THE IRON FIST 👊
Chapter Three: The Whisper of the Old Man
The morning after the nightmare, Silva woke with his heart still pounding. His sheets were soaked in sweat, his fists clenched as though they'd been fighting even in sleep. For a moment, he stayed frozen, staring at his right hand. He half expected it to glow again, to burn with the same yellow fire he thought he'd seen in the dark.
But his hand was only a hand — pale, trembling, and scarred from yesterday's training.
He sat up, pressing his palms to his face. His mother's voice drifted faintly from the kitchen. The smell of frying eggs should have been comforting, but it only twisted his stomach tighter. He wasn't hungry. He wasn't safe. Not anymore.
The words of the old man thundered in his head.
The Hand watches. The Hand waits.
He didn't know what "The Hand" was, but the certainty in that ancient voice had carved fear into his bones. And worse, the man had said: They will come for you when the fist glows.
Silva looked again at his hand. What if it hadn't been a dream? What if something inside him had truly awakened?
The thought both thrilled and terrified him.
By afternoon, Silva was back in the alley. Chennai was waiting, as though he had been there all day, crouched by a broken pipe, water dripping like the steady tick of a clock. When Silva approached, the plumber didn't look up.
"You look worse than yesterday," Chennai said flatly. "Dreams?"
Silva froze. "H-how did you know?"
Chennai finally lifted his gaze, and in those dark eyes, Silva saw something unsettling. A knowing.
"Dreams are the first chains," Chennai muttered. "They whisper of the life you will never have again. You've crossed the line, boy. The shadows know you now."
Silva's throat tightened. He wanted to ask more, but Chennai rose to his feet. "Enough words. Train."
The training was brutal. Chennai didn't hold back. He struck Silva with wooden sticks, forcing him to block until his arms burned. He threw him to the concrete again and again, until Silva's body screamed in protest. Every fall taught him how to rise faster, how to balance better, how to breathe through pain.
But it wasn't just the physical drills. Chennai tested his mind.
"You're cornered," Chennai barked, slamming Silva against the wall. "Three men in front of you, knives in their hands. What do you do?"
"I… I run?" Silva panted.
Chennai's palm cracked across his cheek. Not hard enough to break, but hard enough to sting.
"You die," Chennai snarled. "You never run unless running saves others. If it's only you, you fight until nothing is left. Even if the ground drinks your blood."
Silva swallowed the taste of iron in his mouth and nodded.
Hours bled away in that dark basement. By the time Chennai finally dismissed him, Silva could barely stand. His body was bruised, his lungs raw, but beneath the pain burned a strange satisfaction. For the first time in his life, he wasn't running from weakness — he was attacking it.
As Silva stumbled home through the dim streets, night already thick over Florida, he couldn't shake the feeling of being followed. Every shadow seemed too deep. Every face in the crowd lingered too long. His heart hammered with each step, until finally, he ducked into a side street, pressing himself against the wall.
Nothing.
He almost laughed at his own paranoia. But then the whisper came.
"Chosen."
Silva spun.
The old man stood at the end of the narrow street, cloaked in tattered black, his eyes glowing faintly in the dark. His presence was suffocating, heavier than the night itself.
"Stay away!" Silva shouted, though his voice cracked.
The old man didn't move. "You cannot run from me. I am the herald of your blood. The fist burns within you, and soon the Hand will smell it."
Silva shook his head, backing away. "I don't know what you're talking about. Leave me alone!"
The old man's lips curled into a grim smile. "Do you think choice was ever yours?"
Before Silva could answer, the shadows around the old man rippled, stretching like claws across the ground. For a heartbeat, Silva saw figures within them — tall, faceless men with blades curving like fangs. Their eyes glowed red in the dark.
Then they were gone.
The old man raised his trembling hand, pointing once more at Silva.
"You train to fight flesh," the whisper rolled like thunder, "but flesh is not your enemy. Shadows do not bleed. Shadows consume. When they come, your fists must be fire… or you will be ash."
Silva's breath hitched. He wanted to run, but his legs were stone.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
The old man's gaze bored into him. "A voice from the ashes. The last survivor of Kalun's line. The fist once burned in him. Now it burns in you. But beware, boy…"
The whisper dropped into a hiss.
"…heroes are only candles in the wind. And the wind is coming."
Then the old man's figure flickered, like smoke unraveling. One blink, and he was gone.
Silva stood trembling in the dark, his chest heaving, sweat pouring down his spine. He stumbled home in silence, every sound on the street now carrying menace, every shadow a predator waiting to strike.
When he finally reached his room, he locked the door, sat on his bed, and stared at his hands. He wanted to believe it wasn't real. That Chennai was just a plumber, that the old man was just a mad ghost, that his life wasn't being dragged into something vast and terrifying.
But as the clock struck midnight, Silva saw it again.
The faint glow.
His right fist pulsed yellow in the dark, the light flickering like a living flame beneath his skin.
And this time, it didn't vanish.
The glow grew brighter, hotter, until Silva clenched his teeth against the burning pain crawling through his bones. His fist trembled, light spilling between his fingers. It was beautiful. Terrifying. Alive.
Then — a sound.
A whisper of movement outside his window.
Silva turned, heart pounding, the glow still alive in his fist. Through the thin glass, he saw them.
Three silhouettes crouched on the rooftop across the street. Still. Watching. Their eyes faintly red.
They didn't move. They didn't speak. They only waited.
The Hand had found him.