Become One (4)

Julian never liked silence. Not in the house, not in the streets, and definitely not in his head. Noise was comfort. The thud of fists, the crunch of a punch landing, the growl of someone twice his size gritting teeth after eating knuckles—that was his lullaby.

He was ten when he cracked his first jaw.

Some older kid in his class tried to trip him, laughing with his two friends like they'd already won. Julian didn't think twice. He stood up, wiped the mud from his cheek, and buried a fist in the kid's ribs so deep the boy folded like paper. The friends stepped in, but he didn't step back. Teeth got chipped. Noses bled. Teachers came screaming.

But Julian? He was grinning.

The schoolyard wasn't where you studied. It was where you survived. And Julian? He ruled that jungle like a lion in boots.

"Hey dumbass, that your face or did God punch a sack of flour?" he'd say, casually popping gum while some kid twice his size puffed up like a balloon. And the fight would start. Always.

Teachers tried detentions. Parents tried lectures. Counselors tried those soft chairs and whispers like he was broken.

Julian? He fought all of them.

The world never gave him anything wrapped in ribbons. His mom worked two jobs, his dad dipped when he was four, and every meal felt earned, not given. He didn't cry about it. He just hit harder.

He got expelled once. Well, thrice.

The third time was for throwing a desk through a window because someone tried to jump him in the middle of algebra. Principal looked at him and asked, "What's wrong with you?"

Julian replied, calm as ever, "What's wrong with you for thinking I'd let him try that twice?"

They called him a problem.

He called himself honest.

Evenings were smoke-stained. His street was the kind where gunshots echoed like fireworks and everyone flinched at the sound of glass breaking. Julian walked like he owned it. Headphones in, hoodie up, ready for anything.

Some nights he'd square up just to feel his pulse.

"You gonna stand there or you gonna swing?" he'd mutter to some punk posturing on the sidewalk. And when fists flew, so did Julian—sliding under jabs, slamming knees into guts, fighting like he was born with a purpose: to show pain it had competition.

He never fought to win.

He fought to feel real.

At thirteen, he found an old dojo two blocks from a bar. The owner was this grizzled dude with fingers like broken bones and a voice like sandpaper. Called himself Hagan. No bullshit, no bowing—just fights.

Julian trained. Not to be honorable. Not to find peace.

He trained so next time, when four guys jumped him behind a gas station, he wouldn't just survive—he'd erase them.

And he did.

"Shoulda brought five more," he muttered, wiping blood from his chin.

Fifteen. A beast attacked.

Not a punk. Not a thug.

A real thing. Crawling out of shadows. Skin like rotting tar, eyes like dying stars.

People screamed. Ran.

Julian?

He walked toward it.

He didn't have powers. Just rage, scars, and a blade he found in a pawn shop.

The fight was ugly. His ribs shattered. He bled like a broken pipe. But in the end, the thing vanished into smoke, and Julian stood there, panting, hands shaking, laughing like a lunatic.

"That all you got, freak? I've had scarier teachers."

Beast Hunters found him later.

Told him he was one of them. Born for this.

He told them he didn't care what they called it. As long as he got to fight.

They gave him a katana.

He named it Problem Solver.

Now?

Now he walks alleys where monsters prowl. Smokes like stress is just a myth. Fights like war's a hobby.

People call him wild.

Julian just calls himself ready.

And he always is.

***

The buzz of the bar sign cut through the night mist like a bad idea that refused to die. "Mad Harry's" flickered in and out, casting a jittery red light on Julian and Ollie as they walked toward the entrance.

Julian's shirt was ripped halfway down the chest, stained in dirt and sweat from his recent tango with the snake-lady. His katana, sheathed and strapped to his side, bounced gently against his hip. Ollie trailed behind, tired but alert, the strange mutation in his arm still faintly pulsing under his hoodie.

