Return of the Supreme: Who Dares Touch My Wife and Child!

The wind howling through Forge Valley carried the acrid stench of cheap synthetic oil.

Five years. I stood at the entrance to District 7, staring down the block at a sputtering neon sign: "CLAIRE'S DINER". The dead bulb between the 'K' and 'E' made it look like an exhausted, half-shut eye. I tugged at the frayed collar of my faded leather jacket. My left leg, acting up in the damp chill, throbbed with a dull, wooden ache—like the joint was packed with rust-soaked cotton.

The old surgeon at the Military General Hospital had told me the bullet shattered the lateral fibular nerve bundle; walking at all was a miracle. I didn’t believe in miracles. I believed in ballistic trajectories and combat damage assessments. But for the past five years, I hadn't believed in a damn thing.

I dragged my useless leg forward. Neon halos bled into the greasy fog. A sickly, iridescent pink-green industrial runoff sludged through the gutters. Telephone poles were plastered with a mix of hooker ads and wanted posters. District 7 never changed.

And then, I saw Claire.

She was standing behind the food cart at the washbasin, bent over. The strings of her apron were tied in a crooked bow. Her shoulders looked narrower than five years ago, as if something invisible had cinched her bones tight. Her hair was hastily pulled back with a rubber band, damp strands clinging to her temples. She didn't see me. She was scrubbing fiercely at the charred bottom of a metal tray. Steam from the sink billowed into her face, tracking fine condensation on her eyelashes.

Squatting by her feet was a child.

The boy was painfully thin. The collar of his blue-striped t-shirt hung loose off his shoulder blades, his spine protruding knot by knot as he squatted. He clutched half of a broken plastic robot, pushing it back and forth through a puddle on the ground, making soft pew-pew noises. He was deeply engrossed, fighting a war only he could see.

I shifted forward, my boot crushing a loose piece of asphalt.

Claire’s head snapped up. Her gaze cut through the chaotic crowd and nailed me. The neon light flickered in her pupils. Then, she looked down. Her scrubbing sped up, the metal tray clattering sharply against the edge of the sink. She recognized me. She was pretending she hadn't.

A heavily modded van rumbled over the cracked pavement and slammed on its brakes next to the food cart. The doors burst open and three young punks jumped out. The leader sported a neon-green mohawk, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lip, and a cheap, blown-out skull tattoo on his left arm. He kicked the side of the cart, the aluminum panel letting out a dull reverberation.

"Clllaaaaire," he drawled. "Where's this week's quota?"

Claire’s hand gripped the edge of the sink. The faucet kept running; she didn't turn it off. Two seconds later, she slowly straightened up, wiped her hands on her apron, and pulled out a crumpled envelope. "Paul, I just paid you on Wednesday."

"Rules," Paul said, taking the cigarette from his mouth and tapping it against his thumbnail. "Weekly settlement, no credit. You're a penny short, this stall shuts down."

His two lackeys started drumming their fingers against the cart's exterior—thump, thump—lazy and erratic, like beating a busted drum.

"I really don't have any more cash," Claire said, keeping her voice low, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her apron. "Paul, please tell Mr. Voss for me—"

"Cut the bullshit." Paul raised his hand, jabbing the unlit cigarette toward her nose. "You got a problem, you tell him yourself."

He turned, his eyes landing on the kid. The boy was completely oblivious, still pushing his toy robot, the plastic carving crooked arcs in the dirty water. Paul sneered and pulled his leg back for a vicious kick.

The old injury flared, tearing at my hip joint the moment I took my first step, but I didn't stop. My stride wasn't long. I limped. But every step landed dead center on the solidest bricks of the pavement. Five years ago in Syria, I dragged this bullet-torn leg for four hundred meters, across three blast craters and a floor of exposed rebar, just to chase down a target. Compared to that, this was a five-star hotel corridor.

"Hey."

Paul's foot froze in mid-air. He looked back, sizing me up: the ragged jacket, the mud-caked pants, the slight limp. He smirked, tilting his head. "Who the fuck are you?"

Claire's head jerked up, her lips parting. I recognized the look in her eyes. I’d seen it on civilians cowering behind cover during firefights in Mogadishu—a blend of raw terror and the realization that a fragile peace was about to shatter.

"Ethan, don't—"

"It's fine," I cut her off.

