At the gate, around ten guys stood, scattered in groups. They were the kind who thought muscle and loud voices meant power. Cigarettes dangled from their lips, laughter sounding forced. Their faces were rough with cheap confidence.

When they saw Arthur, one of them spat a question like it was a challenge: "Who's that?"

Another one moved forward, hand coming down to touch Arthur's shoulder like a boss testing a kid. The gesture was careless, the kind someone does when they want to make sure they are still the boss.

Arthur did not say a word. He didn't flare or make a face. His arm moved in the same instant the man's hand landed — a single, clean punch that wasn't loud but cracked like someone snapping wood.

The man's jaw broke in a way that did not look like a joke. He folded, collapsed. Silence hit the group like a physical thing. Cigarettes dropped from fingers. Eyes widened. For a second, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Then one of the guys saw Arthur's face properly and screamed, half-terrified, half-angry, "FUCK! It's Arthur Caine!"

Hearing the name was like someone lighting a fuse. The ten men hesitated—their bravado cracking. Fear made their hands slip and their voices wobble. For a moment they thought maybe this wasn't a small fight anymore. Then the fear turned into anger and they charged, a messy rush meant to hide the tremor in their bellies.

Arthur did not move his shoulders or take his hands from his pockets. He simply shifted his weight the way someone shifts to balance on a rock. He let them come.

They lunged, and he flowed through them the way a river flows around stones. A swing missed by a fraction of an inch — his foot caught a knee and the attacker fell, gasping. A grab from behind ended with the other man's face hitting a wall. A running tackle met a planted foot and a knee to the stomach.

Arthur's movement wasn't loud or showy. It was efficient, calm work. He used little motion, so his power looked like it belonged to the ground itself — something heavy and unavoidable. Each time someone tried to stand, they found themselves hit again. No theatrics. No roars. Just the unavoidable end of their attack.

He didn't need both hands. One hand moved when it needed to, and the rest of his limbs followed with a kind of cold logic. Bodies fell. Groans filled the space. Within a few breaths, all ten men were down, mostly out, some trying to crawl away.

Arthur straightened, dusted his sleeve like he'd brushed crumbs, and walked past the gate. He didn't look back to check if anyone was watching. He didn't smile. He did not yell victory. He just kept walking, the aura around him quiet but heavy — the kind that makes people remember him when they think about getting into fights.

---

Leon came at his angle into the back alley entrance, and the scene there had a different rhythm. Under the flickering light, five or six guys were clustered around, smoking and laughing at nothing. They looked bigger in the dim, their shadows stretched long. They talked loud, like to prove they were not scared of anything.

When Leon saw them, he smirked like he had seen a target he liked. His grin was half challenge, half pity.

"Come on, pieces of shit," he said, voice loud enough to carry down the alley. The words were like a match dropped into dry leaves.

They turned as one — surprised, angry, annoyed. None of them expected a boy with a smile to make their night worse.

Leon moved too fast for them to figure out. The first hit landed in the nose of the nearest man and blood sprayed almost prettily in the orange light. The second man tried to swing back but Leon's elbow caught him under the chin. A third reached to pull a knife — Leon's knee smashed into his ribs, the sound ugly and final.

Leon didn't waste fancy moves. He was a storm — heavy, quick, angry. He shouted insults between blows, not out of need but because it made the fight feel alive. He punched, he elbowed, he kicked when he had the space. The cigarettes dropped. The laughs turned into groans.

He finished them fast, hard, and loud. None of the men got to stand back up. They lay on the ground, coughing, stunned, sorry, broken. Leon stood breathing, chest heaving a little, face flushed with the rush. He wiped his hand across his mouth and laughed softly, like someone who had just finished a meal.

"Too easy," he said, voice full of the kind of pride that never bothers itself with false modesty.

He went deeper into the alley, where the shadows got thicker. The farther he walked, the quieter it became. People lay on the ground here — more than he expected. Faces bruised, a smear of blood here and there, and a few who were barely stirring. He crouched beside one man and checked him with a quick look. The bruise patterns were wrong for a random brawl. Someone had consistent, clean marks on the side of his ribs, the kind you get from a targeted, sharp kick.

Leon's expression shifted. The easy grin left his face and something colder took its place. That mark — a clean arc, a precision — belonged to someone who used kicks a lot. It was not random. It was trained. It told him at once that their enemy had fighters who didn't just punch. They used feet like weapons.

He stood up and shoved his hand into his pocket, fingers brushing the cool metal of his phone as if to anchor himself. The sound of the city felt far away. Then a voice cut the quiet, short and casual but enough to make him look up.

"Yo!"

The single word bounced from a shadow deeper in the alley and landed on Leon like someone throwing a pebble into still water. He straightened, eyes narrowing, muscles tightening in a way he hadn't when he'd been laughing a minute ago.

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