Even as the hour stretched past midnight, life still thrummed beneath its surface. Neon signs flickered weakly against the darkened streets, casting hazy reflections onto the wet pavement.
The distant hum of traffic, the occasional shout from a drunken passerby—it all blended into the background.
Killa walked.
His breath curled in the cold air, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. His earlier encounter at the gym played on repeat in his head.
The old man's stare. The way he had told him to leave without even raising his voice.
And yet, despite being turned away, despite knowing he wasn't welcome—
His blood still burned.
The fight he had seen, the way those men had moved—it was different from anything he had ever known.
He had fought before, more times than he could count. In the orphanage, at school, on the streets. But those fights had always been raw, instinctive, chaotic.
What he had seen tonight wasn't chaos.
It was something else.
A craft. A discipline. A language spoken not with words but with fists and footwork.
Killa clenched his jaw.
Something about it had pulled at him, something deep in his bones.
And now, the restlessness was worse.
His body buzzed with it, his muscles coiled tight. Like a storm waiting to break.
He needed to move.
So he walked.
Past darkened storefronts, past alleyways lined with rusted fire escapes. The city stretched in every direction, an endless maze of streets and shadows.
But no matter how far he wandered, no matter how many turns he took, the weight in his chest never lessened.
Eventually, though, he had to go back.
It wasn't like he had anywhere else to be.
With a sigh, Killa turned onto a familiar street, his pace steady as he made his way toward the orphanage.
And then he felt it.
A shift in the air.
A presence.
Killa's steps slowed.
The street was quiet. Too quiet.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Nothing.
Still, the feeling didn't go away.
His senses sharpened, his body already moving on instinct.
He adjusted his posture slightly—looser, more fluid—his feet subtly shifting into a stance that would allow him to react at a moment's notice.
Then—
The sound of movement.
Fast. Sudden.
Killa turned just as they emerged from the shadows.
Four of them.
All older than him, at least from their build, dressed in dark hoodies and worn sneakers.
Their faces were partially hidden by the dim light, but he could see enough.
The way they moved, the way they positioned themselves—it wasn't random.
They had been waiting for him.
Killa's jaw tightened.
"Look what we have here," one of them drawled, stepping forward. His voice was casual, but there was something sharp beneath it.
Killa said nothing, just stared at them while checking to make sure the threat in front was the only threat around.
One of the older kids who looked to be their leader tilted his head. "You've been busy tonight, huh?"
Killa's eyes flicked between them, noting their spacing. "Looks like they know what they're doing".
This wasn't some random mugging.
Someone had sent them.
Javi?
Maybe.
But Killa wasn't sure.
There was room for doubt.
And right now, that doubt didn't matter.
Because a fight was coming.
And Killa—
He locked in.
It was like stepping into a different world.
The city faded. The cold, the distant hum of cars, the weight of exhaustion—it all disappeared.
His heartbeat slowed.
Time stretched and bent, every detail sharpening to perfect clarity.
He could see the tension in their shoulders, the shift in their weight, the way their fingers curled unconsciously.
He wasn't thinking anymore.
His body simply knew.
It was an ethereal process, something beyond conscious thought. A feeling he could never put into words.
His breathing steadied.
His vision narrowed.
And just as the first one moved—
"Jason Bourne Killa!"
The voice cut through the night like a blade.
Sharp.
Commanding.
Unmistakable.
The boys froze.
Killa blinked.
Sister Maria stood at the end of the street, her figure half-illuminated by a weak streetlamp. She wasn't running, wasn't shouting. She didn't need to.
Her presence alone was enough.
The kids hesitated. One of them cursed under his breath.
Then—
They ran.
Just like that.
Vanishing into the darkness, their footsteps echoing against the empty pavement.
Killa let out a slow breath.
His body was still tense, still wired, still ready for something that would never come.
Maria walked toward him, her steps unhurried.
When she reached him, she stopped.
She said nothing at first, just looked at him. Her gaze was sharp, unreadable.
Then, finally—
"You never learn."
Killa exhaled. "I didn't start that."
Maria arched a brow. "Didn't you?"
Killa clenched his jaw. "You think I asked to get jumped?"
"I think trouble follows you," she said simply.
Killa looked away.
Maria studied him for a moment longer, then sighed. "Come on. Before you get yourself into another mess."
Killa hesitated.
He cast one last glance at the street, at the shadows where his would-be attackers had disappeared.
Then, without another word, he followed Maria back toward the orphanage.
His hands were still twitching.
His body still burned.
And deep in his chest, the storm still hadn't settled.
End of Chapter