John pivoted low beneath a descending strike, his pipe glancing off the attacker's shin as he slid sideways into shadow, teeth clenched. The sting from the earlier blow to his ribs still pulsed, but it didn't dominate him—it was just one more point of pain in a life already full of them. The surprise attack hadn't fazed him as much as it should have. He'd had worse. The back of his mind replayed every hard corner he'd ever slammed into, every blow he'd absorbed as a scrawny kid who refused to stay down in foster fights, in underground gym bouts, in back alley scraps just for food or pride. This was survival, yes, but it wasn't unfamiliar. The difference now was stakes. It wasn't just his skin on the line anymore.
He exchanged a glance with Danny—short, sharp, enough to communicate position. The Iron Fist nodded and immediately ducked low, unleashing a sweeping golden arc of chi-infused energy that sent two enemies sprawling across the alley wall. Danny was like a storm condensed into a man, fists lighting the world with each impact. John stayed behind and to the side, sticking to his role—support, distraction, disruption. He wasn't at Danny's level. Not by a mile. But he could fight just enough to survive, just enough to give Bob a chance.
And it was Bob who filled his thoughts more than the wounds.
The old man was in his late fifties, maybe even cresting sixty by now, though he moved like a coiled spring in a body five years too late for action. After that first ambush—the one in the alley weeks ago when masked goons first showed up snarling about medallions and mystic debts—John had started spending more time with Bob. Despite the gap in age, experience, and temperament, they had found rhythm together. Maybe it was the way Bob didn't treat him like a kid, or maybe it was that dry, old-school bravado—the way he'd grunt out insults while coaching kicks, or call him "rookie" in that half-affectionate, half-mocking tone. They trained in Avalon's third floor and basement alike, reworking the space between canned goods and storage into impromptu sparring zones.
Bob's body carried the price of a life lived in motion. Scars traced his shoulder and back like a roadmap of every fall, burn, and impact. "Stunt work," he'd muttered once when John caught him wincing. "Back in the day, Hollywood didn't give a damn. We were crash test dummies with cool hair." He'd chuckled, but John remembered the tightness in his jaw, the way he rubbed his wrists after every session. Bob wasn't invincible. He was stubborn. That was different.
Now John watched as two ninja circled Bob again, and the older man moved with fury but not finesse. His breathing was faster. His steps slightly staggered. And John knew, even from this far, that Bob was burning through reserves meant for emergencies.
John returned his focus to the ninja in front of him and stepped forward to engage. His Tiger Gloves sparked lightly as he punched toward the man's gut, but the opponent twisted at the last second, slicing a line across John's side with a short blade. It didn't bite deep. The jacket—thrifted, layered, slash-resistant by fortune and design—held. The fabric tore, but the skin underneath didn't. Still, the force knocked him back a step.
He bit down on the pain and kept moving.
His training with Bob echoed in his head. "These Tiger moves aren't about looking pretty. They're about control. Intent. You're not swinging—you're cutting space."
But training had been different. Sparring, even the rough sessions, didn't teach you how it felt when adrenaline surged, when muscles stiffened not from fatigue but from panic. In practice, you didn't worry about knives at your ribs or the fact that someone two feet away might have orders to kill, not win.
John exhaled and blocked another strike, twisting to deflect it with the metal pipe before launching a back elbow that caught the attacker's jaw. He wasn't graceful. He wasn't a warrior. But he was getting better. Every movement honed itself with the need to survive. He slipped between the opponents, not trying to take them down anymore—just making space. Just buying time. The jacket helped. The gloves helped. But more than anything, the thought of what lay behind him kept him moving.
Avalon.
Lorna.
Bob.
That shop wasn't just a store. It wasn't just a disguise. It was a fortress carved out of grief and stubborn love. And he'd be damned if he let someone tear it down.
He ducked another attack, shoulder rolling into a tackle that knocked one of the ninja off balance and used the fall to push forward again. He caught up to Danny, who had drawn most of the attackers now. Golden light flickered around the martial artist like a sun barely contained.
"We've got to end this fast," John called.
Danny nodded. "We cut the numbers. You pull Bob clear."
John hesitated. "He won't leave."
Danny didn't respond—just drove his glowing fist into another chest and moved on.
And still, John's thoughts circled back.
The Ninja.
He hadn't moved much. Still watching. Still untouched.
John knew he was the real threat—not just because of the medallion, but because of how he carried himself. He'd fought guys like this before—not in mystic masks, but in foster homes, in the streets. The kind of person who waited until everyone else was tired. The kind who laughed when someone tried to fight back. The kind who never forgot an insult. The kind who came back. Always.
And John couldn't shake the feeling that even if they won tonight—even if they pulled Bob out and Lorna made it home safe—The Ninja would come back.
And next time, he'd be worse.
So the only way to stop it was to hit first. Hard. Final.
He parried another blade and drove his knee up into a gut, watching the attacker double over. His heart pounded. Not from fear—but something else.
Resolve.
The kind his father once wrote about.
Back when John was sorting through the old files on Avalon's third floor, before they'd started remodeling, he found his father's notes—half-charred in a box meant for medical supplies. Most of it was science gibberish: compound analysis, genetic theory, metadata calculations. But at the bottom of one page was a line written in bold pen, circled twice.
"Protection is not a reaction. It is a choice made before danger arrives."
John hadn't understood it at the time.
He did now.
Even before the blade came.
Even before the fight started.
He had already chosen to protect this place. These people.
He just hadn't said it out loud yet.
And beneath all that, like a whisper behind the thought, the serum came back to mind. The one his father had hidden. The one buried in Avalon's sealed room. A mixture derived from some unknown mutant's blood—something capable of giving the user a protective shield. It wasn't fully tested. It wasn't safe. But it was there. And the thought of it clung to him now, even as he dodged another swing and threw his pipe with precision into an attacker's knee.
What if this wasn't enough?
What if fists and gloves and thrifted armor weren't enough?
What if next time he needed more?
He pushed the thought away for now.
There were too many enemies left. Too many people depending on him.
He would deal with the serum later.
Right now, he had a fight to survive.
And a family to protect.