Paul walked up to me. He was half a head shorter, but he had two good legs and two goons. He leaned in, sniffed, and jumped back with an exaggerated gag. "Jesus, did you crawl out of a sewer? Hey, boys, anyone know this trash? Your new boy-toy, Claire? Wait, Claire, don't you have a husband—"

His smirk froze. He looked at Claire, then back at me. The neon light washed over the side of my face.

"Fuck," he muttered, his chin tucking back. "You ain't dead?"

I didn't answer. I looked past his shoulder at Claire. She was biting her lower lip so hard it was bloodless, both hands clutching her apron. The kid finally looked up from his robot, glancing at his mom, then at me. His brown eyes held nothing but pure curiosity.

Paul took a step back and drew an expandable baton from his waistband. Clack. The steel rod snapped out into three sections, the metal tip gleaming with a dull matte finish.

"Right. The cripple is back," he said, weighing the baton in his hand. "Then I'll collect some late-fee interest on behalf of Mr. Voss."

His two lackeys moved too—a switchblade and a heavy chain.

Paul swung the baton.

I saw it coming. His shoulder dropped first—the classic tell of an amateur. Back in an alley behind a Jakarta nightclub, a guy had been three times faster than Paul. But even then, in the 0.3 seconds it took for his shoulder to dip, I had executed a three-hit combo: sidestep, block, elbow strike.

This time, I didn't need the combo.

The baton whistled past my jacket, hitting empty air. Unable to check his momentum, Paul stumbled toward me. I raised my right arm, slamming the outside of my forearm into the inside of his wrist, using his own kinetic energy to snap his arm in the opposite direction. His thumb and index finger went instantly numb. The baton flew from his grip, clanged violently against the metal cart, and bounced into the gutter.

Paul’s expression froze. The two lackeys stopped dead in their tracks, the knife and chain suspended in mid-air.

He took a step back, looking at his empty right hand, then at me. The color began to drain from his face.

"Get lost."

I didn't yell, but the word carried a low, lethal weight. Paul’s lips trembled. He turned and walked away fast, his goons scrambling after him. The van's engine roared to life, tires squealing as it vanished around the corner.

I stood there and rolled my right shoulder. I hadn't moved like that in five years; the rotator cuff popped audibly.

Then, I turned around.

Claire was still behind the cart, gripping her apron. There was a faint tooth mark on her lower lip. Her eyes were red, but she refused to let the tears fall. She stared at me, her lips parting and closing several times.

The kid stood up. Hugging his broken-armed robot, he walked up to her leg, looked up at her, and poked the hem of her apron with a skinny finger.

"Mommy," his voice was soft and thin. "He beat up the bad men. Who is he?"

Claire's gaze cut through the steam rising from the cart, through the crushing distance of the last five years, and finally rested on me.

"Ethan," her voice was hoarse. "You shouldn't have come back."

I looked at the child standing by her leg, looking up. I looked at those brown eyes—they were just like hers, but something in the details belonged to me. My throat felt like it was plugged with a block of red-hot iron.

"I'm back. I'm not leaving."

Claire finally let go of the apron. A tear dropped into the muddy puddle at her feet, leaving a tiny, invisible ripple.

The stove on the cart was still bubbling. The faucet was still running. The smell of synthetic grease and lemon soap mixed in the air, stinging the nose. The kid tilted his head and studied me for three seconds. Then, he raised the plastic robot, extending the broken arm toward me.

"You can play with it. His name is Digger. He fights bad guys."

I crouched down, dropping to one knee on the wet pavement, and took the dirty plastic toy. The paint was peeling, and the jagged edge of the broken right arm fit perfectly between my fingers.

"Thank you. Digger is very tough."

Milo grinned, showing two missing front teeth. The smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, creating little lines identical to his mother's.

I didn't look back, but I knew Claire was watching me. For the first time in five years, something frozen in my chest was slowly, clumsily beginning to thaw.

Across the street, on the second floor, behind a window covered in frosted film, the glare of a phone screen flashed briefly. I made a mental note—there was a triangular chip on the inside of the third pane.

A habit honed over five years: scan every window more than two meters above ground level.

"Claire," I stood up, shifting my weight to my back heel. "Let's go home and talk."

Her lips moved, finally forcing out the name: "Ethan."

The light behind the window went out.

The night in Forge Valley hadn't changed. But something else had.