hell are you doing still sitting there eating noodles?
You got a death wish or something?”
He came closer, ready to scare this idiot off.
But when he got a good look—his steps slowed.
His smirk faded.
Dave… had no chair.
He was just squatting in mid-air, in a perfect sitting posture—legs bent at a perfect right angle, back straight, arms steady—like he was still sitting on a stool that no longer existed.
Canelo blinked.
“Bro… how long have you been like that?”
Dave looked up casually, slurping the last of the noodles.
“Hmm? About… twenty, maybe thirty minutes.”
Canelo took a step back.
That wasn’t something a human body should be able to do.
That wasn’t balance. That was some kind of muscle demon sorcery.
The man had been hovering in a perfect sit position, without a chair, for half an hour—just to eat his noodles.
Canelo vs. The Underwear
Canelo raised a hand toward Robinson and shouted across the food court:
“Hey! Time out! Just gimme a sec—I need to take care of something. This idiot over here is really messing with my eyes.”
Robinson paused mid-punch, then raised both hands and called out to his gang:
“Alright, everyone—pause the fight! Take a breather!”
Instantly, both gangs dropped their fists.
Some sat on benches, catching their breath. Others leaned on pillars scrolling through their phones. A few crossed their arms, curious to see what Canelo was about to do.
Even Robinson walked over to join him and nodded.
“Yeah, I’ve noticed that guy too. Just been sitting there forever. It’s kind of creeping me out.”
As Robinson looked closer, he finally realized—
Dave had been sitting on nothing this entire time.
No bench. No chair. Just mid-air.
His legs were bent at perfect right angles, posture flawless, as if he were seated on an invisible throne.
Robinson gasped.
“Oh my god…”
At that moment, Dave calmly stood up. He had just finished the last bite of his ramen.
He dusted off his pants, expression unreadable.
That’s when Canelo charged.
Without warning, he sprinted forward, took three fast steps, then leapt—three meters straight into the air.
Mid-air, his body twisted: left leg tucked tight, right leg extended straight down like a lightning bolt. At a sharp 45-degree angle, he came crashing down—
Skyfall Kick.
The air around him sparked as his foot tore through it, glowing with friction. His descending figure looked like a missile with a shoe on it.
He aimed straight for Dave’s face.
But Dave didn’t dodge.
He simply crossed both arms in front of him, forming a shield with his forearms.
BOOM!
The impact was thunderous. Sparks flew. Wind blasted outward.
Dave was pushed back a full meter, sliding across the floor—but still upright.
And then—he pushed forward.
His arms uncrossed and shoved with sudden force.
Canelo was launched back up—but not backward. Upward.
Like a ragdoll fired from a cannon, he soared through the food court atrium.
Five meters… ten… fifteen…
By the time he hit peak height, he was eye-level with the fifth or sixth floor.
Then—he dropped.
Hard.
He hit the ground feet-first.
But his right foot landed just before the left.
And that tiny misstep changed everything.
CRACK.
His right knee shattered. His left ankle twisted grotesquely.
He lost balance on impact, and his body flipped, tumbled, rolled across the tiles like a human piñata that had outlived the party.
He tried to stand.
Nothing worked.
His body said no.
His underlings, now pale with panic, rushed in to help. They grabbed him by the arms, lifted him carefully.
Canelo’s face was sweaty and pale. He didn’t scream. He didn’t rage.
He just whispered:
“We’re done here. Fall back, everyone.”
That was it.
No dramatic speech. No threats.
He didn’t even glance back at Dave.
He just limped away—quiet and broken.
And his men followed.
Robinson vs. The Underwear
Robinson glanced at the aftermath of Canelo’s defeat and muttered casually:
“Tsk… Canelo really is a loser.”
Then he swaggered up to Dave, raised his middle finger right in his face, and grinned:
“I’m gonna beat you up… and f*** you good.”
Dave blinked slowly.
He didn’t respond—but the air got heavier.
He despised vulgar threats.
Especially ones like that.
Without hesitation, he threw a solid punch toward Robinson’s torso.
But Robinson was quick.
He twisted both arms in circular motions—
And redirected the force, clean and precise, like a martial artist redirecting a river.
Dave was stunned.
Someone actually absorbed his punch?
Robinson didn’t brag.
He stepped back twice, then began spinning in place—
One revolution, two revolutions—
Then suddenly, he flung himself into the air.
One hand slammed onto a table.
His body twisted upside down, then rotated again—
A flawless aerial inverted spin kick.
His men started cheering like mad:
“Go, boss!!”
“That’s it!! Style and power!!”
“Finish that ramen freak!”
The move was fast.
Too fast.
Dave barely raised his right arm—
CRACK!!
A sharp, echoing snap pierced the food court.
Everyone flinched.
A bone had clearly broken…
But whose?
Dave was pushed back two full steps, his body shuddering from the blow.
