Ryu – 11 years and 8 months
The city smells like metal and fried oil today.
Ryu walks uphill with a bag over his shoulder, boots scuffing the cracked pavement. Afternoon light hits the windows just enough that he has to squint when he looks up.
Haim had shoved the bag at him without much ceremony.
"Delivery for Ragos on Pit Lane," he'd said, wiping his hands on a rag. "Don't drop it. Don't let anyone else open it. If someone bothers you, tell them they don't pay your medical bills."
"Touching concern," Ryu had said.
"Concern for the parts," Haim had corrected. "You're extra."
So here he is. Pit Lane.
The street earned the name honestly. It's a dip between two denser rows of buildings, a narrow channel where old rainwater smell just sits. Workshop signs jut out above the alleyway like crooked teeth. Half the doors are rolled-up metal shutters, half are open gaps with tools hanging inside.
Ryu keeps his steps even. Not slow enough to look afraid. Not fast enough to look like he's running from something. Bag strap across his chest, one hand on the bottom to keep it stable.
He feels the old man's voice in the back of his head.
Feet on lines. Center first.
He doesn't need tape anymore. It's in his legs.
Ragos' place is toward the low end of the lane. A metal sign with peeling paint: "RAGOS – CUSTOM FITTINGS / METALWORK."
He spots it easily.
He also spots the problem.
Three guys loiter outside the workshop, too close to the doorway to be "just standing there." Late teens, maybe early twenties. Work boots, dirty jackets. One has grease on his face that clearly didn't come from actual work.
Their eyes click onto him as he approaches.
Great.
He keeps walking. Forward line. Weight steady.
One of them, the one with the grease, grins and pushes off the wall.
"Hey," he says. "Delivery boy. Heavy bag for arms that thin."
His tone is light. His eyes aren't.
Ryu glances at the door. It's half-open, shadow inside. No sign of Ragos yet.
He stops at a distance where he can still move. Not too close. Not too far. He lets the bag hang, both hands on it now.
"Shop's that way," Ryu says. "If you're lost."
Grease-face steps closer, eyes flicking to the bag.
"We could help you carry that," he says.
"I'm managing," Ryu says.
He keeps his voice dry, not sharp. Sharp makes some people try harder.
Another guy snorts from the side. This one's taller, wiry, with a scar on his chin.
"Kids like you shouldn't be running around with things people might want," he says.
Ryu's pulse ticks up a notch. He feels it in his neck.
Old man's voice again: See first.
He notes distances.
Grease-face: three small steps away, weight on front leg, shoulders loose.Scar-chin: off to his left, leaning on the wall, one foot propped back. Relaxed, but angled.Third guy: quiet, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Watching, not talking. Back leg loaded like he's ready to step.
They're not random idiots.
Great.
Ryu's fingers tighten on the bag strap.
"If people want this, they can ask Haim to make them one," he says. "Cheaper than breaking their fingers on my face."
Scar-chin laughs, short and sharp.
"You hear that?" he says to the others. "Workshop dog bites now."
Grease-face reaches out and taps the bag with two fingers.
"Relax," he says. "We're just curious. Ragos is busy. We can take that in for you."
Ryu moves the bag slightly back, out of reach. Small motion. No big swing.
"Funny," he says. "Ragos told Haim last time that if anyone 'helped' with his deliveries, he'd stop paying."
He's lying, but confidently.
Grease-face's eyes narrow. His hand drops.
"He say that?" he asks.
Ryu doesn't blink. "You want to test it on your paycheck?"
For a second, there's silence.
Then a rough voice comes from inside the workshop.
"Who's blocking my door?" someone barks.
Ragos, probably.
Scar-chin straightens, pushing off the wall.
"No one," he calls back. "Just saying hi to your kid courier."
"Well, say hi from somewhere that isn't my doorway," Ragos snaps.
Grease-face's jaw tightens. His eyes flick from the door to Ryu and back.
The line in the air shifts.
Ryu feels the change. He's seen it before—when someone wants to save face and can't hit the person they really want.
Grease-face steps in anyway, ignoring the door now. He reaches out, not for the bag this time, but for Ryu's shoulder.
The old version of Ryu would have flinched straight back.
This one doesn't.
He moves on the tape lines that aren't there.
As the hand comes in, Ryu steps slightly to his own right, weight sliding along an invisible side line. At the same time, he turns his torso just enough that the grab slides past his chest instead of landing solid.
Grease-face's hand snags air and a bit of fabric.
For a moment, his center flies just ahead of his feet.
Ryu doesn't have to think hard.
Axis. Line. Break.
He lets go of the bag with one hand, taps Grease-face's knee just above the shin with his foot, and gives a short shove at the shoulder with his spare hand.
It's not big. Not dramatic.
But the guy's weight was already forward.
His foot scuffs the ground. He stumbles, catching himself a step later.
Not a fall. Just a stumble. Just enough.
Scar-chin pushes off the wall now, eyes colder.
"You're getting bold, kid," he says.
