Shadow of the Dragon

Darkness.

Not the peaceful kind behind closed eyes, but the suffocating kind damp, cold, and alive with whispers.

Bruce Lee jolted upright, gasping. His body felt sore, as if he had been running for days, and the stench of wet earth filled his nostrils. Around him, muffled sobs and urgent murmurs bounced off metal walls. He blinked, trying to make sense of the dim, cramped space.

"Where... am I?" he whispered, touching his chest, his face, his jaw.

The man's skin felt different. Rougher. Thinner. Worn by hardship.

Bruce glanced down and saw a set of trembling, calloused hands hands that were his, yet weren't. His reflection, faint and rippling in a shallow puddle of water on the floor, revealed someone else entirely. The high cheekbones. The sunken eyes. The short-cropped hair clinging to a sweat-drenched forehead.

"This… isn't my body," he muttered, heart pounding. "Who am I?"

Shadows surrounded him. The walls creaked. He realized he was in the hull of an old boat metal, rusted, barely seaworthy. Dozens of people huddled beside him, their breaths shallow, eyes hollow, faces hidden beneath ragged clothes and worn scarves. The air was heavy with fear.

A child coughed behind him, and a woman pulled the child close, whispering calming words in a language Bruce understood but hadn't spoken since he was a boy: Korean.

"Hang in there... just a little longer," she said.

A man near the far corner leaned close to another, speaking in a low voice. Bruce barely caught the words.

"That guy over there… him. The one sitting alone."

"Yeah, what about him?"

"He's too sharp-looking. Doesn't belong here. Like an actor… or a soldier. How'd someone like him end up like this?"

Bruce turned his head slowly, locking eyes with the whisperer. The man flinched and looked away.

"North Korean?" Bruce thought, piecing things together. He looked down at his clothing faded military trousers, a loose button-up shirt, and no shoes. His body was lean, wiry, but underfed. Whoever he was now, he had been through hell.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember. The last thing he recalled was... the void. That strange voice. The warmth. The name Lookism. Was that a dream?

The boat rocked hard, nearly tipping them to the side. Someone screamed. The engine sputtered, then groaned as if it might die. Footsteps sounded above deck hurried, urgent.

"Stay quiet!" someone hissed. "We're approaching the shore!"

Bruce steadied himself. This wasn't just any crossing. This was an escape.

He was in the body of a defector someone fleeing North Korea, smuggled under cover of night into the south. He could feel it in his gut the fear, the hope, the silence.

The voices around him grew hushed. The children stopped crying. Even the ocean seemed to grow still.

Bruce looked around, his thoughts racing.

How did I end up here?

Who is this man whose body I've awakened in?

And what am I supposed to do now?

The boat gave a final lurch as it hit sand. A quiet voice from above said, "Go. Now. One by one."

Feet moved fast. People climbed a rusted ladder, helping one another, desperate to disappear into the dark before border guards or soldiers could catch them.

Bruce stood, moving slowly, still unsure of himself.

As he reached the ladder, he paused and looked up at the night sky. The stars felt familiar, distant echoes of another life, another era. One where he was a legend.

Now he was a shadow, nameless and hunted.

But deep in his chest, something stirred.

The dragon hadn't died.

It had simply awakened in a new world.

As his feet touched the shore of South Korea, the wind whispered through the trees, and Bruce Lee took his first steps into a future he couldn't yet see.

End.