From the corner of her eye, she saw the mechanic raise his hands. It was the most absurd thing she had ever seen. A sharp bark of a laugh actually escaped her lips before she could stop it. Arthur’s stance was utterly archaic. It violated every rule of modern combat sports. His feet were slightly too wide. His hips were squared directly to the threat, presenting his entire centerline as a target. His hands were raised, open-palmed, held awkwardly in front of his face, elbows flared slightly outward.
He looked like an extra from a 1980s bar fight movie. It was rigid. It lacked the fluid bounce of a boxer or the low coiled danger of a wrestler. He’s going to get himself killed, Chloe thought, the momentary amusement instantly replaced by dread. I have to step in. The leader in the silver jacket clearly thought the same thing. He chuckled, looking at Arthur’s open, outstretched hands. “Look at this. Mr. Miyagi wants to play.” The leader didn’t even bother putting his hands up.
He just lunged forward, throwing a lazy, sweeping right hand aimed directly at Arthur’s jaw, fully intending to knock the old man unconscious in a single humiliating blow. Chloe surged forward to intercept. She was too late. But as it turned out, she wasn’t needed. Violence in a cage is a regulated sport. It has a rhythm, a cadence. There are rules, referees, and the underlying knowledge that no matter how brutal it gets, both parties will likely walk away breathing. What happened in that alleyway wasn’t sport.
It was an execution of physics and malicious intent. Arthur didn’t block the punch. He didn’t slip it. He didn’t weave. He stepped into it. His bad leg, the one Chloe had spent a year watching him drag around like a useless appendage, planted with the solid, immovable force of a concrete pylon. The stiffness in his stance suddenly made terrifying sense. He wasn’t bouncing because he wasn’t preparing to spar. He was anchoring himself to the earth. As the leader’s fist arced toward his face, Arthur’s left hand shot out.
It wasn’t a punch. His open palm crashed directly into the man’s bicep, deadening the nerve and instantly deflecting the blow past his own head. In the exact same fraction of a second, Arthur’s right hand moved. It was a blur. There was no windup, no telegraph, just a horrific snapping release of kinetic energy. His right palm struck the leader squarely at the base of his nose, angling sharply upward. The sound was nauseating. It wasn’t the dull thud of a boxing glove. It was the sharp, wet crack of cartilage shattering.
