Friday – 11:42 PM
B&G, Downtown Brooklyn
The street outside the store had gone mute. Even the usual siren wails were absent. Inside, the polished chrome of the B&G counters reflected Ethan's outline like the surface of a blade — lean, composed, his posture so relaxed it felt almost wrong.
He was rearranging stock tallies when the door buzzed open with a slow, almost cinematic chime.
Two masked men entered — no words, just eyes scanning, movements sharp with intent. Their baseball bats weren't for show. Cheap gloves, mismatched sneakers. Street thieves. But not stupid.
Behind Ethan, Mr. Garrick — the store manager — peeked from the back counter. His breath caught in his throat.
"Please," Garrick stammered, "you don't need to do this. We—we can just give you what you need, alright? Take the cash, just—"
The man on the left smirked beneath his cloth mask, nudging his bat forward with slow menace. "Good idea, boss. Cash drawer. Fast."
Garrick opened the till with trembling hands.
That's when Ethan moved. Slowly. Deliberately.
He stepped between them and the counter.
The masked men paused. The tall one narrowed his eyes.
"You got a death wish, Pretty Boy?"
Ethan tilted his head slightly, voice unshaken. "If I wanted to die, I'd have taken finance as a career."
Confused silence. Then a chuckle from the other one.
Ethan's tone dropped — smooth, calm, dangerous.
"You both walked in believing force is the only language. But if you'd studied the battlefield — even briefly — you'd know psychology always breaks faster than bones."
Their faces twitched. Confusion settled in. That itch behind the ear: this one's different.
But before they could adjust, the bell rang again.
A third figure entered — broader, heavier steps. This one didn't speak. His presence alone shifted the air. Also masked. Also holding something beneath his jacket.
Knife? Baton? A gun?
Garrick whimpered behind Ethan. "Let it go… Ethan, let it go, man—"
The third man gave a sharp nod.
And all hell snapped.
The two with bats lunged in tandem.
Ethan moved with mathematical precision.
The first swing came high — Ethan ducked, grabbed the attacker's wrist mid-arc, twisted, and slammed the elbow against the edge of the metal display. The sickening crunch echoed.
The second swung low — Ethan pivoted, using the broken man's body as partial shield, then drove his knee into the second man's thigh. A short, sharp punch followed — right to the larynx. The man dropped, choking, twitching on the tile floor.
The third man stepped in.
Ethan blocked the baton strike with his forearm, countered with a hard elbow to the jaw — then drove the man back with a palm strike to the chest, knocking him against a full-length mirror.
Glass cracked. So did ribs.
It had lasted… 19 seconds. Maybe less.
Three attackers down. Not a single bruise on Ethan.
He stood still, like a stone in a storm.
Garrick rushed forward, voice high-pitched, "That's enough! Ethan—stop! They're done!"
Ethan was kneeling over the third one, about to finish it. His fist tightened.
Then loosened.
He exhaled once. Stood up slowly.
"Sorry," he muttered flatly. "I should've controlled myself."
Garrick stared. "Y-you... broke that guy's arm like it was chalk. You could've killed him."
Ethan turned slightly toward him, brushing dust off his sleeves. "Only if you hadn't spoken."
Garrick backed a step.
What scared him wasn't the broken bones.
It was Ethan's composure.
As if this had happened before.
As if it was nothing new.
"I'll… call the cops," Garrick whispered. "You—go home. Just go."
Ethan nodded. Picked up his jacket. Walked out without a single glance back.
He didn't need to. His message was loud enough.
---
Outside, the cold wind kissed his face. His pulse? Unchanged.
He pulled his hood over his head and disappeared into the night —
A silent alpha among ruins, built not from money…
But from war.