Ryan turned his head toward the door the second the voice cut through the bar's noise. The light from the entryway framed a familiar silhouette — Daniel, hands buried in his pockets, grin already lighting up his face like he'd been saving it just for this moment.

"Yo, Ryannnnn!" Daniel's voice carried warm and loud, the kind of greeting that made the place feel a degree safer just because he was there.

Ryan let out a short breath he didn't know he'd been holding. The two men by the counter — Joshua, the bartender, and the younger kid with the slick hair — both straightened when Daniel walked in. Daniel scratched his chin casually, eyes flicking to Ryan and back to the two. "Oh — you fighting these two? Damn," he said, mock-concerned. "Want help?"

Ryan's reply came automatic and flat: "Uh… sure."

Daniel's grin widened. He tapped Ryan's fist with the flat of his palm — a quick palm-to-fist tap, like two brothers sealing something small and private. "Perfect," he said, then simply stepped up next to Ryan, leaning in a little, hands still deep in his pockets like he couldn't be bothered to take them out.

He swung his head toward Joshua, offhand and bright. "Yo, you got a dollar?"

Silence stretched for a beat. Joshua's smirk died. He shrugged too quick and said, "No."

The vein in Daniel's neck twitched a fraction; only a fraction, but Ryan saw it. Daniel didn't drop the smile. He moved like someone playing with a tricky toy — slow, measured, bored. Then he unloaded a single kick so quick that half the room barely registered it: a toe-focused Taekwondo strike — a precise rear-side, toe-tip liver strike. The kind of hit that wasn't about flash but about finding the soft gap under the ribs.

Joshua didn't get a chance to register pain. He spat bright red, clutched his stomach, and crumpled to the wood floor like a puppet with its strings cut. The bar went sideways for a second — men yelling, someone dropping a glass.

Daniel leaned in again, still smiling. "You got a dollar now?"

Joshua, hunched and gasping, dug in his pocket with trembling fingers and handed a bill up like it was the last grain of dignity he had left. Daniel took it, pocketed it, and then, just to prod, asked, "You got ten?"

Joshua's eyes went blank. One of the kid's friends — Carl — stumbled up to help, pushing Joshua by the shoulder. "You okay?" Carl asked, voice thin.

"Just barely working, boss," Joshua croaked.

That's when things went from tense to active. Carl and another goon both surged at Ryan like two badly trained wolves trying to look decisive. They came at him together, one with a left hook and the other swinging a chair leg, sloppy and dangerous. Ryan's muscles were still singing from the earlier fights, but his hands moved of their own will: block, parry, counter. He caught the chair-leg swing and tipped his weight, then smacked a short jab to the ribs of the first guy. The second one lunged — Ryan slipped under and planted a clean uppercut that sent him reeling into a table.

Daniel's voice was a lazy hum beside him. "Leave this one to me."

Ryan didn't look — he was busy taking the measure of Joshua, who had pushed himself off the floor and was rubbing his gut like it might come apart. The bartender was dangerous-looking up close, sure of his moves, hands wrapped under gloves, shoulders taught like a coiled thing. Ryan felt respect, not fear. Respect is different; it makes your skin prickle.

Daniel, still with his hands in his pockets, made small talk while he moved. He picked at Carl like a kid picking at a scab. "Hey, what's your name, man?" he asked, voice bright like a carnival barker.

Carl's eyes flashed with annoyance. "What—"

Daniel kept the tone friendly, but he toyed with the kid like a cat toying with a biting mouse. He leaned forward, palms flat in his pockets, and that annoyed Carl more than anything — the casualness, the lack of respect. Carl swore and lunged.

Daniel's reaction was clean and a heartbeat faster than it needed to be. He turned his body, spun through, and launched a full 360-degree roundhouse aimed at Carl's head — the sort of kick you only try when you know your balance and confidence will carry it. The impact was brutal and elegant: Carl's head snapped, his body looped, and he flew like a ragdoll across the room, arms windmilling. He arced and crashed onto a table, sending bottles and a half-eaten plate scattering. For a second the room forgot to breathe.

"CARL!" Joshua screamed, the name tearing out of him like a plea.

