January 7, 1986
New Year's buzz still lingered, but Chicago stayed frigid. Sunlight barely clawed through the clouds.
The Tai Chi dojo's senior brother stood off to the side; built like a linebacker, 6'2", 220 pounds, day job: attorney. Hands like catcher's mitts.
Reason he was here? Simple: palm-strike a dude.
He was baffled. His words: "Never had a request this damn weird!"
So he made Victor sign a waiver, had Jimmy (the lawyer) witness it, stamped it legit.
Then the big man warmed up by shattering a brick with one palm the size of Victor's torso.
"You sure you want me to crack your ribs?"
Victor nodded, fearless. "Do it. I won't scre—"
WHAM!
WHAM!
Two meaty claps that rattled teeth.
"—GAAH… reh… spoon…"
Victor folded like a lawn chair on the cold concrete, face chalk-white, sweat pouring, teeth clenched so hard he couldn't even curse properly.
"You told me to," the senior brother said, genuinely impressed. "Real man; didn't even yelp!"
Victor weakly pointed at both sides; couldn't scream. Couldn't talk.
Michael's heart jackhammered. He bolted over. "Check him! Now!"
"Ribs… too… many… cracked…"
Victor wheezed. "Hos… pital… save… me…"
Ambulance was already idling outside. They hauled him to a small private clinic that had been tipped off; but not clued in.
X-rays came fast: ribs 1, 2, 3, 4… 12. Twelve shattered ribs. Light lung bruise.
Senior brother stared at his hands, muttering, "Been years… power's slipping. Actually hit the lung?"
Victor didn't know. Victor only knew he couldn't breathe and was pretty sure he was dying.
···
Hospital hallway
Antiseptic stung the nose. Fluorescent lights bleached everyone ghost-pale.
Liz Chen leaned against the wall, cold seeping into her spine. She knew Victor had talked to Michael, knew Michael was up to something; but not this fast.
Her eyes were glued to the ER doors. The crack-crack still echoed in her skull.
She stared at her own hands like they were weapons. Then at Michael; knuckles shredded, blood on the wall.
"You're all insane."
Voice raw. "Twelve ribs. Can he even breathe?!"
She yelled it, shattering the silence. A nurse shot her a dirty look.
No answer.
Michael stood statue-still outside the ER, fists trembling; only giveaway he wasn't calm.
Answer was brutal: No. He can't.
They wheeled Victor out; oxygen mask, chest barely rising; straight to ICU.
Heavy doors slammed. Red light blinked on like a judge's gavel.
Tai Chi senior brother looked like he was the one dying.
Then; chaos.
Blair burst in, blonde hair wild, usually-smug face now pure panic.
Old Joe right behind; normally jolly, now face like granite.
Gym bosses flooded the hall, shouting, furious, stunned.
Last: Frankie; suit sharp, tie yanked loose, eyes like knives, two stone-faced goons in tow.
ICU entrance turned into a mob.
"Michael! What the hell?!" Blair shrieked.
Old Joe grabbed her before she lunged, voice like gravel: "Michael. Talk. Truth."
Gym owners glared holes through him.
Michael finally moved. Head up; eyes dead-tired, stubborn.
"We were training."
"Training?!" one owner roared. "Snapping twelve ribs is training?!"
Tai Chi master pulled his senior brother back.
Frankie shoved through.
Didn't even glance at Michael. To Old Joe: "Pop, how bad?"
Old Joe nodded at ICU.
Frankie's face went dark.
He spun on Michael, voice low, lethal calm: "Explain. Now."
Michael tried: "Victor's recovery is superhuman. We calculated; controlled fractures trigger overcompensation; rib cage gets denser, stronger—"
"Calculated?"
Frankie cut in, smirk cold. "My dumbass high-school-dropout brother; whose life you gambling with? Yours? His?"
He stepped in close. "I don't care what mad-science bullshit you cooked up. In there's my partner. TWC's core. Anything happens; this ain't an accident anymore."
He flicked eyes to the lawyer-brother, still trying to stay cool.
The guy pulled papers, cleared throat: "Gentlemen, full waiver; signed, voluntary—"
"Fuck your waiver!"
Frankie roared, thunderclap. Lawyer jumped.
Before another legal word, Frankie's pistol was out; click; barrel kissing the guy's temple.
Hall froze.
Lawyer went whiter than the walls, hands up, briefcase clattered, papers everywhere.
Teeth chattering. Speechless.
"Lock it down. All of it." Frankie to his guys. "One leak before he's stable; you're done."
Goons cleared staff, sealed both ends.
Old Joe sighed heavy.
He knew Frankie's style. Priority: control the scene.
He faced the gym bosses and frantic Blair: "Quiet! Victor's tough. No life threat. Just needs time. Clear out; downstairs. Don't crowd."
They grumbled, but under Old Joe's stare, shuffled off. Blair kept looking back, eyes stormy.
Hall emptied to just the inner circle; and the gun still on the lawyer.
SLAP!
Frankie backhanded Michael hard.
Old Joe turned, face no longer kind; disappointment carved deep.
"No outsiders now. Michael; whose idea?"
Michael looked away. "I… approved it."
"You approved? He tell you to jump off a bridge, you do it?!"
Old Joe's voice cracked. "Twelve ribs! One splinter wrong; heart, lung; game over! You two bench-press your brains?! This isn't crazy; it's suicide!"
Michael took it, jaw tight, no pushback.
Victor's pale face as they wheeled him in; burned into his retinas.
Frankie watched, gun steady. "Lunatic." To the lawyer: "If Victor's hurt; your paper don't save you from a bullet."
Tension maxed.
Old Joe pulled shaken Blair aside, low: "Kid, don't trust me or the psycho. You got connections; get the best surgeon. Secret. Full check. Now."
Blair grabbed the lifeline, stepped away, phone out; burning favors.
Hours later: top thoracic surgeon slipped in under Frankie's cover.
Exam done.
Verdict eased the room; but twisted the knife in Michael.
"Miracle," the doc said, adjusting glasses. "Multiple comminuted fractures; bad. But… missed every vital organ. No major bleed. Like it was measured.
Biggest issue: breathing, pain. ICU handles that. Then; wait for bone to knit."
Measured?
Old Joe and Frankie shared a look; they knew the lawyer's resume; bare-hand killer; walked free on "self-defense."
Blair sagged, relieved.
The doc proved the plan worked; but screamed how insane the risk was.
No absolution for Michael; just a silent gut-punch.
Frankie holstered slow, eyes still ice. "He lives; you're lucky. Don't mean you're right."
He walked off to lock down security.
Old Joe looked at Michael, all anger drained to a long, heavy sigh.
Patted his shoulder. Nothing to say. Left to handle the gyms.
Hall: just Michael and the trembling lawyer under the red ICU light.
The doc's words cut both ways.
Michael went mute; island in a storm, calm outside, wrecked within.
He took the blame. No defense. Didn't want one.
Time crawled.
Five days.
ICU doors opened.
Victor rolled out.
Still pale, weak; but eyes bright; almost manic with triumph.
Shock: scans showed ribs not just healed; 30% denser, thicker.
The freak recovery turned lunatic theory into fact.
He saw the haggard crew, silent Michael.
Weak grin. Raised a hand; listen.
"Alright, alright…"
Voice thin, but steel in it. "Drop the funeral faces. My plan. I knew the risk. Results? Perfect."
He scanned, landed on Michael.
"I was right."
Every word hurt, but clear. "Worth the price. Gains; huge."
He tried to move an arm; winced; but the fire in his eyes drowned the pain.
Took a breath; still rough, but stronger.
New power.