In the smoky alleyways where shadows spoke louder than men, a young apprentice stared up at his master, the seasoned thug—a figure of iron will, scarred knuckles, and a voice like gravel underfoot.
"Master," the apprentice said, fire in his voice. "I want to become a great thug."
The master leaned against the crumbling wall, a faint smile flickering beneath his grizzled beard. "Why?"
"So that no one can ever raise a hand against me again."
The master laughed—a low, rumbling sound like distant thunder.
"You think strength is the answer?"
But the apprentice's eyes were fierce, his fists already bruised by the cruel lessons of the street.
Silence swept between them, the smoke of the alley winding around their words.
Then, after a pause—a heartbeat, an eternity—the apprentice spoke again.
"No," he whispered, his voice now softer, almost tender. "I want to become the greatest thug in the world."
The master’s gaze sharpened, curiosity awakening beneath his weary eyes. "And now? Why?"
The apprentice’s voice wavered, but his words struck like a blade.
"So no one can ever raise a hand against anyone again."
The master’s smile vanished, replaced by something deeper—a shadow of understanding.
"Ah, boy," he murmured, pushing off the wall and placing a heavy hand on the apprentice's shoulder. "Then you do not seek strength. You seek justice...a truth crueler than any blade."
The alley seemed quieter now, the smoke thinning, and the master’s grip felt both like a burden and a blessing.
"Come then," the master whispered. "To carry that weight, you will need more than fists."
