Rain hissed on the concrete as John ran.
He sprinted back into Avalon, flung open the supply hatch beneath the counter, and grabbed his first-aid kit—not your standard box of gauze and band-aids, but a heavy-duty combat-style med pack packed for real-world injuries: compression bandages, clot packs, butterfly strips, burn gels, splints, and a steel-threaded trauma shears.
He slung it over his shoulder and bolted back into the street.
He caught sight of them at the end of the block—Bob Diamond, surrounded by four men dressed like something out of a kung fu movie's B-roll. Stereotypical ninja garb, dark cloth, concealed faces, and all too serious for costume play.
Bob was holding his own—for now.
John watched him strike with fluid precision, announcing each move as though he were back on a movie set.
"Tiger Leaps Between the Rocks!"
A sweeping side kick sent one ninja stumbling into a light pole.
"Whiskered Claw Rakes the Moon!"
He spun, elbowed another in the chin, and followed it with a high, clawed palm-strike that tore the man's mask loose.
But then Bob staggered. His age showed—shoulders slower to rotate, steps heavier. He blocked a strike with his forearm, grunted as it landed harder than it should have.
"Damn knees," he muttered. "I'm too old for this!"
John didn't wait.
He charged in, eyes sharp.
John fought different.
He didn't have flair. He didn't have names for his moves. But what he had was brutal, effective MMA.
One ninja lunged at him, blade drawn.
John dodged wide, stepped into a clinch, and slammed the edge of his heavy first-aid kit into the attacker's face—blunt force, point-first, like a steel brick.
The ninja went down with a sickening crunch.
John turned to Bob. "Get behind me!"
Bob scoffed. "You think I'm done?"
"Crashing Claw of the Twilight Beast!"
Bob launched another spinning kick, but his balance tipped too far—he caught the ninja in the shoulder, not the neck.
John ducked a punch, countered with a low calf kick, then uppercut the next man with the kit, catching the hinge hard under his jaw.
Blood sprayed. The ninja stumbled.
But they were regrouping. One flanked left, another pulled a short blade.
Bob took a cut across the ribs, staggered, barely keeping his guard up.
John took a stance between them, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Not pretty. Just efficient. He read their footwork. Saw the attack coming. He parried a stab, drove his shoulder into the attacker's chest—and again used the kit as a battering ram.
But then the other ninja came at him from behind, blade raised.
And that's when she screamed.
"STOP!"
Lorna's voice split the air like thunder.
John flinched, spinning to see her just beyond the alley.
But the ninja didn't move.
Neither did the blade.
It had frozen mid-air, inches from John's shoulder. Suspended, vibrating softly in space, humming with an unnatural energy.
Everything around it trembled slightly—metal gutter screws, the attacker's belt buckle, even John's own jacket zipper.
Then came a sound—a soft chime, like feedback through an electric field.
John stared.
The ninja yanked on the blade, but it wouldn't move. He pulled harder—straining—until the weapon suddenly jerked sideways, out of his grip, and flung itself toward the gutter with a sharp clatter.
Bob blinked.
"…Well that's new."
Lorna stood frozen, hair flaring in vibrant arcs of glowing green and violet, like a living aurora—shimmering faster than it ever had before. Her hands were outstretched, trembling. The air around her buzzed like a live wire.
"I—I didn't mean to—" she whispered.
John exhaled slowly. "You did great."
Bob, winded and bleeding, gave a small nod. "Remind me never to bring metal to a fight again."
The remaining ninjas didn't wait. They bolted down the alley, vanishing into the shadows, leaving behind a pool of blood and shattered pride.
John and Bob both stood breathing hard—John bruised, Bob battered, and Lorna still glowing like the end of the world.
They didn't speak for a full minute.
Then John broke the silence. "We need to get inside. Now."
Back in Avalon, John locked the door, pulled the blinds, and dumped Bob into the nearest chair.
Lorna sat beside him, still stunned, hands twitching every time they passed a metal object.
John cleaned Bob's wounds—silently, efficiently—and wrapped gauze around his ribs and shoulder.
Bob winced. "Told you I was rusty."
"Rusty's one thing," John said. "Being hunted is another."
Bob didn't argue.
Instead, he looked at Lorna.
"…You didn't just stop the knife."
"I know," she whispered. "I felt it. I felt the blade."
Bob raised a brow. "Electromagnetism?"
John nodded. "We don't know how far it goes yet."
Bob leaned back. "Well. I guess we're all a bit more dangerous than we look."
Outside, the rain still fell.
Inside Avalon, the three of them sat—silent, breathless, and no longer ordinary.