The bald man lunged again, swinging a wild, heavy left hook. Arlen simply took a half-step back, letting the brass knuckles pass harmlessly in front of his chest. As the man overextended from the force of his own swing, Arlen placed a gentle, guiding hand on the back of the man’s shoulder. With a light, precise push, he directed the man’s forward momentum straight into the damp brick wall.
*Thud.*
The bald man’s head collided with the solid brick, and he slumped to the ground next to his partner, completely dazed.
Arlen looked over at the petite woman. She was still leaning against the opposite wall, clutching her bruised forehead and groaning, her weaponized steel thread forgotten on the ground.
With the threat neutralized, Arlen looked down at the wet pavement. He spotted his leather money pouch lying near a puddle. He bent down slowly, keeping his spine perfectly straight to avoid further pain, and picked it up. He shook it gently near his ear. The familiar, metallic jingle of the coins inside comforted him.
"They did not spill," Arlen murmured softly to himself, carefully wiping a smudge of dirt off the leather before placing the pouch back into his trench coat pocket.
Just as Arlen stood up, adjusting his posture to minimize the strain on his lower back, the air in the alleyway split.
Without a single breath of warning, a heavy, blindingly fast front kick thrust out from the deepest shadows of the dead end. Instinct took over before his mind could even formulate the threat. Arlen crossed his forearms in a tight defensive ’X’ block.
The sole of a sandal-clad foot slammed into his wrists with the force of a battering ram.
The sheer impact sent a violent shockwave up his shoulders, jarring his already bruised spine. Arlen was forced backward, his shoes skidding several paces across the wet, slick asphalt before he finally came to a halt near the mouth of the alley. He slowly lowered his arms, but they hung somewhat limply at his sides, a heavy, static-like numbness paralyzing his muscles from the wrist to the elbow.
Out of the shadows stepped a middle-aged man.
In the freezing, damp night, his attire was utterly absurd. He wore a brightly colored, tropical Hawaiian print summer shirt, khaki shorts, and simple leather sandals. He had an unkempt, scruffy beard and mustache, and his long, dark hair was tied up in a messy, loose man bun. He looked like a tourist who had taken a disastrously wrong turn, yet his posture was perfectly balanced, radiating the quiet confidence of a seasoned killer.
The man sighed, scratching his beard as he looked at the three unconscious or groaning bodies littering the pavement.
"Man, what a disappointment," the man said, his voice casual and gravelly. "I apologize for the lackluster performance of my subordinates there. They really are amateur hour. Can’t even handle a simple ambush."
He turned his sharp, calculating eyes toward Arlen, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across his face.
"But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised," the man continued, stepping forward. "The infamous and elusive hunting dog the Adelaide family raised... the rumors really weren’t exaggerating. You’ve got quite the reputation in the underworld, kid. I wanted to test if your skills were the real deal or your reputation was an overexaggerated farce."
Arlen stood in the chilly breeze, his oversized sweater damp, his arms still tingling with a heavy numbness. He looked at the man’s exposed, hairy legs, then at the bright hibiscus flowers printed on his shirt, and finally at the man bun.
"You are wearing shorts," Arlen observed, his soft, androgynous voice entirely deadpan. "It is currently twelve degrees. Your knees will freeze."
The man in the Hawaiian shirt blinked, his grin faltering slightly. He had expected a cold threat, a defensive stance, or a silent, lethal acknowledgment of his hidden identity. Arlen didn’t even ask how they got ahold of his secret. Instead, the man got a highly literal weather warning.
"What?" the man muttered, his brow furrowing.
"And I am not a dog," Arlen added, his vacant left eye blinking slowly through his thick bangs. "Dogs have four legs and bark. I have two legs, and I do not bark. I am Arlen. I only came out to buy noodles. If there’s nothing else, I will be taking my leave now."
With a quiet, polite nod that served as his farewell, Arlen turned his back on the scruffy man. He began to walk out of the dark alleyway, his steps slow and measured to keep his lower back from twisting. His forearms were still buzzing with a heavy, pins-and-needles numbness from blocking that massive kick, but his face remained entirely serene.
