Unease in the Wind

Evening shadows stretched across the cracked pavement in the backstreets of Ansan. A single flickering streetlight buzzed overhead as the three gang members limped down the alley, bruised and barely holding themselves together. One supported the second, while the third still clutching his ribs spat blood onto the sidewalk.

They stopped in front of a rusted warehouse door, knocked twice, then three times more.

It creaked open.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke and sweat. At the center of the dim room sat their leader Do Han, a heavyset man with sunken eyes and a jagged scar across his cheek. He leaned back on a folding chair, flanked by lieutenants lounging against crates stacked with who-knows-what.

"You look like hell," Do Han said, not bothering to rise.

The tallest of the three gang members stepped forward, rubbing his swollen jaw. "Boss… we got jumped."

"By who?" Do Han frowned. "Some rival crew?"

The one with the broken nose shook his head. "Not a crew. Just one guy."

"Yeah," another chimed in, still wheezing, "a freak. Moved like smoke hit like a truck."

Do Han raised an eyebrow.

"Kid's not from around here. Sharp eyes. Calm face. Didn't even say a word." The tall one's voice lowered. "He went toward that run-down place on the hill the one where that old Wing Chun teacher lives."

Do Han sat up straighter now.

"That guy still around?"

They nodded.

Do Han stared at the cracked floorboards beneath his feet, tapping his fingers on his knee.

"I don't like weirdos popping up in my territory," he muttered. "Especially ones who can fold three men like laundry."

"Should we go back tonight?" one asked nervously.

Do Han didn't answer right away. But the way his eyes glinted in the low light said everything.

Back at the house on the hill, Bruce still Jin Lee in name moved through the familiar rhythm of training.

The dojo hummed with the sounds of focused breath, wooden thuds, and bare feet brushing against the floor. He threw a rapid series of strikes into the air straight lead, low kick, hook, side-step, intercept. Sweat ran down his temple, but his focus remained.

And yet...

Something was off.

He stopped mid-combo. The air around him felt heavier. Still.

He turned slightly, eyes scanning the shadows in the corners of the dojo.

He couldn't hear anything unusual. The night outside was quiet, the crickets humming beyond the paper walls. But his instincts those razor-honed survival senses that had saved him countless times buzzed at the back of his neck.

He looked toward the window.

Something unseen... was moving in the city below.

A presence.

A ripple in calm waters.

Bruce narrowed his eyes, exhaled slowly, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

The old man stepped into the doorway with a mug of tea in hand. "Something wrong?"

Bruce didn't answer immediately. Then he said, "The air feels different tonight."

The old man nodded, looking past him toward the distant lights of the city.

"It usually does before storms."

End.