His arms dropped slowly.
He turned his head side to side, cracking his neck, stretching the tension—
A dark purple bruise was now visible along the side of his neck.
But he was still standing. Calm. Unshaken.
Robinson’s grin faded.
He stared at Dave’s neck… then down at his own leg.
Pain surged up from his heel.
And that’s when it hit him—
The snap wasn’t Dave’s.
It was his own leg.
The fibula at the angle of his right leg had snapped on impact.
His technique was too clean.
Too sharp.
Too fast—
And Dave’s body had been too damn solid.
Robinson grimaced and murmured:
“I… I admit it. You’re stronger than I thought…”
Dave nodded modestly.
“That spin kick… was the most elegant and dangerous one I’ve ever seen.”
He didn’t say it mockingly.
He meant it.
But in his mind, he quietly added:
Then again… I am the strongest man on Earth.
Robinson exhaled hard.
He turned, limping toward the mall entrance, one leg wobbling as he forced each step.
His gang followed in silence—
One man supporting his arm, another picking up his dropped phone.
The cheers had stopped.
Dave just stood there, stretching his neck gently, the bruise already starting to darken like a badge.
Sean vs. The Underwear
And just like that, Dave had effortlessly defeated not one, but two gang leaders in broad daylight.
The two rival gangs—Canelo’s and Robinson’s—withdrew from the mall, licking their wounds and carrying off their injured bosses.
As silence returned, the store owners across the food court slowly emerged from behind their counters. Then, one by one, they began clapping.
Some clapped with both hands. Some pounded the tables. A few even shouted, “We’re free!”
Thanks to Dave’s unexpected intervention, they had been spared from falling into the hands of gangsters—no more extortion, no more “protection” fees.
Dave stood there with a blank expression. He didn’t smile. He didn’t pose like a hero. He didn’t care about justice.
He had simply appeared at the wrong place, at the wrong time, and got dragged into the chaos. That’s all.
Just then, a tall and skinny man in a red cape stepped forward from the crowd. He walked slowly, dramatically, until he stood face-to-face with Dave.
It was Sean.
He placed one hand on Dave’s shoulder and declared with great emotion:
“You truly are a future hero. We sensed your righteousness from far away. You’re the kind of person this society needs—one of the pillars of humanity’s future.”
Dave looked overwhelmed, unsure how to respond.
Sean continued proudly:
“Actually, I was eating stinky tofu by myself just a few stores away when the fight broke out. I wanted to help… but I held back. Why? Because I wanted to give the next generation a chance to shine.”
Then, suddenly, Sean’s eyes fell on Dave’s outfit—specifically, the glaringly obvious pink women’s thong he was wearing.
Sean’s expression tightened.
“Oh—by the way,” he said, “Why the hell are you wearing such a nasty-looking pink thong?! That’s not heroic at all! If you plan to follow in my footsteps as a local hero, I strongly recommend you upgrade your wardrobe.”
But Dave didn’t reply.
His attention had shifted to Sean’s own outfit—long bangs covering one eye, a flashy silver earring, and a half-buttoned white shirt revealing his muscular chest.
Then Dave’s eyes widened.
He remembered.
“Wait… it’s you. Ten years ago… you’re the gangster who mugged me. You beat me so bad, I was hospitalized for a month!”
Sean froze. His face turned black. His whole body stiffened like a corpse.
Then he erupted:
“Hey hey hey hey hey! Who are you calling a gangster?! Where do you see gangsters around here?! Are you a gangster? Is your mom a gangster?! Watch your damn mouth!”
Without waiting for a response, Sean turned to leave.
But Dave grabbed his forearm, trying to stop him.
Sean struggled, flailing.
“Let go! LET GO! I said—”
But Dave, without realizing his own strength, squeezed a little too hard.
CRACK.
The bone in Sean’s forearm snapped.
Sean’s face twisted in pain as he fell silent.
Dave quickly let go, startled.
“Ah—sorry! I sometimes forget how strong I am. It’s just… I’m too strong. I didn’t mean to break your bones.”
Sean’s expression contorted with agony. But even as he gritted his teeth, he forced himself to act calm.
“It’s fine… I forgive you,” he said, trembling. “As my future successor… as the next local hero… you must continue the path of justice.”
He forced a nod.
“But right now… I have something more important to take care of.”
And with that, Sean took off running—
Not toward danger, not toward crime…
But toward the nearest hospital.
Prison Years – The Secret Past of Sean
Far in the distance, two very pretty, feminine-looking boys sat gossiping at a quiet bubble tea table.
Both had long, silky blond hair and pale white skin—classic pretty boys, often referred to as “little milk puppies” in the city.
One of them leaned in and whispered:
“Heyyy… have you ever heard that Sean actually went to prison before?”
The other one widened his eyes dramatically:
“Ehh?! For real?! No wayyy, I’ve never heard that!”
