.....
The rain didn't fall — it roared. As if the sky itself was mourning. Somewhere in the silent dark of a worn-down gym, a pair of fists struck leather with enough force to shake dust from the rafters.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Each punch echoed like a war drum. And at the center of it stood a man — eyes burning, body scarred, soul forged in hellfire.
James Hajun.
Age: 22.
But his story didn't begin here. No, it began eleven years ago — in blood.
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Eleven Years Ago
Back then, James was just eleven. His world was his mother's warm smile, and his father's towering frame — Hajun, the undefeated boxer. A hero. Not just in the ring, but in the streets.
They called him "The Legendary Fist." The one man who didn't just throw punches — he threw principles. Hajun stood tall against drugs, corruption, and the filth infecting the youth. He was the fire the next generation warmed themselves on.
But fire... attracts enemies.
And one day — that fire cost him everything.
James watched as his mother was murdered, shot in the crossfire of a warning meant for Hajun. And before the blood dried, the mafias snatched James away into a nightmare.
Tied. Tortured. Terrified.
They didn't want ransom. They wanted revenge. They wanted Hajun broken — body and soul.
So they made an offer:
"You want your son? Pay with your legs."
And Hajun did. The legend, the undefeated warrior, the man whose footwork danced like poetry — let them shatter his legs. Not once. Not twice. Until the bones were dust.
They laughed as he screamed.
And when they were done, they tossed James back like garbage. Because to them, he was nothing. Just a scared kid. Just a broken man's burden.
They underestimated two things:
A lion is still a lion, even crippled.
And even a baby lion... will one day rule the jungle.
---
George. The Street Legend.
What the mafias didn't count on — was George.
While they lay low, licking blood off their teeth, George rose in the underworld like a ghost in fire. He didn't bark. He didn't talk. He burned through their networks, smashing labs, disappearing dealers, leaving only a message:
"This city belongs to the clean."
Out of fear, the mafias vanished into shadows. For eleven years, they stayed quiet.
But recently… George died.
Or so the whispers say.
And like vultures sensing weakness, the drug lords returned, crawling out from the sewers, hungrier than ever.
---
Present Day. The Gym. The Fire.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
James's fists bled — not from pain, but from memory.
Behind him, in a rusted wheelchair, sat Hajun. His body broken, but his eyes sharper than ever.
"Again," Hajun said.
James grunted. Dropped into pushups — one-fingered. Then to punches. Then to bag work with chains. He trained in snow. He trained on glass. He trained while injured.
11 years. No parties. No school. No distractions.
Just his father's teachings — and one goal: "Erase drugs. From the roots."
There was no room for weakness. He fought trained men blindfolded. He sprinted uphill with sandbags. He broke stones with bare fists. He memorized every known gang symbol, hierarchy, route.
His father didn't just train him to fight — he trained him to think, to read, to hunt.
---
That Night.
Hajun wheeled closer. His voice calm, but deep with weight.
"The world you're stepping into isn't fair, James."
"I know."
"They won't give you justice."
"I'll take it."
"You'll be hated."
"Then they'll fear me."
Hajun looked away, to the cracked photo of their family on the wall.
"This isn't just revenge. This is war. This is legacy."
James pulled on his hoodie. Tightened the laces on his shoes. And for the first time in 11 years, he opened the gym door.
Outside, the city was already burning — rumors, chaos, drugs flowing again like poisoned rivers.
He didn't flinch.
Because the baby lion… was now a beast.
And unlike others, he had a promise to keep.
.....