Joren finally exhaled after confirming the chatterbox hadn't followed him.
Peace at last.
Dusk settled over Queens. With dinner plans in mind, he chose a shortcut.
After crossing another street, he turned into a narrow alley.
He had taken only a few steps when he stopped.
A man stepped out from behind a trash bin ahead.
Two more emerged from the left.
Three blocked the alley behind him.
Eight in total.
The leader had a jagged scar across his cheek, giving him a permanently vicious expression. He slapped a steel pipe against his palm with impatient rhythm.
"Hey, kid. Stop right there."
"Hand over your valuables. And the bag."
Joren's hat brim hid his eyes.
He had no intention of summoning Star Platinum.
Using it on street trash would only spawn tedious rumors about an "invisible ghost boxer."
"I'm in a hurry to get home and cook," he said calmly. "If you're coming, come together."
The scarred man blinked, clearly not expecting that.
Then he sneered.
"Ha! Looks like the kid doesn't understand the situation!"
Laughter rippled through the alley.
The scarred man pointed the steel pipe at him and stepped forward.
"I'll give you three seconds. Otherwise, I'll make you drink milk with your own ass!"
Joren's gaze dropped to the man's feet.
A shallow puddle from last night's rain lingered on the cracked pavement.
As the steel pipe rose—
A golden ripple traveled silently along the ground.
The scarred man's foot slipped.
"Damn—!"
He crashed backward. The steel pipe flew from his hand and struck an accomplice squarely in the forehead.
BANG
The man collapsed instantly, seeing stars.
Joren stepped forward.
A dreadlocked thug swung wildly.
Joren tilted his head a few centimeters.
His elbow drove forward.
"Ugh!"
Air burst from the man's lungs as he folded.
Another attacker lunged from behind.
A sharp strike to the sternum sent him stumbling backward, gasping.
Joren did not pause.
His right hand formed a blade.
Ripple energy concentrated along the edge.
Thud.
A precise strike to the carotid sinus.
No blood.
The nervous system misfired; blood pressure plummeted.
The man's eyes rolled back as he collapsed unconscious.
"This guy… he's a monster!"
Fear finally reached the remaining four.
This was not a fight.
It was a demonstration.
One thug screamed and pulled a folding knife, stabbing wildly.
Joren lifted his shopping bag slightly.
Thump.
The frozen sirloin inside, hardened and ripple-amplified, struck the attacker's wrist like a brick.
The knife clattered away.
The man shrieked, clutching his numbed hand.
Joren's kick landed squarely in his chest.
He flew backward into the last hesitant accomplice, and both crashed to the ground.
Less than ten seconds.
The alley fell silent except for groans.
Joren glanced down.
A small tear had formed in the shopping bag. A potato had rolled out and stopped at his shoe.
He picked it up, brushed off the dust, and returned it to the bag.
Then he walked to the scarred man.
The man struggled upright, terror replacing bravado. He could not comprehend how he had ended up on the ground.
Joren grabbed his collar and lifted him one-handed, slamming him gently but firmly against the brick wall.
"Who sent you?"
"I—I don't know what you mean! We just thought you looked like a rich kid—"
Joren tightened his grip slightly.
A subtle ripple vibration traveled through the man's body.
Pain exploded deep in his bones — not injury, but overwhelming nerve shock.
"I'll talk! I'll talk!"
He sobbed, words tumbling out as panic overwhelmed him.
"It was Thompson!"
"He paid us five hundred bucks to put you in the hospital! Said to teach you a lesson!"
"We won't do it again! Please!"
Thompson.
Joren's expression did not change.
He released the man.
The scarred thug slid down the wall, trembling uncontrollably.
"How did you know I'd take this alley?" Joren asked.
"T-there's another group on the main road… we were told to block every route…"
Joren sighed softly.
Of course.
Trouble never ends once it begins.
He adjusted the bag in his hand and stepped over the fallen bodies, continuing toward home — dinner still waiting.