Tonight felt different to Nathan. The night air, which usually felt threatening, now felt like a familiar blanket.
He sat atop his new motorcycle, a large machine that gleamed under the streetlights, and felt the subtle vibrations that radiated from the handlebars to his hands. It wasn't just a vehicle; it was a symbol of his newfound freedom, his newfound power.
In the past, this hour was a time to lock the doors, watch TV, and hope that morning would come quickly.
The city wasn't a friendly place after midnight, especially for someone who wasn't looking for trouble.
But Nathan wasn't that person anymore. The systems that permeated him—the martial arts system, the wealth system, the system that gave him unwavering confidence—had transformed him. The old fear had been replaced by a strange desire: to seek out trouble. Not trouble for himself, but trouble that he could solve for others.
He cruised down the deserted streets, his motorcycle headlight cutting through the darkness. His eyes, enhanced by his system's perception, scanned every alley, every corner, searching for something. He wasn't sure what, but he knew something was going to happen to someone tonight.
Then he saw her.
A small scooter, driven by a girl who looked small and vulnerable on it. She wore a brightly colored jacket with the logo of a well-known supermarket—the same logo that Marcela used to wear.
Marcela.
The name was like a slap to his soul. A memory he had buried deep. Marcela, with her bright laughter and her determined eyes.
Marcela, who worked hard as a store manager, held the keys, and always went home last. Nathan, then just an anxious young man, always tried to accompany her evening schedule, his heart pounding every time he had to go out of town for work, leaving Marcela alone.
"Don't worry about me, Nathan," she would always whisper, kissing his cheek. "I can take care of myself."
But Nathan always worried. This city was cruel. And his greatest fear came true, not in the form of violence, but in the form of social pressure.
Marcela's parents, a fairly well-off family, did not approve of their relationship. A manager with a bright future and a young man without clear prospects. At that time, Nathan's job was just a truck driver for intercity goods.
It was a fight Nathan couldn't win. And Marcela, bound by her family obligations, eventually both of them gave up.
The pain still lingered, like an old scar. Seeing the girl in front of him, with the same uniform as Marcela, his ex-girlfriend 3 years ago, going home alone at the same hour, triggered something within him. A long-dormant protective instinct.
Not anymore, he thought, with newfound determination. Not tonight. Not to this girl.
He decided to protect her from afar. To be her invisible guardian. He kept a safe distance, his large motorcycle following gently, following her small turns through the quiet neighborhood.
His reverie about Marcela, about what could have been, about the fear that used to paralyze him, was suddenly broken by a terrifying sound.
The sound of a motorcycle engine being revved roughly, interspersed with the shouts of men who were drunk and leaning on the strength of the pack.
From a dark alley, a swarm of motorcycles emerged—a dozen people, maybe more. They were like wolves smelling prey. With aggressive maneuvers, they surrounded the girl's scooter, forcing her to stop on the side of the road.
Nathan didn't need his system to tell him what was happening. Anger, pure and hot, boiled in his blood. This was his old fear come true, but now, he wasn't the helpless man.
He revved his motorcycle, approaching quickly, but not rushing. He turned off his headlights, approaching from the shadows, like a predator approaching its own prey. He observed.
The girl, who he could now see more clearly—her face was still very young, maybe just in her early twenties—looked terrified. She tried to break through, but one of the gang members pushed her handlebars, making her almost fall.
"Hey, beautiful! Where are you rushing off to?" shouted one of them, his voice shrill and unsteady. "Come hang out with us!"
"Leave me alone!" the girl shouted, her voice trembling but trying to be firm. "I want to go home!"
"Home? We'll take you home later," said another, approaching with a motorcycle that belched exhaust fumes. "But play with us first. Come on, get off."
One of them started to reach for her arm. That was his limit.
Nathan turned on his motorcycle headlights, the high beams shining brightly, illuminating the scene like a stage performance.
"Excuse me," Nathan said, his voice not shouting, but cutting through the noise like a knife. It was a voice that was flat, authoritative, and full of unspoken threat. "Is there a problem here?"
A dozen pairs of eyes looked towards him. The gang members, who were initially bold, now looked confused.
They saw Nathan's large motorcycle, his muscular physique that was visible even through his jacket, and most importantly, the way he stood—so calm, so confident, like he was in control of everything.
The girl looked at him with hopeful and fearful eyes.
"Get lost, old man!" shouted the gang leader, a young man with dyed red hair and a jacket full of patches. "This is our business! Don't look for trouble!"
Nathan turned off his motorcycle engine and stepped down. His movements were smooth and controlled. He walked towards them, not rushing.
"I said, is there a problem?" he repeated, now closer. His eyes swept over every member of the gang, staring them down one by one. The aura of his martial arts system radiated, a primal message that said 'I am dangerous'.
The red-haired man tried to stay brave. "We're just inviting the lady to hang out. She wants to, right, lady?" he glared at the girl with a threatening look.
"No! I don't want to!" the girl shouted, hiding behind her motorcycle.
"The lady said no," Nathan said, now just a few steps away. "So, I think you'd better leave."
The red-haired man laughed, but it was a nervous laugh. "Who are you, boss? Police? This is one versus twelve? What do you think you're a tough guy?"
[Ding! Threat Analysis: 12 targets. Physical abilities: Average to below average. Armament: Some carry clubs, one carries a knife. Recommendation: Pre-emptive strike to incapacitate the leader. Utilize the environment.]
Nathan smiled thinly. "I'm not the police. But I don't need to be the police to deal with trash like you."
His words were like a spark on gasoline. The red-haired man growled and jumped off his motorcycle, pulling an iron rod from the seat. "Kill him!"
What happened next wasn't a fight. It was a demonstration.
Nathan moved before the others could react. His hawk-like hands grabbed the red-haired man's wrist, twisting it forcefully until a sickening crack! was heard.
The red-haired man screamed in agony, his right hand broken and the iron rod fell to the ground.
Nathan didn't stop. He used the screaming red-haired man's body as a shield, throwing him towards two approaching gang members. They fell like bowling pins.