The scene suddenly cuts to seven years ago, during a scorching hot afternoon in the very same shopping mall.
A fat, ugly guy with huge ears stood awkwardly in the center of the food court, chewing on fried chicken.
Suddenly, Sean charged at him full speed, slapped him hard across the face three times, then shouted at the top of his lungs:
“Hand over your money, you pig-faced bastard!!”
The fat guy wiped his nose and sneered:
“No f***ing way! You know who my dad is?! My dad is the mayor, idiot!”
Sean froze for half a second, then gave the most dismissive shrug in human history.
“So what?”
And with that, the fight broke out. The two wrestled like angry alley cats—punches flying, knees smashing, shirts getting torn.
It looked like a chaotic mess… but they were evenly matched.
Suddenly, Sean grinned.
The corner of his mouth curled up ever so slightly. And then he whispered:
“Looks like you’re forcing me to use… my ultimate move. Don’t blame me if you regret it.”
He reached down to his waist and pulled out two giant wrenches.
The moment he unsheathed them, the metal glinted under the skylight. He twirled them in his hands like a deadly dance.
Then he shouted:
“DRAGON-TIGER RAMPAGE!!”
The two wrenches spun and flashed like dual silver comets. Sean moved so fast they blurred—like a kung fu dance gone berserk.
Within less than a minute, he had struck the fat guy over 120 times.
Each hit landed with a sickening thunk. The poor guy’s brain couldn’t keep up.
Finally, his body stiffened. His eyes rolled back.
He collapsed to the floor like a lifeless puppet—knocked into a coma on the spot.
He was rushed to the hospital… and remained in a vegetative state ever since.
Sean, meanwhile, was sentenced to three years in prison.
Back at the table, the second pretty boy sipped his taro bubble tea and nodded:
“Honestly, that’s not even that shocking. In this city, people get beat up every day. Being turned into a vegetable? That’s like… Tuesday. Heck, if that’s a crime, then Brian and Michael should’ve been executed like, fifty times by now.”
The first boy rolled his eyes and said:
“But you’re missing the point—Sean beat up the mayor’s son. If it had been a random dude, he wouldn’t even have to apologize.”
The second boy went quiet for a moment… then nodded seriously.
“Wow… Sean really is a ruthless gangster.”
The first boy instantly shushed him, placing a finger to his lips:
“Shhhhhh! Keep your voice down! Sean hates it when people talk about his gangster past. These days, he wants everyone to see him as a respectable local hero. Every time someone brings up his history, he totally freaks out.”
The second boy gently flipped his golden hair over his shoulder and giggled:
“Wow… you really got the juiciest tea, huh?”
The Newspaper
The next morning, every local newspaper and newsstand was plastered with the same headline:
“THE UNDERWEAR VS. THREE GANGSTERS”
Standing outside a small convenience store, a young man in a half-buttoned white shirt—exposing a clearly defined, manly chest—reached out with his uninjured hand and grabbed a copy from the newspaper basket.
His left arm was wrapped in a plaster cast and hanging from a neck sling.
He squinted at the front page.
There, in full color, were four mugshot-style photos lined up across the top:
First: Dave, completely naked except for a pink women’s thong, standing confidently with his muscles rippling.
Second: Canelo, hoodie up, cigarette dangling from his lips, looking like a low-level menace.
Third: Robinson, in a red tank top, looking serious and stiff like he was posing for a gangland yearbook.
And last: Sean—his face partly obscured by a long bang covering one eye, a shiny silver earring glinting on his ear, and most embarrassingly… wearing a prison jumpsuit, black-and-white striped, clearly taken from seven years ago during his jail time.
Sean froze.
Then his fists clenched around the paper. His hands began to tremble with rage.
His voice hissed out in frustration:
“What the hell… out of all the photos of me in this city… they picked this?!”
“And what’s this crap about calling me a gangster? These trash reporters… they’re doing this on purpose to humiliate me!”
He flipped the page open angrily.
Right there, bolded in thick font amidst otherwise normal print, it read:
“Sean, former convict, served three years in prison.”
Sean’s face twitched.
His entire mental dam burst.
With a furious roar, he tore the newspaper in half, then slammed it onto the ground and began stomping on it repeatedly, grinding his heel left and right like he was trying to erase the humiliation itself.
Then he shouted:
“FUCK YOUR UGLY FONT CHOICES!!”
At that moment, the store owner ran out, waving his hand:
“Hey! Sir! You haven’t paid for that newspaper!”
Sean froze mid-stomp.
A moment of silence.
Then he calmly walked up to the owner, reached into his pocket, and handed him a single dollar bill.
“Oh. My bad.”
Then he turned away slowly, without another word.
As he walked down the street, his red cape fluttered gently behind him, catching the morning breeze.
It flapped and waved like a wounded flag, following him until he faded into the distance—a hero humiliated, but still walking tall… sort of.