Bruce woke up in his bed at morning in his house-dojo as he just stood up and took care of his basic needs like breakfast, showering, and then brushing his teeth.
Sienna is probably already at J High School, and Bruce decides to go shop for groceries since he noticed his fridge quite empty, maybe somewhere toward the local street market.
He stepped outside, closing the door shut behind him as he was wearing currently a black turtleneck with black pants.
The streets were alive with people pushing carts or children running after one another or young men in uniforms of their occupations with loosened ties or untucked shirts.
Some should have been in school but instead probably ditched for the day at alley corners, smoking or laughing too loudly, as Bruce noted them with his eyes but said nothing, minding his business while walking with his grocery bag tucked under him.
The street market from his memories was only a few blocks away. The scent of roasted meat and fresh vegetables filled the air even from distance, blending into an aroma uniquely Korean in style.
Stalls lined the streets and each loud in its own way, by vendors calling out prices or haggling, voices rising and falling, and clangs of coins dropped into small metal trays.
Bruce paused at a fruit stand, fingers brushing across the skin of red apples, then at a rice stall where the vendor measured neatly into brown paper bags. He observed everything as though it were part of a rhythm the way hands moved quickly to pack.
A group of students in uniform passed by, laughing and shoving each other. One broke from the group, sprinting before slowing down to buy a skewer from a food cart, and another yawned dramatically, clearly skipping morning class.
He continued through the stalls, his small bag growing heavier with vegetables, rice, and tofu.
Bruce's hand hovered over a basket of cucumbers when the sound of laughter cut through the morning bustle not the carefree kind, but that kind that makes the mood of the day worse.
Just a few stalls down, a small group of high school boys in half-worn uniforms crowded around an old lady's vegetable stand, their ties hung loose too like the men from before, but not out of exhaustion like them, probably from style for them.
One of them kicked the leg of her stall, casually shaking the crates of fruit until an apple rolled onto the ground.
"Come on, granny," one of them sneered, picking up a tomato and tossing it between his hands. "You're selling here, yeah? Then pay up. Some share or monthly protection fee, otherwise…"
He let the tomato drop, smashing it under his shoe.
The old woman raised trembling hands. "Please… I'm just trying to make a living. I don't have money for things like that."
Her voice trembled out of fear, but the boys only laughed harder, feeding off the discomfort. Another reached over and tipped a basket of pears onto the ground, sending them bouncing across the dusty street.
"Oops, my bad. Guess you'll have to clean this shit up," he said, smirking while the others chuckled.
Shoppers nearby froze, their eyes darting anywhere but the scene. A man who had been about to buy rice turned away, pretending he hadn't noticed, and a couple with grocery bags crossed the street, their steps leaving the location. Clearly, no one wanted trouble.
Bruce set his bag of food down to the ground gently, each movement calm and unhurried.
"Enough," he said, his voice calm. "Respect your elders and walk away."
The high schoolers just glanced at him and froze, but then erupted into laughter. It was harsh and cruel kind of.
"Who do you think you are? Some Chinese kung fu master?" one of them mocked him, based on his Asian ancestry from China, while stepping forward with a cocky grin.
"You're messing with the wrong crew, brother," another added, his tone taunting but with curiosity, as if they found a new target to play with, basically to beat up.
They nudged each other while laughing little, and the old lady clutched her apron in nervousness, her eyes wide with fear and her shaking. She muttered a quiet plea, but the boys ignored her completely, kicking over a small crate of radishes for effect.
Bruce didn't flinch, but his body was relaxed. His fists slowly clenched, and his body was ready, and he scanned each of them their posture, weaknesses, and weight distribution.
"Do not test me, kids," he said, his voice calm, almost gentle.
The tallest boy scoffed. "Test you? We're just having fun. You gonna stop us or what?"
"I don't enjoy stopping anyone for no reason, but some things must be corrected," said Bruce with a smirk, nudging his nose with thumb.
Then Bruce shifted his stance subtly and almost casual as the tallest boy lunged first, without hesitation, shoving Bruce with all his strength, expecting resistance or a struggle.
But Bruce shifted, sidestepping with the smooth, deliberate footwork of Jeet Kune Do. His body moved smoothly, flowing around the attack, and a single precise strike snapped forward, his fist finding the boy's solar plexus.
The delinquent doubled over, clutching his stomach, gasping for air.
Before the others could react, a second boy swung wildly with a raised fist, trying to recover his bravado. Bruce's eyes followed the fist, but he didn't dodge dramatically. His body simply met the motion.
A straight lead punch shot forward, cutting through the boy's swing like a blade through silk. The punch connected with the bridge of his nose, and blood sprayed onto the ground.
The boy staggered backward, disbelief plastered, mixed with pain across his face.
A third delinquent, desperate to make a move, attacked with a bat. As he swung it with brute force, hoping to land a lucky strike, God won't answer his prayers. Bruce shifted again, flowing with the bat arc rather than against it. With a deflection, he sent the weapon aside.
Then he pivoted and executed a low, crushing kick to the boy's shin, and the kid collapsed instantly, yelping as the impact shattered his balance and he fell to the ground, groaning.
Around them, bystanders froze with their mouths open, unable to look away.
The fight ended almost as quickly as it began. The boys were sprawled on the ground, bruised and obviously humiliated.
Bruce straightened his body from combat stance, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves.
Across the shocked street, crouched behind a parked scooter and leaning against a graffiti-marked wall, a small group of teenagers held their phones out, recording every movement since the first strike.
"Yo… did you see that?" one whispered, girl's voice trembling with disbelief. "That guy just destroyed them…"
Another leaned closer to the screen, replaying the clip. "Nah… that's not just some guy. Look at his speed and the precision. That's some type of shit terminator," he said dryly.
They exchanged glances in awe, and one of them quickly uploaded the video to a social media platform, adding a short caption
"Crazy Chinese guy just wrecked 3 high school delinquents in seconds. Who is this man??"
The old lady's hands shook as Bruce helped her re-stack the crates, arranging apples and pears neatly back into their places, saving what survived and could be sold.
"Thank you… thank you so much, sir," she whispered in gratitude, with unshed tears at his kindness.
Bruce gave a small smile, his eyes. "Stay strong, Grandma."
Without waiting for a response, he picked up his groceries or basically food and walked away from the market and stalls without looking back, with a satisfied face expression.
By the time Bruce had walked several blocks away, or probably already back at his home, the video of the morning fight was already circulating like wildfire, and notifications pinged across the phones. Group chats exploded with clips that seemed to say:
"WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED???"