James subtly pressed the emergency beacon hidden on him. In less than ten minutes, S.H.I.E.L.D. would arrive in full force.
He didn't need backup to deal with this crew—but it was cleaner that way. Safer. With S.H.I.E.L.D. involved, they could dig into this gang's activities, tear up their roots, and send them all straight to prison.
No Mercy—to those who mess with him and his family.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The man's smug tone grated on James's nerves, but just then, the pudgy principal came rushing out of the school building.
"Mr. James Gibson, what is going on here?"
James didn't hesitate. "Let me ask you something. Did you know a gang leader's daughter is enrolled here? And today, she brought more than a dozen seniors to rob my sister's wallet. Got anything to say about that?"
The principal blinked his small eyes. His body trembled slightly as he tried to hold authority.
"The school will investigate. But this is still the front gate of the school. I expect both parties to restrain themselves. Otherwise, I'll be forced to call the police."
He wasn't picking sides. He was buying time, trying to avoid a scene that would stain the school's image. If James got dragged off or beaten on the sidewalk in front of all these students, the board would bury him alive.
Scarface didn't even glance at the man.
"Kid, you're not walking away. With a face like yours, I could sell you off and make a killing." He grinned, and a few of the men behind him chuckled.
James's brow twitched. These weren't just angry street thugs. They didn't even respect the school. A private middle school had a governing board's backing—money, protection, legal firepower. But this group was operating like they had full immunity.
That meant someone had cleared the board for them.
"This isn't just about your daughter," James said. "There's more going on here. I'll return the favor shortly."
He glanced down at his watch. Ten minutes passed. No S.H.I.E.L.D.
[Support ETA exceeded. No comms from Coulson. Possible interference or reroute.]
'Hydra.'
The principal was sweating now. He pulled out his phone and stepped aside to call the police.
Scarface let him.
Then he waved his hand.
A few of the men stepped forward to grab James.
Mindy pushed open the car door, ready to jump in.
James turned his head slightly and gave her a look. Stay.
He shrugged off his jacket, revealing a twin underarm holster. With no panic. Just a clean, measured movement. He reached into the car, dropped the gun holsters and jacket onto the passenger seat—right beside Mindy.
Looking into her eyes, she got the message.
If anyone got close, she had his permission.
Unfastening his cufflinks, James rolled up his sleeves.
Then stepped away from the car and into the open.
"You want to fight? Let's not waste time. My sister and I still have to go home and eat."
Scarface grinned. "Go."
Three men first surged forward with the rest watching to see what they were up against.
James's heart rate jumped. Just enough to trigger the adrenaline.
[Heart rate spike confirmed. Combat state engaged. Watch for concealed threats.]
He didn't need that to know something was off.
The setup. The timing. The delay from S.H.I.E.L.D.
There was a hand behind this.
But for now, the crowd in front of him was the only thing that mattered.
James cracked his knuckles and adjusted his cuff.
"Three attackers. Broad shoulders. Boxer's posture. All confidence."
"First: disrupt tempo."
The first man lunged. James slipped inside the punch and drove his palm upward — nose shattered in an instant. As the man reeled back, James pivoted and dropped him with a short, surgical strike to the liver.
"Second: redirect power."
The second attacker was faster — a brawler. James caught the wild hook, twisted the arm behind the man's back, and kicked out his knee. A pop, a grunt, then James shoved him face-first into the side of a parent's car. The alarm shrieked.
The kids screamed.
The third man hesitated. A breath too long in fear.
"Always leave the desperate for last."
James moved with measured calm — stepped inside the man's range, leaned close as if whispering, and delivered a sharp, compact palm strike to the side of the ear.
The man stiffened.
He swayed.
His legs forgot what to do.
And then — he collapsed straight down, like a marionette whose strings had been clipped at once.
"Discombobulate."
Silence.
The crowd didn't cheer. They just stared — at the three broken bodies on the pavement, at the man who didn't seem winded, at the little girl in the car who hadn't looked away once.
Inside the car, Mindy pressed her face to the glass, pink rising in her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled.
She'd seen him fight before.
But not like this.
This was the kind of chaos she used to dream about.
James was calm. Very precise. Not even winded out.
To him, they were moving in slow motion.
His training in the Fraternity had never been about form. It was about function. Pain, speed, pressure. You learn fast when every mistake gets you stabbed, slashed, left purple and blue.
Now, the results spoke for themselves.
The three men who rushed first were already down. Groaning. Crawling.
The rest—maybe twenty more—hesitated.
James didn't.
He surged forward.
One man raised a pipe. James kicked his kneecap sideways and sent him flying into two others. Another reached for something in his coat—James dropped him with a backhand to the throat before he finished the motion.
Still no sweat.
Still no sound.
Just pure knuckle on flesh, blood spewing everywhere.
[Threat density reduced by 65%. No incoming firearms detected. Recommend to keep the pressure.]
He didn't need the suggestion.
Scarface stood back, watching it fall apart.
He wasn't stupid.
He hadn't planned it to be this way.
This was someone else's play.
Earlier that day, he got a call. An anonymous tip. Told him his daughter was attacked at school. Told him the cops wouldn't respond. That it was open season.
He hesitated—until the caller dropped details only someone close to his operations would know. Then they sent a video.
And just like that, he was boxed in.
If he didn't act, they'd come for him next.
But now he was wondering if bringing men without guns was a mistake. He'd been told not to. Told it'd backfire.
But looking at the pile of broken limbs and bloodied grunts on the pavement...
It already has.
And James?
He wasn't done yet.