*Bang!*
In that brief moment of distraction, Anson felt a tremendous force slam into his chest. The brute, like a charging rhinoceros, had rammed his head into Anson's chest, taking advantage of Anson's unguarded moment and knocking him to the ground.
Damn!
Ignoring the pain, Anson had only one thought in his mind: the fear that the brute would catch up to the boy and his mother.
"Jack, don't look back."
Whatever you do, don't look back—just run as far and as fast as you can.
Anson quickly scrambled to his feet, relieved to see that the brute wasn't pursuing them. But he remained on high alert, his eyes locked on the brute before him. The metallic taste of blood lingered on his tongue, and his chest heaved like a bellows, but paradoxically, he felt a calmness settle over him.
"So, are you ready? Now you've found a worthy opponent."
The brute snapped, charging at Anson with a feral scream, mouth wide open.
Like a raging bull.
But Anson, nimble as a matador, sidestepped easily, grabbing the brute's shoulder and arm and using the man's momentum to shove him forward.
The brute lost his balance, stumbling awkwardly before being pulled down by gravity, crashing heavily to the ground.
A mess.
In contrast, Anson moved with light, confident steps, having regained his composure. His half-year of grueling training for "Spider-Man" had paid off, and while he wasn't a martial arts master, dealing with a brute who relied solely on raw power was a walk in the park.
The brute, feeling insulted, scrambled to his feet like a wild animal, hands and feet flailing.
"Aaaargh!"
He roared again, adopting a boxer's stance like Rocky, guarding his head with his fists, ready to strike.
But he never imagined that to Anson, this display was no threat at all.
Dodge, dodge again—Anson easily evaded the brute's punches, and after the brute had swung and missed repeatedly, he was nearly off balance. This gave Anson his opening. Lowering his center of gravity, Anson aimed for the brute's abdomen, delivering a rapid series of punches.
*Bang!*
*Bang, bang, bang!*
Like pounding a heavy bag, the brute staggered back, unable to stand firm, until he was sent reeling, finally tumbling backward and rolling away.
But Anson wasn't about to let up. He took a stance, ready to advance.
The brute, now thoroughly shaken, scrambled backward like a spider, eyes wide with fear as he stared at Anson. After a moment of tense standoff, he panicked, turning tail and fleeing in the opposite direction from where the boy and his mother had gone.
Anson didn't let him off easily.
"Run!"
"Run with everything you've got, or I'll beat you every time I see you."
Anger burned fiercely in his chest.
Only when the brute's stumbling figure vanished from sight did Anson turn away, heading in the direction the boy and his mother had fled.
Incidents like this couldn't be resolved with a one-off intervention; the root of the problem required legal and official help. If he could find the boy, Anson would urge them to get a medical assessment and report the incident to the police, to make sure there was a record.
Otherwise, that man wouldn't stay quiet for long.
However, as he hurried on, scanning every corner, he found himself in a bustling area. Cars and people surged around him, but there was no sign of the boy or his mother. He pushed on for another two streets, checking every nook and cranny, but saw no familiar faces.
Panting heavily, Anson stood on the street, hands on his knees, gulping air as his lungs burned and his muscles throbbed. The sudden emptiness after the adrenaline rush was a stark reminder of reality, and he felt the ground solid beneath his feet once more.
Gravity weighed on his ankles, his knees trembling slightly.
It was heavy, and it was exhausting, but it was real.
Maybe they had hidden away; maybe they had truly escaped.
That was good. At least for today, they wouldn't be found.
*Honk!*
"Damn it!"
"Can't you see the green light? Are you trying to get yourself killed? If you want to die, no one's stopping you—cut down on the carbon emissions. But do it somewhere else and stop ruining my day!"
A torrent of angry words rained down like a storm.
Anson snapped back to reality, his mind and soul reeling back into his body, and instinctively scanned the area, thinking he was in the middle of the road blocking traffic—
But he wasn't.
He was standing safely on the sidewalk, not obstructing any drivers.
So then...
He saw an elderly woman, her hair white as snow, fumbling into the road. She was holding a deep brown grocery bag from which apples and oranges had spilled, rolling onto the street. In her reflex to retrieve them, she had stepped into the road, startling the oncoming cars.
Anson's heart settled back into his chest, and he momentarily set aside his own turmoil. At the end of this series of harrowing events, he didn't have time to gather his thoughts. He quickly stepped forward to help the old lady, who was apologizing repeatedly but was clearly flustered, while the driver, leaning out of his car, continued his angry rant.
"Sorry, really sorry."
Taking a deep breath, Anson tried to calm his racing heart, then swiftly began picking up the apples and oranges scattered on the ground.
But the driver wouldn't let it go. "Damn it, if old people lose their minds, they should stay home and die—what's the point of coming out and causing trouble…"
On and on he went, his words growing harsher, until Anson couldn't take it anymore.
"Shut up!"
With a swift turn, Anson barked back.
"Enough! Don't act like you're never going to grow old. Otherwise, it won't be long before someone's shouting at you the same way, you worthless jerk."
His sharp retort hit the driver head-on.
Seeing the driver's face flush with anger, he rolled up his sleeves, clearly ready to throw a punch. But Anson wasn't intimidated. He followed suit, rolling up his sleeves and walking straight toward him.
"What? You want to fight?"
"Fine by me. Let's go."
His rationality was still derailed, and he needed an outlet. It didn't matter if it wasn't the brute from before—anyone would do. He just wanted to release the pent-up frustration and anger inside him. Now that someone had presented themselves as a target, why would he hold back?
Anson didn't hesitate. He strode forward with purpose, his menacing demeanor causing the driver to freeze. Goosebumps erupted all over the man's skin as he quickly shut the car door, hastily rolling up the window. He muttered to himself, but his voice never rose above a whisper.
The driver glanced at Anson, only to see the murderous intent in his eyes, and immediately chickened out. He quietly closed his mouth, swallowing his complaints, and pretended nothing had happened, whistling nonchalantly as he looked up at the sky.
The noise, gone.
With that brief moment of release, Anson's reason slowly returned, the torrent of emotions gradually settling down.
Even so, Anson didn't leave right away. He stood his ground, silently staring at the driver, his gaze conveying his message:
So, are you sure you don't want to fight?