Ivan didn’t move to stop him. He simply stood among his groaning, defeated subordinates, hands tucked casually into his shorts pockets, watching the lean, oversized silhouette of the young man retreat toward the amber glow of the streetlights.
"The name’s Ivan," the man called out, his gravelly voice carrying easily through the damp alley.
Arlen didn’t stop, but his head tilted slightly to indicate he was listening.
"You should watch your back, kid," Ivan warned, his tone dropping its playful edge, turning cold and serious. "Your grandfather, Julius, has built quite a throne from the bodies he buried, but he’s garnered a massive list of enemies in the underworld to do it. And those ’chores’ you did for him? The clean-up jobs? You’re the one who executed them. To those who know, you aren’t just Julius’s grandson, you’re his sharpest weapon. Those chores left a lot of bitter survivors, and they all want a piece of you. I won’t be the last one coming to test your collar."
Arlen reached the mouth of the alleyway, stepping back onto the wet, empty sidewalk of the main road. He paused under the hum of a streetlamp, the warm light catching the left side of his face.
He thought about the word *chores*. To Arlen, chores were simple, necessary tasks. Sweeping the floor, washing the dishes, cleaning the balcony, or neutralizing bad people in cold blood. They were all the same to him-just instructions to be followed with absolute, quiet obedience.
"Chores are important," Arlen murmured softly, his deadpan voice drifting back into the dark alley. "If you do not do them, the house becomes very dirty. My grandfather does not like dirt."
Ivan stared at him, a sudden, bewildered laugh escaping his throat. He shook his head, running a hand over his unkempt beard. "You really are a strange one, Arlen Adelaide."
Arlen didn’t reply. He adjusted his dark trench coat, carefully keeping his spine straight, and began the quiet walk back to the high-rise penthouse. His back was throbbing, his arms were numb, and he still had to arrange his biscuits by height before he could sleep. He had a very busy night ahead of him.
The moment Arlen’s quiet, slender figure vanished completely into the amber glow of the main road, the easy, mocking grin on Ivan’s face vanished.
The silence of the alleyway returned, heavy and suffocating. Ivan stood perfectly still, his hands still shoved deep into his shorts pockets. A single, heavy bead of cold sweat broke from his temple, tracing a slow path down his scruffy cheek and dripping off his jawline.
Behind him, the bald man groaned, pushing himself up against the damp brick wall. He clutched his bruised head, his dark sunglasses crooked on his nose.
"Boss..." the bald man grunted, his voice raspy with pain. "Why... why did you let him go? You had him. One more hit and you could’ve taken him down."
Ivan didn’t answer immediately. He slowly pulled his right hand out of his pocket. It was trembling.
He looked down at his right leg-the one he had used to deliver that explosive, bone-shattering front kick. The muscles in his thigh were twitching uncontrollably. Slowly, deliberately, Ivan shifted his weight off that leg. The moment he did, his right ankle buckled slightly, a sharp, burning sting radiating from the back of his heel.
He looked down.
A thin, clean line of crimson was slowly welling up from the back of his ankle, just above the strap of his leather sandal. The blood trickled down his heel, dripping onto the wet asphalt.
"I didn’t let him go," Ivan whispered, his gravelly voice suddenly tight, devoid of all its previous bravado. "He let *us* go."
The petite woman, still nursing her swollen forehead, blinked in confusion. "What? Boss, you landed a direct hit! He was limping!"
"He was protecting his back," Ivan corrected, his eyes wide as he stared at the dark mouth of the alley where Arlen had just departed. "And while he was doing it, he almost ended me."
Ivan closed his eyes, his mind instantly replaying the split-second exchange in slow motion.
When he had launched that surprise kick from the shadows, Arlen had indeed crossed his arms to block. But Arlen hadn’t just stood there and absorbed the impact. In the microsecond before the sole of Ivan’s sandal made contact with his wrists, Arlen’s body had dipped slightly. His left hand had brushed the wet ground.
With the terrifying, muscle-memory reflex of a trained weapon, Arlen’s fingers had closed around a jagged, broken piece of ceramic tile lying in the alleyway trash.