Ryu's heart hammers, but his breathing stays controlled. He shifts his grip back to the bag, bringing it close to his body. He angles his stance so both of them are in front of him.
"I'm trying not to get stepped on," he says. "There's a difference."
The third guy, the quiet one, finally speaks.
"We're wasting time," he says. His voice is low, bored. "Let him through. We can talk to Ragos ourselves."
He sounds like someone who's thinking about work, not petty games.
Grease-face looks like he wants to push it. His shoulders are tight now, jaw clenched, cheeks red.
Ryu watches his fists. No clenching. Just flexing.
Scar-chin sighs, like this whole thing is suddenly beneath him.
"Get inside," he tells Ryu, stepping aside, giving him a narrow corridor between them and the door. "We're not here for you today."
Ryu doesn't argue.
He moves.
Small step forward, along that imaginary line. He keeps them both in his peripheral vision as he passes. His center stays under him, hands steady on the bag.
No one takes a swing.
He slips into the workshop, pulse loud in his ears.
Inside, it's cooler. Smells like metal dust and hot oil. Light comes from hanging lamps, not windows. A heavyset man with gray in his beard sits at a workbench, goggles pushed up, scowling.
Ragos.
His eyes flick to the door, then to Ryu, then to the bag.
"You Haim's kid?" he asks.
"Unfortunately," Ryu says. "He sent this."
He carefully sets the bag on a clear part of the bench, lowering it with bent knees instead of dumping it. His legs still feel the echo of the stumble he caused outside.
Ragos opens the bag, checks the contents with quick, practised movements. He grunts once, satisfied.
"Did those idiots say anything?" he asks, jerking his chin toward the door.
"Offered to 'help' with the delivery," Ryu says.
Ragos' lip curls.
"They can help by leaving," he mutters. "They owe me money they don't have. Think standing around looking tough will change that."
So that's the context.
"Want me to tell Haim anything?" Ryu asks.
"Tell him the parts are fine," Ragos says. "And if he starts using kids even scrawnier than you, I'm charging extra for stress."
"Motivating," Ryu says.
Ragos snorts.
"Go out the back," he adds. "Less drama."
Ryu nods. Back exit. Good.
He leaves through the rear door, stepping into a cramped yard full of scrap and old components. The alley beyond is narrow but empty. It spits him out onto a different street, away from Pit Lane.
He exhales slowly, unclenching his jaw.
His right hand is still buzzing faintly from the shoulder shove. His left shin remembers the contact with the other guy's leg.
He reruns it in his head.
Grease-face stepping in, off-balance, weight too far forward.
His own side-step. The tap at the knee. The shove at the shoulder.
Small break. Clean opening.
He hadn't even thought about punching.
Control first. Damage later.
It's exactly what the old man drilled.
Old Man POV
The bell on the shop door rings with its usual cheap chime.
He doesn't look up right away. Tiny screws demand his attention. If he drops one, it'll vanish into the cracks in the floor forever.
"Back already?" he says.
He hears bare feet on the boards. Then the small exhale the boy always does when he's had a day.
"Yes," Ryu says. "No one bought me. Haim will be disappointed."
The old man sets the screwdriver down and finally looks up.
The kid's shirt is slightly damp around the collar. Nothing unusual. His breathing is normal. No limp. No clutching at ribs. No split lip.
But his eyes are a little sharper. Wider awake.
"Something happened," the old man says.
It's not a question.
Ryu shrugs one shoulder as he closes the door.
"Just some guys outside Ragos' place trying to look important," he says. "One of them decided my bag looked interesting."
The old man raises an eyebrow.
"And?"
"I didn't like his hand on my shoulder," Ryu says. "So I moved. He lost his footing a little."
Ryu says it casually, but his hands flex once at his sides as he talks, like his body remembers the contact.
"How?" the old man asks.
Ryu's gaze drops briefly to the floor between them. His eyes trace where tape used to be.
"I stepped off his line," he says slowly. "Sideways. Not back. His weight kept going forward. I tapped his leg, shove on the shoulder. Nothing big. He just… had to catch himself."
The old man watches him a moment longer.
Footwork. Awareness. Stance choice. He hears it between the kid's words.
"You didn't hit him?" he asks.
"No," Ryu says. "Door opened. Someone yelled. They changed their minds."
Smart.
"And your legs?" the old man asks. "Any shaking?"
"A little after," Ryu admits. "Not when it mattered."
Good.
He nods once.
"That," he says, "is what the stupid tape is for."
Ryu snorts.
"I noticed," he says.
The old man jerks his chin at the open floor.
"Shoes off," he says. "Since you used Hongan-ryu outside without falling on your face, we might as well see if any of it stuck."
Ryu POV
He drops his boots by the door, steps back onto the old boards. His feet know where the chalk square used to be. Where the tape lines ran.
"Square or cross?" he asks.
"Both," the old man says. "Square first. Then cross. Then maybe, if you don't annoy me, we add hands."
Ryu steps into the invisible box, sets his stance, and lets his weight settle over his center.