....
It had been eleven years.
Eleven years since James Hajun stepped beyond the rusted gate of his home gym. Eleven years of sweat, silence, and scars. And now… he walked.
Down broken sidewalks. Through alleys that reeked of damp smoke and old sins. His hoodie low, his steps calm — but his eyes? Sharp. Watching. Measuring.
The city had changed. No... it had mutated.
Neon signs flickered like broken promises. Laughter spilled from alleys where kids used to play. Posters of anti-drug campaigns lay torn under beer cans and cigarette butts. He was home, but it wasn't the home he remembered.
He kept walking. Then paused.
A pub.
Middle of nowhere. Lights humming. Voices rising like a riot with rhythm. It sounded like chaos wrapped in jazz.
James stared at the sign: The Rusted Crown.
He stepped in.
.....
The smell hit first — alcohol, blood, and fear.
The place was a mess.
Chairs lay sprawled across the floor like fallen soldiers. Broken glass crunched beneath his shoes. At the bar, a few goons were groaning, holding ribs and jaws like they'd just been introduced to a freight train.
James moved in quietly. Sat on a corner stool. Said nothing.
He observed.
A table was completely split in half. The mirror behind the bar shattered. The window near the exit? Blown out clean — as if someone flew through it or escaped fast. Real fast.
"Only one man did this?" James thought, eyes narrowing.
The bruises on the goons weren't from chaos — they were crafted. Precision strikes. Some knocked cold. Others? Left alive just enough to remember.
Whoever it was… didn't just fight. He played.
And the direction of the broken window?
Escape route. But strange. If someone's that strong, why run? Unless…
Sniper.
Maybe not a direct fight. Maybe a shot was fired, and the guy dipped before getting tagged.
That would make sense.
Only a handful of people could move like that.
And fewer could act carefree while doing it.
Then the voices started.
...
"I'm tellin' ya bro — it was Freddy."
"Nah, no freakin' way."
"You didn't see it, I did! That psycho laughed while slammin' three of our guys into one chair."
"Freddy George... the eldest son of George?"
James raised an eyebrow.
Freddy George.
Of course. The chaos carried that flavor.
The eldest lion. Known for his twisted humor and ruthless fists. Freddy didn't just fight — he entertained himself while doing it. And if he was here, that meant…
The legacy was still breathing.
The goons whispered more.
"Ever since George died... the city's gone to hell."
"Every gang's crawlin' back out."
"We lost our leash."
James listened.
The streets were talking. And he was finally hearing them again.
He stood up slowly, about to leave.
But fate — or a drunk idiot — had other plans.
...
A thick hand clamped on his shoulder.
"Hey," slurred a big guy in a cheap leather jacket. "You don't pay, you don't leave."
James turned his head, calm as ever.
"I just sat. Didn't drink. Didn't touch anything."
The goon scoffed. "Bartender — that true?"
The bartender, still nursing a busted lip, glanced at James. "Yeah. He just sat there. Quiet."
The goon clicked his tongue, confused. Then muttered, "Then why the hell you come to a pub, huh? Go on, get outta here... weird kid…"
James simply nodded and turned again.
But then —
"Wait," the goon said, frowning. "You from outside or somethin'? I never seen you before."
James stopped. Turned his head slightly.
Then smiled — a slow, knowing, dangerous grin.
"You'll be seeing me from now on," he said softly. "Don't worry."
The goon blinked, unnerved. That smile didn't belong to someone random. It belonged to someone with intent.
James stepped out into the night.
The pub door swung shut behind him with a whisper, but the silence he left behind roared louder than the music.
...
Outside, the rain had paused.
The city was breathing.
A new lion was emerging in this cruel, wild, and restless jungle.
And the jungle was about to remember.
.....
[End of Chapter 2]