It was Owen's first time riding the Washington Metro. He bought a ticket and made his way down to the platform. The place looked a bit run-down, and there weren't many people waiting—just a sparse handful.
Soon the train arrived. Owen boarded, finding plenty of empty seats, and casually picked one. As luck would have it, the carriage he entered was one of the newly upgraded models.
Previously, Washington's subway cars were like traditional trains—segmented, with doors separating each car. The new design was a continuous open layout. You could still tell where one car ended and another began, but there were no partitions between them.
There were only a dozen or so people scattered throughout the car. Owen sat toward the rear. Behind him, a young man wheeled in a bicycle. A few seats down sat a group of older Black women.
Owen had thirteen stops to go. After getting off, he'd still have to walk several blocks to get home.
Inside the car, most people passed the time by pulling out a book or putting on headphones. Owen took out his phone to call Monica for a chat, but there was no signal. He tucked it back into his pocket with a sigh.
No wonder people were reading. Glancing beside him, he spotted a newspaper someone had left behind. He picked it up to pass the time. He hadn't read long when a commotion broke out in the next car over.
Curious, Owen leaned forward and peered through the open walkway. A group of drunk men was causing a scene. There were four of them—Latino, by the looks of it. One was shirtless and covered in tattoos, while the others had a stereotypical hip-hop vibe.
They were clearly drunk, the stench of alcohol wafting all the way down the car. Laughing and shouting, they made their way through the train, harassing passengers at random.
A middle-aged woman quietly reading had her book snatched away by the tattooed man. He skimmed a few pages, cursed at it, then tossed it to the floor while the others snickered.
The woman looked furious but said nothing. The men moved on and bumped into the young guy with the bicycle.
Apparently annoyed by the bike in his way, the tattooed man shoved him hard. The guy nearly fell, stumbling backward a few steps before regaining his balance.
The drunk staggered toward him, slurring curses. Meanwhile, the other three kicked at the bike, denting and twisting it beyond recognition. Once satisfied, they laughed loudly.
The tattooed man wasn't done—he drew back his fist, aiming to punch the young man. But before it landed, a hand grabbed his wrist.
Owen.
Gripping the man's wrist tightly, Owen met his eyes without flinching. After a long second, he released it with a shove.
He didn't want to be a hero, and he wasn't looking for trouble. As long as the drunk stopped, he was willing to let it go. But the man and his friends had other ideas.
Seeing their buddy get checked, the other three swaggered forward. The tattooed man, face burning with embarrassment, backed up two steps and lunged at Owen again.
Owen had no patience for drunks who thought they were invincible. People knew exactly what they were doing when they got drunk—they just didn't want to control themselves. To Owen, that was choosing to commit crimes. And he wasn't about to tolerate it.
The punch came. Owen sidestepped effortlessly, slipping behind the man in a blink. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around the man's throat in a rear chokehold.
The man gasped for air, but Owen's grip was ironclad. No matter how he struggled, he couldn't break free.
The remaining three surged forward, but Owen kept the tattooed man between them, blocking their path. They shouted threats, hoping to intimidate him.
Owen didn't care. Within seconds, the tattooed man was unconscious. These weren't real threats—they were small-time thugs. Even if all four attacked at once, he could handle them. The only reason he used the chokehold was to avoid collateral damage in the confined space.
The other three saw their friend drop like a stone and froze. For a moment, they thought Owen had killed him. Gang members themselves, they still had a cruel streak. Sobered now, they weren't backing down. Two of them pulled out knives and slowly advanced.
Owen stepped back cautiously. If they came any closer, he'd draw his gun. He wasn't going to take stupid risks for the sake of pride.
Just then, a shadow appeared behind the three.
To Owen's astonishment, it was the female combat coach from the gym—Sarah.
She stepped forward and kicked the last thug in the back of the knee. He collapsed, and she struck his neck with a precise chop, knocking him out cold.
One of the others noticed and spun, swinging his knife. Sarah stepped back, dodging the blade, then kicked upward. The knife flew from his hand and embedded itself in the train ceiling. She rushed in, grabbed his arm, and flipped him over her hip. He hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of him, then took an elbow to the head and blacked out.
The last thug turned to run, but Owen was already in motion. His roundhouse kick landed squarely on the man's temple. The thug flew sideways, hit the door, and didn't move again.
The entire fight had lasted less than thirty seconds. The four bullies who had moments ago terrorized the car were now unconscious and sprawled on the floor.
The car fell silent. Then, suddenly, thunderous applause erupted. Smiles spread across the passengers' faces.
The guy with the bike and the middle-aged woman offered effusive thanks. Everyone in the car was full of praise.
Owen and Sarah nodded to the passengers, then turned to look at each other. In that moment, something shifted between them.
"Steve Owen," he said.
"Sarah Fischer."
They exchanged names, quietly marveling at the coincidence. They'd been side by side on the treadmill just hours ago and hadn't exchanged a word—only to end up here, taking down thugs together on the subway.
Owen was genuinely surprised by Sarah's intervention. First, he hadn't noticed she was even in the same car. Second, in America, doing the right thing had risks. If they had gone too far and seriously injured the thugs, they could've faced lawsuits.
Owen was a public servant—his role demanded action. But Sarah was just a civilian. Though clearly capable of defending herself, those men hadn't targeted her directly. She had every right to stay out of it.
And yet—she didn't.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Enjoying the story? Support the author and get early access to chapters by joining my Patre@n!Find me at: patre@n*com/Mutter
You can read each novel for $5 or get them all for just $15.
I Am Zeus, KING OF GODS (Chapter 79)
Fairy Tail: Igneel's Eldest Son (Chapter 391)
I Am Thalos, Odin's Older Brother (Chapter 471)
Reborn in America's Anti-Terror Unit (Chapter 677)
Solomon in Marvel (Chapter 1059)
Becoming the Wealthiest Tycoon on the Planet (Chapter 1418)
Surgical Fruit in the American Comics Universe (Chapter 1422)
American Detective: From TV Rookie to Seasoned Cop (Chapter 1452)
American TV Writer (Chapter 1504)
I Am Hades, The Supreme GOD of the Underworld!(Chapter 570)
Reborn as Humanity's Emperor Across the Multiverse (Chapter 703)
[+50 Power Stones = +1 Extra Chapter][+5 Reviews = +1 Extra Chapter]