The Dojo Beneath

Steam drifted from the old man's cup as he sat at the low wooden table, eyes still lingering on the training dummy. Bruce now towel-drying his face after a brief wash sat across from him, calm but alert.

"You've got the hands of a ghost," the old man said. "But the presence of a fighter. That wasn't instinct. That was mastery."

Bruce gave a humble nod.

The old man leaned forward. "What's your name, son?"

There was a moment of hesitation just enough for Bruce to recall the rules of survival. He couldn't tell this man the truth. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He bowed slightly. "Jin Lee."

The old man repeated it slowly, as if trying to etch it into memory. "Jin Lee… Well, Jin, your skills surpass even the best masters I've known."

He stood up with surprising energy and gestured for Bruce Jin to follow. "Come with me."

Bruce followed him through a hallway lined with scrolls and faded photographs. Then, the old man pushed aside a paper screen and opened a door Bruce hadn't noticed before. A staircase descended beneath the house.

The air shifted.

The scent of dust, oil, and old wood grew stronger as they walked down the narrow steps. At the bottom, Bruce found himself in a hidden basement a dojo. Not large, but well-kept. Polished wooden floors. Mirrors on one wall. Wooden weapons hung neatly on racks bokken, staffs, butterfly swords. And in the center, a second, newer Wing Chun dummy stood like a silent guardian.

Bruce's eyes widened slightly.

"You live above this?"

"I used to teach here," the old man said, stepping into the center of the room. "Back when my body still listened to me. Wing Chun. For thirty-five years. Students came and went. Most forgot. Some remembered."

He looked at Bruce with a knowing smile.

"But seeing you move just now… it stirred something I haven't felt in a long time."

Bruce turned in place, taking in the walls, the floor, the weapons, the heavy silence of memory still clinging to the space.

"You've got nowhere else to go, do you?" the old man asked.

Bruce didn't answer, but his silence was enough.

"Well," the old man said with a grin, "then maybe fate's done something right for once. You can stay here. Sleep upstairs, train down here. Start again. Teach, even if that's in your blood."

Bruce looked at him, cautious. "I don't have money."

The man waved him off.

"I'm not broke, if that's what you're thinking. Sold a couple properties years ago, invested just enough. I have more than I need, and no one to spend it on. This house is quiet, but too quiet. It could use someone like you, Jin."

Bruce lowered his gaze, nodding once, grateful but still guarded.

The old man smiled again and patted the Wing Chun dummy. "Well then, Jin Lee. Looks like the dragon has found his den again."

Bruce stepped into the center of the dojo, barefoot on the wood, heart steady.

For the first time in this world, he felt like he wasn't just surviving.

He was returning.

End.