The masked man turned his back, walking away like he hadn’t just threatened someone’s life. My blood boiled.
I couldn’t let him go.
I lunged at him with a roar, fists flying. He turned in time, catching my punch mid-air and countering with a blow to my ribs. I grunted, stepping back, then dove in again. Our fists clashed like thunder in the quiet night. Every movement he made was sharp—precise. It didn’t take long before I realized…
He was skilled.
The bastard was trained in martial arts. His stance was disciplined. His kicks were calculated, each movement rehearsed. But still... he wasn’t better than me. He was fast, but I was faster. He was brutal, but I’d seen worse. Felt worse.
Blow for blow, we went at it—bodies moving like wild shadows under the moonlight. My knuckles cracked ag
