The pain in John's side lingered like a dull flare under his ribs, every breath a reminder of the strike that caught him unaware, but even as he grit his teeth and tried to center himself behind the cover of the fire escape's rusted frame, the night around them shifted violently. He didn't need to see to know what was coming—he heard it first, that distinct metal snap echoing down the alley like a series of claws clinking in unison, followed by the soft rush of fabric and the rapid footfalls of incoming enemies. Four shadows closed the distance quickly, swift and clean, like wolves emerging from a clearing. John turned his head just enough to see Lorna in a low stance beside him, her arms raised in defense, a shimmer of magnetic energy dancing along her gloves, bits of metal dust rising from the ground and coiling like small snakes across her forearms. She didn't flinch. She didn't ask if he was alright. She trusted him to endure because she had a job to do, and her job was to keep their flank from collapsing. In the narrow space ahead of them, Bob and Danny had already moved into position, both standing tall, bodies still, breaths measured—but their veteran instincts didn't need explanation or hesitation. Neither spared a glance back at John, not because they didn't care, but because they knew Lorna was with him, and right now, the enemy in front of them demanded total focus. The four attackers rushed in tight formation, their black ninja garb almost seamless with the night, their weapons glinting under the distant glow of the broken streetlamp. Bob shifted first, his stance compact, traditional, letting the momentum of the first attacker carry them past with a subtle sidestep and counter elbow that staggered the enemy, but Danny didn't wait—his chest rose once, his breath low and centered, and then the dragon tattoo across his bare chest pulsed, lit from within by something ancient and pure. In the span of a heartbeat, his entire posture changed—his fists ignited with a golden aura, veins of that energy crackling through his forearms like lightning traced across skin, and his eyes—steady, clear—glowed faintly with the same gold, like fire captured in human gaze. He didn't hesitate. He launched forward with explosive grace, his body a living weapon shaped by a thousand battles, and collided with the frontmost ninja with a punch that sounded more like thunder than flesh, sending the man hurtling backward, unconscious before he hit the ground. Danny spun, his heel catching the next attacker across the neck before the follow-through flowed into a palm strike that dropped the second enemy like a puppet losing strings. Meanwhile, Bob, though seasoned, struggled under the younger man's momentum. His moves were crisp, honed from decades of training, but his age showed in the delay of his pivots, in the winces he didn't have time to suppress, and though he landed a strong knee into one opponent's side, he took a baton to the thigh in return and staggered. His tiger mask hid most of the pain, but his shoulders dropped slightly, his exhale heavier than before. Still, he remained upright, focused, defending his angle while Danny continued dismantling the advance.
But that initial quartet was only the beginning.
The sounds began to rise around them—not just the footsteps they had already engaged, but more, many more, scattered across rooftops, behind dumpsters, near abandoned windows and crawlspaces—fifteen, perhaps more, all hiding, waiting, watching, and preparing. Danny and Bob both sensed it. Their years of surviving conflict trained them to recognize when a battle was just a feint, a curtain drop before the true act. John slowly stood upright with Lorna's help, the pain still echoing under his ribs but his resolve coiled tighter. Then the energy changed.
Footsteps. Slow, deliberate. Too calm for an underling. Too confident for a scout.
From the far end of the alley, a figure emerged—a man clad in ninja gear like the others, but everything about him was different. He moved not with urgency but swagger, his posture exuding self-assurance, superiority, like he had written the script everyone else was now following. The way he walked, hands visible, empty, clapping slowly as if mocking a private joke, made the space around him stretch and pause. He wore a full face mask of black fabric save for his mouth, which curled into a smirk wide enough to be audible. "Well, well, well," he said, voice oily, polished, and amused. "I come searching for echoes and instead find the originals." His eyes scanned the group and settled on Bob. "Diamond. You've aged."
Bob's hand clenched subtly, his foot shifting a half step.
The man stopped just shy of the outer ring of lamplight. "And you brought friends. The Dragon. The Spark. The Ghost. Very quaint. Makes this easier, really. I was sent to fetch a relic, maybe spill a little blood if needed, but I never expected the pieces to walk into my lap." With a slow, deliberate gesture, he reached into his tunic and pulled out something that caught the moonlight—a medallion forged in silver and shadow, shaped like a roaring tiger's head, the eyes dark, the teeth bared. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he said, holding it between two fingers. "Took it from a man who didn't deserve it. Lin Sun, I think he was called. Pathetic fighter. Even more pathetic scream." His gaze fixed on Bob. "You were supposed to be better. I hope you are. Because with this, and the one you've been hiding like a jealous lover, I'll have two-thirds of the Tiger Talisman complete. And rumor has it," he gestured vaguely to the nearby buildings, "the third is somewhere close. Wouldn't it be poetic if all three came together here? Such a gift would please Master Khan immensely."
The name drew a breath from Danny. John tensed, hand brushing the hilt of the pipe still tucked in his coat. Lorna narrowed her eyes, but Bob… Bob's entire frame shifted. The name Lin Sun, the implication of betrayal, of loss, of power stolen and twisted—it cracked something inside him. He didn't reply to the provocation. He didn't posture. He simply reached under his coat, slow and silent, and withdrew the medallion he'd kept hidden for years—weathered, shining faintly, the tiger's eyes faintly etched with wisdom and rage. He clutched it in one hand, closed his fingers around it, and breathed once, deep and low. The alley trembled.
A sound rose—not spoken, not electronic, not mechanical—but primal and ancient. A tiger's roar, not from throat or speaker, but from air itself, from history, from the very stone underfoot. It echoed through the buildings, vibrating glass, shaking dust from rusted gutters, calling forth a memory long suppressed. The masked enemy's smile faded slightly, his confidence blinking for a moment as the echo carried. Danny stepped forward, golden light flickering again around his fists. John stood fully, despite the pain, pipe in one hand, ready. Lorna's metal storm began to circle her feet like a halo.
And from rooftops and gutters and shadows, more silhouettes began to appear.
The night had opened its throat.
And the war had only begun.