Two days before the flight.
Ashan had just finished sealing the last zipper on his second suitcase when the sound of keys twisting in the front door echoed through the apartment. It clicked open and shut, his dad was home.
"Why the hell are there two suitcases in the hallway?"
His dad's voice cut through the air like a blade: half-curious, half-suspicious.
Ashan stepped out from the bedroom, trying to keep his breathing even. "I'm flying out. To Japan. Two days."
Shehan Korr froze at the foot of the hallway. He looked down at the bags, then at his son. "What are you talkin' about?"
Ashan swallowed. "I got invited. Jerry, the guy I tokd you about helped set it up. I didn't tell anyone because I... I needed to be sure I earned it."
Silence.
Then footsteps.
Ashan's mom entered from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her eyes darted between them. "What flight? What Japan? What are you saying?"
Ashan straightened. "I'm going. It's real, Ma. I trained for this. I'm ready."
Her face crumbled. "You're not ready! You're barely eighteen, Ashan! You're a boy, not some fighter in a movie. What if something happens? What if-"
"He's a man," Shehan said calmly.
They both turned.
Shehan's arms were crossed, face unreadable, but his voice held finality. "Eighteen. He made a choice. He's doin' what I never had the guts to do."
Ashan's mother stared at him, betrayal and fear flickering in her eyes. But she didn't argue. She just turned away slowly, muttering to herself as she vanished into the kitchen.
Then Shehan looked at Ashan.
"Put your shoes on."
Ashan blinked. "What?"
"You heard me." His dad was already slipping on his beat-up sneakers. "You wanna go to Japan and fight real killers, you better show me what you got first."
They didn't speak on the walk.
The sun was dipping behind the buildings in Queens, the orange glow painting long shadows across the cracked sidewalks. A few blocks later, they reached the old lot, overgrown grass, broken concrete, chain-link fence rusted from years of rain. Ashan had come here as a kid a couple times, kicking cans and throwing pretend punches in the air.
Tonight it would be real.
His dad pulled off his jacket and dropped it on the dirt.
Ashan followed suit.
Shehan rolled his neck. "Show me what the last few years did for you."
Ashan nodded, bouncing lightly on his feet, then lunged forward with a sharp left jab. Fast, tight, no wasted motion.
But Shehan barely tilted his head to the side. Dodged it like smoke.
Ashan threw a right straight, then a feint into a left side kick, his dad stepped around it like he knew it before it came.
"C'mon," Shehan muttered. "You're telegraphin'."
Ashan gritted his teeth and surged forward with a flurry: hooks, knees, spinning back fist, but Shehan slipped each strike with minimal effort, countering only once, an open palm smack to Ashan's ribs that knocked the breath clean out of him.
"You can't just throw pretty punches and expect 'em to land. You gotta feel the rhythm. Break it."
Ashan dropped low, grabbing at his dad's legs, driving into the grass to try and get a takedown.
But Shehan sprawled expertly, forcing Ashan down face-first, then letting him up with a slap to the back of the head. "Sloppy. Too eager."
Ashan stood, panting now.
He came again. This time more composed, trying to feint high, then spin into a sweep.
Shehan caught the leg mid-air.
Ashan's eyes widened, and in the next second, he was on his back staring at the dusky sky.
His dad hovered over him, breathing steady. "That it?"
Ashan wiped dirt from his face and stood. "No."
One more charge. One more combo. He used everything. Timing, footwork, aggression, deception.
He landed one hit. A solid jab that tapped Shehan's cheek.
Then came the elbow to his chest, the trip behind his heel, and once again Ashan was down.
This time, Shehan didn't offer a hand.
He just looked down.
"There's always a bigger fish," he said.
Ashan lay there, breathing hard, arms outstretched like a crucifix.
Shehan finally crouched beside him. "That's what I needed to see. You don't back down, even when you're outclassed. That's the only way you survive in this world."
Ashan turned his head toward him. "You... you used to fight, right? I mean, for real?"
Shehan gave a quiet chuckle.
"I was the best fighter from Korr Island. And I don't say that with pride. Fought bareknuckle, fought for food. For respect. Even fought a little in East Asia... but that story ain't for today."
Ashan's mouth opened slightly.
His dad looked over at him with a smirk. "Who do you think bought you all those Bruce Lee tapes, boy?"
Ashan chuckled breathlessly, still on the ground.
Shehan leaned back and stared at the stars starting to twinkle through the gaps in the Queens skyline. "I saw something in you before you saw it in yourself. I always knew you'd chase something bigger."
They sat in silence for a while, both catching their breath.
Then Shehan stood and extended a hand.
Ashan took it.
"You'll go to Japan," Shehan said. "You'll get hit harder than ever before. You'll lose. But if you survive... you'll come back something else entirely."
Ashan looked at him, eyes burning with tired fire.
"I won't come back the same," he said.
Shehan nodded. "Good. Don't."
They walked back to the apartment in silence.
Two days left.
But tonight, Ashan had already crossed a threshold.
And from here on, there was no going back.
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