The warehouse was silent.
Steel beams arched overhead like the ribs of some long-dead beast. It smelled of rust, old sweat, and the faint burn of oil. Kazahiro stood in the center of the concrete floor, shifting from foot to foot, eyes wide as he took in the space. Goro hadn't said a word since they arrived.
The man walked ahead, his heavy boots echoing off the walls. He stopped near a stack of sandbags and crates, then turned.
"Throw a punch."
Kazahiro blinked. "What?"
"A punch," Goro said. "The same way you do on the street. Like you're trying to hurt me."
Kazahiro hesitated, then clenched his fists. He stepped forward and swung. It was wild — all rage and instinct. Goro didn't even flinch. He caught the punch in his palm like it was nothing.
"Exactly what I expected," he said. "You fight like a cornered dog. Lots of bark. No structure."
Kazahiro's pride burned. "I've survived more fights than—"
"Than who?" Goro cut in. "Kids with no training? Drunks in the alley? You're not surviving, you're barely existing. You swing hoping something lands. In a real fight, that gets you killed."
Kazahiro opened his mouth to argue — then shut it.
Because deep down, he knew Goro was right.
That night marked the beginning. Not of training — but of unlearning. Goro didn't let him punch again for two weeks. Instead, he watched.
He watched Goro move through drills: simple stances, light footwork, movements that flowed like water but struck like steel. Goro never explained much. He only demonstrated. And every night, after Kazahiro returned to his broken home, he'd mimic the motions in silence until sleep took him.
His mother barely noticed he was gone most days. His father hadn't been home in weeks. The streets whispered, laughed, spat — but Kazahiro didn't care. Not anymore.
Then came the first real lesson.
"Jeet Kune Do isn't about form," Goro said, walking circles around him. "It's about formlessness. Directness. Simplicity. You are the weapon. The technique is just how you wield it."
They started small. Intercepting. Redirecting. Minimal movement, maximum damage.
Kazahiro failed. Repeatedly.
He was knocked down. Shoved. Humiliated. But not once did he complain. Something colder than pain had taken root in him. It wasn't pride that made him rise each time — it was purpose.
And then came the fight.
It wasn't official. Just a scrappy local tournament in a rundown garage. Goro threw him in without warning.
Kazahiro's opponent was a lanky teen with a sharp grin and a cruel edge. No rules. No rounds. Just pain.
Kazahiro lost.
He was outclassed. Not by skill — but by calm. The other boy never panicked, never flinched. Kazahiro's wildness returned in the heat, and it cost him. A final elbow to the jaw sent him crumpling.
He woke up with a ringing in his ears and blood in his mouth. Goro was sitting nearby, cigarette smoldering between his fingers.
"You were too emotional," Goro said.
Kazahiro wanted to scream. Cry. Hit something.
But he didn't.
"I know," he said.
Goro nodded once. "Good. Then we start again."
---