Mark, Bianca, and the two Silver boys stood in the mouth of the alley, facing the four street kids who were still reeling.
Two of their own were already on the ground. One unconscious from Mark's cross. One still clutching himself, groaning.
That should've broken their morale. For half a second, it did. Then the remaining four reset.
They didn't look at the guy behind them. The one with the stitch tattoo across his cheek. He was leaning against the brick, bat resting on his shoulder, watching. Not stepping in. Just... observing. Like this was data.
"Pick your fights," the lanky one said, rolling his shoulders. He was tall. Taller than Mark by a full head. Limbs like a spider.
In seconds they matched up.
The two Silver boys got guys their size.
Bianca got the chubby one — thick arms, slow feet, but heavy hands.
And Mark got Lanky.
Lanky didn't put his fists up right away. He just smirked down at Mark, hands hanging loose by his waist like this wasn't even a fight yet.
"Just 'cause you got lucky beating my friend there doesn't make you strong," he said. Voice flat. Condescending. Like he was explaining something to a kid.
Mark smiled back. Small. Not cocky. Tired.
"I know that better than anyone," he said. His hands came up. Loose. Elbows tucked. Chin down. Hakim's boxing base. Not pretty. Practical. "But just because I'm not strong yet… doesn't mean I'm weak either."
That line hit wrong.
Lanky's smirk cracked. He didn't like being talked to like an equal. So he moved.
Jab. Straight. Then another. No feint. No setup. Just reach and volume, trying to drown Mark before he got close.
Mark jumped back. Once. Twice. The alley wall was close behind him. His back almost hit brick.
_Damn it. His reach is a problem._
_I can't close the distance at all. And his form… it's decent. Not street-sloppy. He's had training._
Side-step. Skip back. Eyes locked on the shoulder, not the fist. Austin's rule. Fists lie. Shoulders don't.
"Is running all you're good at?" Lanky snapped, stepping in, throwing a looping right meant to end it.
And there it was.
The flaw.
His right elbow flared out half an inch too wide when he committed. Overextended. Balance shifted to his front foot. For a quarter-second, his ribs were open.
Mark didn't think. He reacted.
His left hand shot up and _slapped_ the punching arm down and across Lanky's body. Not a block. A redirect. Hakim's drill, week 2. _"Break the rhythm, break the man."_
"What the—"
Lanky stumbled, off-balance, trying to recover his footing.
He didn't get the chance.
Mark's shin came up and _cracked_ into Lanky's calf. Low kick. Adrian's lesson, week 1. _"Knee or below. Always."_
The damage was instant. Lanky's leg buckled. His mouth opened in a silent gasp as pain shot up his thigh. Balance gone.
That was the opening.
Mark was already in.
Three punches. Fast. Tight. No wind-up.
First to the stomach — air out.
Second to the same spot — body folds.
Third to the liver — legs go.
Lanky doubled over, hands clutching his ribs, trying to breathe through the pain.
Mark stepped in once more.
Right hook.
Not flashy. Not full power. Just clean. Rotated his hips like Hakim taught him. Wrist straight. Eyes open.
_THPACK._
Lanky's head snapped sideways. Eyes rolled back. He dropped straight down onto the concrete without a sound.
Silence.
Mark exhaled. Hard. His chest was heaving, but not from exhaustion. From adrenaline. From the shock of it actually working.
He stood there for three seconds, fists still up, before he realized the fight was over.
Across the alley, everything stopped.
Bianca had the chubby guy backed into a wall, but she wasn't hitting him anymore. She was staring.
The two Silver boys had paused mid-fight, watching Mark with wide eyes.
Even the guy with the stitch tattoo had straightened off the brick. Bat stopped spinning.
Bianca's mouth opened slightly. No words came out.
In her head, one thought, sharp and stunned:
_Mark? When did you become so strong?_
She'd walked him to class two weeks ago. He'd barely looked people in the eye. Now he was standing over a taller, trained kid, breathing hard but unshaken, with blood on his knuckles that wasn't his.
Mark didn't notice. Not yet.
He was looking at his own fist. Clenched. Straight. No pain in the wrist.
