Shadows at the Door

It was just past midnight when the silence broke.

The house on the hill stood still, cloaked in the calm of sleep. But Jin Lee was awake. He sat cross-legged in the dojo, surrounded by incense smoke and the soft hum of night wind brushing against the paper windows.

Then, he heard it.

Footsteps. Dozens.

A slow drumbeat of boots against earth.

Outside, the dark slope leading to the house was suddenly filled with figures black shapes moving under the dim glow of streetlights, shadows shifting in sync. Bats, pipes, chains glinted in their hands. And at the very front, walking like a man without fear, was Do Han the gang boss, eyes fixed on the house like a hawk.

He stopped ten steps from the gate and lit a cigarette, his men fanning out behind him like a small army.

"No lights," he said. "No police. Just a house, an old man, and a pretty boy who humiliated my crew."

He dropped the cigarette and crushed it with his heel.

"Break it down."

The first wave moved.

Five men rushed the gate with chains and clubs. Before they could reach it, the door opened.

Jin stood there in loose black pants, bare-chested, arms relaxed at his sides. His expression calm utterly still, like the eye of a storm.

One of the gangsters shouted, "That's him!" and charged.

Bruce didn't move. Not until they were almost on him.

Then he stepped.

A blur.

A single roundhouse sent the first thug flying sideways into a tree. Another dropped with a knee to the gut, the wind knocked out of him. Bruce grabbed the third by the collar, twisted, and launched him over the gate like a sack of rice.

Chaos.

"GET HIM!" Do Han barked.

Forty men surged.

Bruce flowed.

He spun, ducked, weaved. Every movement was a symphony of destruction. Elbows cracked jaws. Palms slammed into chests. He caught weapons mid-swing and used their momentum against their owners. Kicks snapped bones. Fingers struck pressure points. Dozens fell, stumbling over one another in confusion and terror.

Some tried to run.

Others kept coming until they didn't.

In less than five minutes, the earth around the dojo was littered with groaning bodies.

Only Do Han remained standing.

His face twisted in disbelief.

"You..." he muttered, stepping forward. "You're not just some martial artist."

Bruce turned to him slowly. "You should have stayed away."

Do Han roared and rushed in, throwing a powerful right hook. Bruce leaned just enough to avoid it, tapped the arm with one hand, and slipped behind him with footwork so smooth it looked like teleportation.

He struck the back of Do Han's leg, buckling it.

Do Han whirled, swinging wildly Bruce ducked, slapped the arm aside, and flicked two fingers against the side of his neck.

Do Han staggered, blinking. "What..."

Bruce didn't even strike full force. He was toying with him.

Do Han growled and pulled a switchblade.

He slashed.

Bruce disarmed him in a flash, twisted the arm, and lightly pushed him to the ground. Do Han crashed, stunned, humiliated.

Bruce knelt beside him, gaze calm.

"Tell your people," he said softly, "this hill belongs to peace. Not fear."

Do Han trembled beneath him, nodding slowly.

Bruce stood and turned back toward the dojo, the wind stirring his hair.

Behind him, the groans of defeat filled the night like a warning to the city.

The Dragon was awake.

End.