That drew Joshua's eyes away for the split second Ryan needed. He took it. A dozen small practiced moves bled into one another: snap jab, step through cross, slip, hook, a tight body shot. Joshua folded like a man who'd been punched somewhere he hadn't been hit before. He stumbled, hand to his jaw, then went down hard. Blood dotted the corner of his mouth; he made one last sound and then was gone, flat-out knocked out on the bar's worn floor.

Ryan wiped the blood from his lower lip with the back of his hand. The cut stung — he tasted it still in his mouth — but the world narrowed. "Pay attention to the fight, bitch," he spat at the nearest thugs, voice low and dangerous, not because he wanted to be cruel but because he couldn't afford distraction.

Daniel sauntered over to where Carl lay and did something small and ugly: he stepped down with the heel of his boot on Carl's face. A stomp, not a show of malice so much as a punctuation mark — you messed with the wrong people, that's the last thing that happens. Carl twitched. Daniel pulled his foot up like he was annoyed at the mess more than anything else.

Ryan watched, heart beating a heavy drum in his ribs. There was relief there — complicated and quiet. Daniel wasn't a subordinate or someone playing along with him; he was a force that moved on his own line. That meant Daniel chose sides, which for now, was enough.

Around them, the room buzzed with stunned whispers. Some customers cheered. Some backed toward the exits. A woman pressed her hand to her mouth and laughed like someone who'd seen a movie scene play out in real life. The doorman panted by the door, breathing hard, while someone called an ambulance for Joshua. Carl remained face-down on the table, a puddle of broken plates and spilled drinks around him.

Ryan's body finally unclenched. Adrenaline left him in a slow slide, like someone turning the volume down. His knees wanted to buckle, but he kept himself upright, steady on the balls of his feet. He looked at Daniel — hair messy, grin still there — and Daniel gave him a small nod, like approval and a little tease rolled together.

"You've improved," Daniel said again, softer this time. No mockery. Just a bright, clean affirmation. "You've really improved a lot, Ry."

Ryan only nodded. Words felt small right then. Instead he checked his wounds with his palms: the stinging on his knuckles, the ache in his ribs, the bruises that would bloom later. He had what mattered — he was still standing, he still could throw hands, and he still had someone at his back who wasn't afraid to break faces to make a point.

Daniel reached down, plucked the crumpled bill out of his pocket, and tossed it at Joshua's still form like a coin dropped into a grave. It clinked and landed near the bartender's head.

Ryan turned his head away for a second, the heat of embarrassment rising — not for himself, but because violence had become so ordinary that they all moved through it with the same tired rhythm. He breathed out slowly, tasting iron and sweat, and some small quiet thing inside him untangled — relief that Daniel had shown up, anger that they'd been forced into this, and a thin, fierce pride that he could fight back.

He watched Daniel walk toward the bar's door, hands in pockets, like the world was nothing and he'd been cutting through the fog to find a friend. Daniel didn't speak as he passed Ryan, only gave him a little sideways grin and a thumb-up.

Ryan swallowed the lump in his throat. He could have said thanks. He could have said anything. He gave a small, raw nod instead.

The room began to settle, people whispering, someone calling for water, someone dragging Joshua's limp form onto a chair. The smell of spilled drinks and blood and sweat hung heavy. Ryan felt every bruise like a badge he'd earned in a life that was folding into something else — something that would require more nights like this.

He bent, pulled off the mask, and breathed the bar's air in without the barrier of fabric. The air tasted like smoke and fried food and adrenaline and the faint chemical stink of someone's bad choices. He let the tension drop a fraction, let his shoulders fall, and for the first time that night, allowed himself a stupid small smile.

Thank God he's not my enemy, he thought, and the words made him feel a little less alone.

Daniel pushed the door open, the cool night air spilling in, and the bar's regular noise rose again — louder now, shaken but steady. Ryan watched him go and let himself rest on that tiny mercy for a second before the world demanded motion again.

The chapter closed on that breath: the club noisy, men nursing pride and wounds, and Ryan standing in the middle of it all — aching, bloody, and oddly, stubbornly alive.

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