Avalon, as always, was steady.
Lorna stood behind the counter, a notepad half-filled with ramen stock notes as the teens trickled in. She handed a fresh cup of water to Marvin and reminded Faith she had two minutes left on the arcade machine. Jamar wandered in next, already unwrapping a snack with one hand and waving hello with the other. Everything ran smooth. Peaceful.
She glanced at the bodega clock—John and Bob were still out. She didn't mind. Avalon was her anchor now, and the steady rhythm of friendly chatter and occasional soda fizz filled the air like background music.
Outside the window, the street was calm. In here, Avalon was something else entirely: a sanctuary in a city of chaos.
Meanwhile, just a few blocks away, John and Bob made their way through a quieter part of the neighborhood. It wasn't abandoned—just forgotten. Cracked sidewalks, paint-peeled doors, and the long sigh of rusted signage framed their route. Bob kept his hands in his coat pockets, his face unusually solemn.
"You sure about this guy?" John asked as they reached a faded red door wedged between a dry cleaner and a shuttered music shop.
Bob nodded. "I met him when I was younger—when I was training. He's… different. But not in a bad way."
John looked at the building. "Doesn't look like much."
"Neither do you," Bob smirked, and knocked.
The door opened with a hollow creak—and what lay beyond was a world apart.
Inside, the building transformed. Warm light spilled from shaded lanterns, casting gentle shadows over polished wooden floors. The air smelled of incense—earthy, calming. The room stretched deeper than it should have, its walls lined with vertical Chinese inscriptions in black ink. John stepped in, eyes wide, drawn to a massive golden dragon coiled across the back wall in an elegant, sweeping arc. Its head faced forward, its body frozen in a perfect curve, scales brushed in gold leaf.
Wooden training dummies shaped like tigers lined the far wall. Every inch of the room hummed with the discipline of age.
John stopped. His eyes settled on a set of characters carved into one of the pillars near the entrance. They stirred something.
"…These symbols," he muttered. "They look… like what's on the Tiger Gloves."
Bob nodded once. "You're not wrong."
Then, from behind a woven screen, a man emerged.
He looked twenty-five or twenty-six, barefoot, dressed in a clean white gi. His blond hair was tied back, and his movements flowed like water. He moved not with grace alone, but with stillness. Purpose. Presence.
His gaze met John's.
"You must be John Cruz," he said, and bowed slightly. "Welcome."
John nodded slowly, instinctively bowing back. "Danny?"
"Just Danny," he replied. "This is my dojo."
Bob stepped forward and grinned. "Still quiet as ever."
Danny gave a rare smile. "You're louder than ever."
John took a breath. "Bob said you could help."
Danny led them toward a bamboo mat near the dragon mural. As they sat, Danny poured tea from a small kettle. The silence in the room was not awkward—it was intentional.
"I came back to America," Danny said, "to resolve what I left behind. I traveled far to learn… and farther to understand. But the things I walked away from didn't die. They waited."
He turned his gaze to John.
"And now, they're reaching again."
Danny's eyes flicked to Bob. "You still have it?"
Bob pulled out a small object from beneath his shirt—an old medallion on a black cord. The Tiger Medallion, its surface glowing faintly in the dojo's light.
Danny exhaled. "That's why they attacked you."
John leaned forward. "They?"
Danny nodded. "Not random thugs. Followers of Master Khan."
The name dropped heavy between them.
"Master Khan is known in certain circles," Danny said quietly. "A mystical collector. He doesn't just want power. He wants things that can't be bought. Talismans, weapons, texts. If it resonates, he wants it. Not to protect—to possess."
He gestured to the medallion. "That's one of three. All tied to the Tiger Lineage. No one knows what they unlock—but Khan wants to find out."
John stared. "Where do they come from?"
Danny hesitated. "Not from here. Not from any place you'd call… normal." He paused. "Let's just say I've seen the gates."
"And Khan?"
Danny's expression darkened. "Last I heard, somewhere in Asia. But the ones who attacked Bob? Not Khan himself. One of his underlings, probably trying to impress him. Gain favor."
Bob muttered, "They almost cracked my ribs for it."
Danny gave a solemn nod. "And if they'd succeeded, Khan would be one step closer to what he wants."
They sat in silence for a moment before John asked the question forming in his chest.
"You and Bob—you've known each other long?"
Danny smiled faintly. "Bob trained with my master once. Years ago. Back when I was still learning how to breathe through pain." His expression softened. "My master is gone now. I inherited his mantle."
"Iron Fist?" John guessed.
Danny didn't deny it. "The title. The weight."
Bob leaned back. "He's being modest."
Danny turned to John again. "I didn't ask you here to train you. Not yet. But you needed to know what you're holding. That glove… the gloves are part of something older than we understand."
John looked at his hands, the weight of that legacy now heavier than leather and steel.
"And what do we do now?"
Danny stood. "We prepare."
The next hour passed in physical silence but spiritual noise. Danny guided John through the stances: Tiger's Leap, Whiskered Claw, Earthspike Strike. But he didn't stop there.
"Feel your intention," Danny would say. "Don't move your arms—move your breath."
John staggered, adjusted, adapted. He began to feel how each move linked to the medallion, to the inscriptions. It wasn't about power. It was about focus, memory, honor.
"You're not just fighting to win," Danny said. "You're fighting to protect something that must remain hidden."
John was sweating, gasping, but nodded.
As twilight crept across the windows, Danny finally sat again. Bob handed John a cloth to wipe his face.
"Thank you," John said between breaths.
Danny nodded once. "I'll let you know when it's time. For now, keep the medallion safe. Train with purpose."
John stood, the dojo's peace wrapping around his exhaustion like a second wind.
"We'll be ready."
Danny looked past them, toward the golden dragon, its painted eyes seemingly alive.
"I hope so."
Back at Avalon, Lorna greeted them with a raised eyebrow.
"Have a good walk?"
John smiled tiredly. "Good enough."
Bob gave a half-grin and tapped the medallion under his shirt. "We've got a new player on the board."
Lorna leaned against the counter. "And what game are we playing?"
John looked toward the backroom, where his gloves rested on a shelf beside old family photos.
"One where we don't let anyone take what doesn't belong to them."