A group of bikers target a teenager, clueless about his true identity—and they quickly regret their mistake…

The burly man took another step forward, raising a hand to shove Michael. What happened next was so fast, so unexpected, that even the bikers weren’t ready for it. But Michael was.

The burly biker’s hand shot forward, aiming to shove Michael’s shoulder. But before it could connect, Michael shifted to the side with practiced precision, his body moving like a spring released. The biker stumbled slightly, caught off guard, but Michael didn’t stop there.

In one fluid motion, Michael stepped forward, his open palm striking the man’s wrist and twisting it away. The biker grunted in pain, his hand dropping to his side as he stepped back, glaring at Michael with fury in his eyes. What the… The man started, but before he could finish, Michael spoke.

I warned you, Michael said, his voice calm but firm. The two other bikers rushed forward, clearly not taking the warning seriously. The first swung a wild punch, but Michael ducked easily, his movements smooth and deliberate.

He countered with a sharp kick to the man’s knee, sending him crumpling to the ground with a cry of pain. The second man hesitated for a split second, just long enough for Michael to pivot on his heel and deliver a spinning kick to the side of his ribs. The force knocked the wind out of him, and he staggered backward, clutching his side.

By now the burly leader had recovered, his face red with anger. He lunged at Michael, swinging both fists like a brawler. But Michael didn’t meet brute force with brute force.

He stayed light on his feet, dodging the punches with the kind of agility that came from years of training. A crowd began to gather at the edge of the park. Parents, kids, even soccer players stopped what they were doing to watch.

Someone had pulled out a phone, the lens capturing every second of what was unfolding. The leader charged again, this time trying to grab Michael by the lapel of his suit jacket. But Michael moved faster, twisting out of his grip and delivering a precise strike to the man’s solar plexus.

The biker stumbled backward, gasping for air, his tough exterior cracking in the face of Michael’s calm control. Enough, Michael said, his voice loud enough to echo across the park. His stance remained strong, but his expression showed no malice, only resolve.

I don’t want to hurt you. Walk away. For a moment, it seemed like the bikers might listen.

The leader wheezed, holding his chest as he glared at Michael. The two others were still on the ground, one clutching his knee and the other his ribs. The tension in the air was thick, but Michael didn’t flinch…