Bob didn't wait for another insult. The instant the tiger roar echoed and the medallion's pulse faded beneath his clenched fingers, he lunged. He became movement—fluid, sharp, sudden. A streak of fury carved into a fighter's form, his body moving faster than any of them had seen from him before. To John, still nursing his side and forcing himself upright with a grunt, it was like watching a spirit take over—a pale white shimmer flickered across Bob's form, subtle yet distinct, not just the ambient glow of a streetlamp or a reflection from the medallion, but an energy, an aura—like a white tiger crouched over his shoulders, every strike a claw, every pivot a snarl. Bob hit the first underling hard, his elbow snapping into the man's chest before he spun low and swept the legs of the second. There was nothing theatrical about his movements—each one was efficient, brutal, aimed to disable rather than impress—but it had the rhythm of a warrior with decades etched into every tendon.
And yet, John realized quickly, this wasn't a movie. The ninjas they were up against weren't choreographed opponents waiting their turn to be thrown. These weren't wooden dummies in a training hall—they were real, fast, and utterly without honor. They moved in together, swarming Bob like a pack, attacking from behind, from blind angles, striking low and high and in rhythm with one another.
Bob knocked two back but took a blow to the hip; another cracked into his shoulder. He stumbled, recovered, but the sweat on his brow deepened, and the glint of that white tiger faded ever so slightly. Still, he fought like a man possessed, teeth gritted, roaring once—not mystically this time, but purely from willpower—as he smashed one attacker's head against the concrete.
Across the alley, standing smug and untouched, the leader of the group observed the chaos with a cruel kind of amusement, twirling his own medallion between gloved fingers. His Tiger Medallion was different—orange, vivid, with edges that gleamed like firelight. It contrasted harshly against his pitch-black uniform and emphasized the sense of control he wielded. He didn't fight. He didn't need to. He watched. His body language exuded ownership—of the fight, of the lives involved, of the medallions themselves. He had the air of someone playing chess while the pawns bled. John saw it from the side as he pushed forward, baton in hand, preparing to strike down two more who were circling Bob.
Danny arrived beside him, golden energy still flickering from his fists, and without speaking they moved—drawing a cluster of attackers away from Bob to relieve the pressure.
But in the seconds that followed, time felt like it thinned, like the alley itself drew inward, as Bob faltered briefly and his thoughts slipped, unbidden, into memory.
He was fifteen. Thin. Awkward. Lanky in that way that made bullies laugh and shoulders sag. He had come to the Tiger Dojo on a dare to himself after being shoved into a locker for the third time that semester. The Dojo was tucked between two laundromats in Chinatown, its red door faded by time, the dragon sigil on the window peeled but proud. Inside, everything smelled like wood polish and sweat, incense and old leather mats. His first steps inside had been met with dismissive glances. The older students laughed—"too skinny," "too stiff," "Hollywood dreams"—but one man hadn't. An old Chinese master with white eyebrows like brushstrokes and eyes like deep water had only smiled gently and gestured him forward. "Welcome," he'd said. "Even tigers begin as kittens." His name was Master Kee.
Master Kee never raised his voice. Never struck in anger. But he moved with the grace of someone who had long ago shed fear. He taught Bob how to breathe first, then how to stand, then how to fall without fear. It was months before Bob even touched a kata, and by then the laughter had faded. He had earned respect. He had endured. He had stayed.
Beside him had been Lin Sun, Master Kee's adopted son—older by three years, sharper in tongue but kind beneath it. Lin Sun had been the best student by far, and while Bob had envied his control and balance, Lin never lorded it. They grew close, bonded by shared sweat and late-night rooftop sparring. Lin was the one who'd first told Bob he had good instincts. And then came Abe—a short-tempered, sharp-eyed kid from Harlem who stood in the same doorway Bob once had, too proud to admit he was scared. They had trained together. Learned together. Failed together. They became brothers not in blood, but in sweat and bruises and shared discipline.
Bob was twenty-two when it happened. They had just returned from a small martial arts tournament uptown, laughing, carrying a second-place trophy Lin had snagged. The door to the dojo had been open. They entered expecting tea and Master Kee's mild scolding for getting cocky. Instead, they found him bleeding on the floor, a cracked table nearby, incense ash scattered like shattered stars. He was clutching a wooden box. Blood smeared its edges. Inside were three medallions—each carved with the head of a tiger, each pulsating with a strange warmth. Kee looked up with cloudy eyes and whispered something Bob never forgot: "Together, you must guard the roar."
He died that night. They buried him two days later.
The dojo was closed soon after, but the trio—Bob, Lin, and Abe—couldn't let the blood go unanswered. They became something else. Something the streets whispered about. The Sons of the Tiger. They hunted. Tracked. Cleaned out gang dens, freed kids from forced recruitments, beat down dealers selling poison to their own neighborhoods. They were more than vigilantes—they were justice in cloth wraps and calloused fists. But time, even for heroes, demands separation. Lin inherited what was left of the dojo, rebuilt it into something smaller. Abe returned to Harlem to look after his family and keep his brothers out of gang life. And Bob… Bob chased his dream westward. He moved to Los Angeles and became a stuntman. For a while, he thought he might even become a star. But no camera ever caught the weight he carried. And no fame ever filled the space left by Kee, Lin, and Abe.
And now Lin was gone.
Murdered for a medallion. The same one this arrogant devil spun like a poker chip between his fingers.
The flash of memory snapped as Bob let out a roar—not mystical this time, but something primal, something from years buried—and cracked his knuckles. He moved through two attackers, his strength renewed, his timing back.
John and Danny were flanking him now, forcing the rest of the underlings to back off. Bob stood face to face with the leader, who finally stopped spinning the medallion and clipped it to his belt. The man stepped forward with a grin and bowed mockingly. "I am called The Ninja," he said, voice full of mirth. "It's not original, I know. But I've earned it." His eyes flicked to Bob's hand. "Come now. Let's see if you still remember how to roar."
And the alley held its breath.