THE IRON FIST 👊
Chapter Two: The Plumber's Secret
The next morning, Silva woke with bruises aching along his ribs and shoulders. He hadn't been beaten that night, but his dreams had left him restless. The shadow of the old man at his bedside lingered in his mind like a stain, whispering words he couldn't quite forget: You are chosen.
He tried to convince himself it was nothing. A hallucination, maybe. His mind playing tricks on him after a day of fear and humiliation. But the image had felt too real. Too heavy.
Still, when sunlight broke through his blinds, his first thought wasn't the old man. It was the plumber.
Chennai.
The way he moved, the strength behind his voice, the cold fire in his eyes. Silva couldn't get it out of his head. That man wasn't just a plumber. He was something more. Something dangerous.
And Silva needed whatever it was he carried.
He skipped breakfast, leaving his mother calling after him, and ran through Florida's bustling streets until he reached the alley. It was the same as always: cracked pavement, dumpsters reeking of rot, shadows clinging to the corners. Yet Silva felt it differently now. The place no longer belonged to the bullies. It felt like the threshold to something darker, something that might finally set him free from weakness.
Chennai was already there. He wasn't fixing pipes this time. He stood in the middle of the alley, arms folded, eyes scanning Silva the moment he arrived.
"You came back," he said. His tone wasn't surprised. It was expectant.
"You told me to."
Chennai tilted his head slightly. "And if I had told you not to?"
Silva hesitated. "I… I would've still come."
That earned the faintest curve of Chennai's lips. Not a smile, but something sharper. "Good. Then let's begin."
He led Silva deeper into the alley. At the far end, hidden by stacked crates and rusted metal sheets, was a door Silva had never noticed before. Chennai unlocked it and pushed it open, revealing a steep staircase that plunged into the dark.
The air grew colder as they descended. The basement reeked of oil and damp stone. Bare bulbs swung from the ceiling, their light barely holding back the shadows. It wasn't a workshop like Silva had imagined. It was a cage — a training ground.
Punching bags patched with duct tape hung from chains. Wooden dummies scarred with deep cuts lined the walls. The floor was concrete, smeared with stains Silva didn't want to think too hard about.
"This is where you'll die, if you're weak," Chennai said flatly. "This is where you'll be reborn, if you're strong."
Silva's throat went dry. "I thought you said you'd teach me how to fight."
"I will. But fighting is not what you think it is." Chennai stepped into the center of the room. "It is not about fists. It is not about rage. It is about survival. Show me if you want to survive."
Silva blinked. "How?"
"Attack me."
Silva froze. "What?"
"Attack me," Chennai repeated, his eyes narrowing. "Show me what your anger looks like. Show me what the alley taught you. Or leave now and crawl back to your bullies."
The words stung. Silva clenched his fists. His body screamed that this was wrong — he was just a boy. Chennai was a grown man, taller, stronger, sharper than anyone Silva had ever faced. But walking away would mean surrender.
And Silva was done surrendering.
He lunged.
His fist swung wide and clumsy, but he put all the fury in his body behind it. Chennai moved like smoke, slipping aside and slamming his palm into Silva's chest. The air exploded out of Silva's lungs as he hit the floor.
"Too slow," Chennai said coldly.
Silva gasped, scrambled up, and tried again. This time he kicked, wild and desperate. Chennai caught his leg, twisted, and dropped him flat on his back. Pain flared through Silva's spine.
"Too predictable."
Again and again, Silva attacked. Again and again, Chennai broke him down — tripping him, striking his shoulders, sending him sprawling. The basement echoed with the sound of flesh against concrete, Silva's grunts, and Chennai's cold corrections.
"Your fists speak before your mind does."
"Your feet betray your balance."
"You burn your energy in seconds, like a candle in a storm. Weak."
Each word was sharper than the blows. Silva's breath came ragged, his muscles trembling, his body refusing to obey his will. Sweat stung his eyes. He wanted to collapse, to quit.
But a voice inside him hissed: Don't. Not again.
He remembered the laughter of the bullies, the spit in his face, the helpless shame burning in his chest. He remembered the old man's finger pointing at him, declaring him chosen.
Silva staggered to his feet. Blood trickled from his lip. His legs shook. But he didn't stop.
With a scream, he swung again. Not with thought, not with skill — but with the raw, desperate will to land a single hit.
And this time, Chennai didn't fully dodge.
The plumber's cheek caught the faintest graze of Silva's knuckles. The impact was weak, but it was real.
Silva froze. Chennai touched his jaw where the punch had landed. Slowly, his eyes lifted to Silva's, and for the first time, there was something new in them. Not approval. Not warmth. But recognition.
"You bled your soul into that strike," Chennai said. "It was pathetic. But it was alive. That is the beginning."
Silva collapsed to his knees, every muscle burning.
Chennai crouched before him, voice dropping into something darker. "Strength is not free, boy. Every lesson will carve pieces from you. Your body. Your mind. Your innocence. One day, you'll pay more than you think you have."
Silva wanted to respond, but words failed him. He could only nod weakly.
"Then you are mine now," Chennai said. "My student. My responsibility. Or my failure."
He stood, towering over Silva. "We start tomorrow. Come prepared to bleed."
That night, Silva staggered home. His mother gasped at the sight of him, but when she pressed, he muttered half-truths about falling during gym practice. She didn't believe him, but her eyes softened with worry instead of anger. She let him retreat to his room.
As Silva lay on his bed, aching and bruised, he stared at the ceiling. He thought about Chennai's words. Strength is not free. One day, you'll pay more than you think you have.
Sleep finally claimed him — but it wasn't peaceful.
He dreamed of the old man again.
This time, the figure wasn't standing at the foot of his bed. He was in the alley, cloaked in shadows that seemed alive, shifting like smoke. His eyes glowed faintly, and his voice was clear, deep, ancient.
"You are chosen," the old man said again. "But you are not ready. Darkness hunts you. The Hand watches. The Hand waits."
Silva's stomach twisted. "The Hand? What is that?"
The old man raised his own hand, shriveled and trembling, his fingers curling like talons. His nails were black, his skin cracked.
"The enemy you cannot see. The shadow you cannot fight. They will come for you when the fist glows… and when it does, blood will follow."
Silva's breath hitched. "What fist? What do you mean?"
The old man stepped closer, his face inches from Silva's. His eyes burned with yellow fire now.
"Yours."
The word rang like a death toll.
Silva jolted awake with a scream, his body drenched in sweat. His bedroom was empty, but his hands trembled violently, and for a fleeting second — just a second — he swore his right fist glowed faintly in the dark.
And then the glow was gone.
But the fear remained.