_Hakim would've been proud of that hook._
He unclenched his hand, rolled his shoulder, and looked up.
"Bianca," he said. Voice steady. "You good?"
Bianca blinked. The moment broke. She shook her head once, like she was clearing water from her ears, and her grin came back. Sharper this time. Proud.
"Yeah," she said. "But I think you're the one they're gonna be worried about now."
Behind them, the guy with the stitch tattoo didn't move. He just watched Mark.
And he started smiling again. Slow. Gold grill catching the alley light.
"Orange," he murmured. "Looks like the stray's got teeth now."
---
The chubby guy saw Bianca coming and panicked.
He lunged first. Wild overhand, telegraphed from a mile away. He was trying to end it before the "skinny orange girl" ended him.
Bianca didn't even flinch.
She stepped in instead of back. Caught his wrist, pivoted on her heel, and used his own weight against him.
_Judo sweep.
The guy's feet left the ground. He hit concrete with a _THUD_ that knocked the air out of him.
Before he could even process falling, Bianca was already there.
Backhand.
Not a slap. A strike. Palm heel to the temple. Clean. No wasted motion.
His eyes rolled back and he went limp, out cold before his body stopped bouncing.
She didn't celebrate. Didn't check if he was breathing. She just shook her hand once and turned.
Across the alley, one of the Silver boys was getting pushed back. Latina kid. Dark curls. Breathing hard.
"Hey!"
Bianca came in from the side, shoulder first. Caught the street kid with a straight right to the jaw. Not her hardest punch. Just enough to reset him.
The kid staggered. The Silver boy took the opening and dropped him with a hook.
Bianca stepped between them, glasses already sliding down. She pushed them up with the back of her wrist.
"You okay?" she asked. Voice calm. Like she hadn't just knocked a guy out 3 seconds ago.
The boy blinked at her, then nodded too fast. Blood at the corner of his mouth, but he was forcing a grin through it.
"Yeah. Thanks. Name's Ethan, by the way."
"Bianca."
She said it immediately. No pause. Then she fixed her glasses, and the corner of her mouth twitched up. Not a big smile. Just real.
Ethan's face went red. He looked away fast, back at the last two opponents still standing.
"I'll… I'll remember that," he muttered.
Bianca didn't hear the rest. She was already moving.
Because Mark was already moving.
---
Mark slid in next to the other Silver boy. Caesar. That's what the kid yelled when he took a hit earlier.
Now it was 2v1. No more fair fights.
Caesar threw a jab to keep one guy busy. Mark didn't go for power. He went for timing.
Slip. Step in. Calf kick.
The guy's leg buckled. Caesar capitalized with an elbow to the temple. Down.
The last one tried to run.
Mark caught his hoodie, spun him, and put him on the ground with a basic hip toss. Hakim would've called it sloppy. But it worked.
In 12 seconds it was over.
Four street kids down. One unconscious. One holding his calf. Two crawling.
Mark exhaled. Hands dropped to his sides for the first time. His knuckles were red. Not broken. Just raw.
The four of them stood there for a second. Catching their breath. Adrenaline still buzzing.
Then:
_Clap. Clap. Clap._
Slow. Deliberate.
Everyone turned.
Leaning against the brick wall like he'd been there the whole time was the guy with the stitch tattoo across his cheek. Bat spinning lazily in one hand. Gold grill catching the light when he smiled.
That same annoying, nasal laugh bubbled out of him.
"Well done, Orange," he said, drawing out the word. "You and your friend aren't bad at all."
He pushed off the wall. The bat stopped spinning. He tapped it once against his palm.
"But now it's time for y'all to face me."
The air in the alley got heavy.
Bianca's smile disappeared. Her hands, which had been loose at her sides, came up. Not fists. Just ready.
In her head, one thought, cold and clear:
_Stitch. Ranked Blue 1A. Bat. The guy who dropped me two weeks ago and called it 'lucky'._
She glanced at Mark. Then at Ethan and Caesar. Both were still breathing hard. Bruised.
And she knew it.
Even with all four of them… they might still lose.
Stitch took another step forward. The tip of his bat dragged across the concrete. _Screeeech._
"Now," he said, grin widening. "Who wants to go first?"
---