They pushed open the door and stepped inside. The bar wasn't exactly the Hilton. Left side: wall-to-wall gangsters, red bandanas, gold chains, shitty tattoos, and the kind of cologne that screams "parole officer knows me by name." Right side: jittery locals gripping their drinks like lifelines.

The piano in the corner was silent, dust collecting on the keys like forgotten dreams.

Julian didn't give a damn.

He strode up to the bar like he owned the place and flopped onto a stool. Ollie followed, climbing onto his own seat like a kid in a diner—which, to be fair, he kinda was.

Julian flagged the bartender with two fingers.

"Beer. Cold. None of that off-brand piss."

The bartender, a gaunt man who looked like his soul left the bar years ago, nodded and poured. Julian downed it halfway in one go.

Ollie tapped the counter. "Can I get apple juice?"

The bartender blinked. "You sure you're in the right bar, kid?"

Ollie nodded. "I'm here for the vibes."

The bartender smirked, then poured the juice.

The moment the katana clinked against the stool leg, the left side of the room shifted. The gangsters went quiet. One of them, a tall dude with a lazy eye and a tank top that read Boss Life, elbowed his buddy.

"Yo, that guy think he's cool or something? Walkin' around with a sword like we in an anime?"

His friend snorted. "Bet he never even swung that thing."

"Bet he compensating for somethin'. Let's play with 'im."

They got up—eight in total. One pulled a toothpick from his mouth, another cracked his knuckles like he was prepping for a movie scene. They walked over to Julian and Ollie's booth, dragging their egos behind them.

The leader leaned in, breath stinking of cheap whiskey. "What's with the sword, huh? You think you're some kind of warrior, ninja, what?"

Julian slowly looked up from his drink.

"Yeah," he said flatly. "Exactly that."

The gangster blinked. "Wait, for real?"

"Absolutely. I'm the final boss of your local delusions."

The thug laughed. "You real funny. Think you're hard, huh?"

Julian grinned. "You got no idea."

Another gangster reached for Ollie, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him up. "Let's see if the kid's got a better sense of humor."

Julian's face didn't change. But that grin grew an inch wider.

Ollie, juice still in hand, didn't even flinch. He just sipped his drink and gave the guy a deadpan look.

"Shouldn't have touched me," he said softly.

"What?"

WHAM.

Julian was up and moving before anyone could process the motion. The sheath of his katana slammed full force into the thug's face, sending teeth and blood flying across the room. The guy hit the floor like a dropped sack of regret.

The bar exploded into chaos.

The rest of the gangsters rushed forward, but Julian had already stepped in front of Ollie. No sword. No weapon. Just fists and bad intentions.

One thug lunged—Julian dodged and sent an uppercut so hard it lifted the guy off the ground and crashed him through a table. Glass and wood exploded.

Another thug swung a bottle at his head. Julian ducked and delivered a body shot that echoed through the bar. The man flew, hitting the ceiling before landing on another booth.

"Y'all brought eight guys?" Julian shouted over the brawl. "Should've brought eight gods, you clowns!"

A third thug grabbed a chair and tried to swing it. Julian grabbed the chair mid-air, flipped it, and broke it across the guy's back.

Ollie sat, calmly sipping his juice, watching gangsters fly like bowling pins. "Should I help?"

Julian, now knee-deep in destruction, punched another thug in the gut, grabbed him by the leg, and spun him into two others.

"Nope!" Julian grunted. "I got this."

Another gangster tried sneaking behind him with a knife—bad move.

Julian caught him by the wrist, twisted it until the guy screamed, then headbutted him so hard he dropped like a sack of disappointment.

Within minutes, the bar was a mess. Broken tables. Gangsters groaning on the floor. One was trying to crawl toward the exit.

Julian walked over, casually lit a cigarette, and blew a puff.

"Next time, don't interrupt a man and his beer."

The bartender, wiping a glass like nothing happened, gave Julian a small nod.

"Appreciate the pest control."

Julian tossed a few bills on the counter. "Keep the change. And give the kid another juice."

Ollie raised his glass. "Cheers."