Michael had just spent the day with Snake, Tommy and Blade and Snake's increasingly larger crew - which had grown in numbers in the last few months and now included around 12 members. He didn't mind the more crowded crew. He found it a lot easier to simply duck away and leave without anybody noticing until he had long gone. This just happened to be one of those days. He was walking on a busy street in Causeway Bay and was on his way home when he heard a familiar deep voice shouting.

"Yaht! Yee! Sahm! Say!" After each count, there was a chorus of not-so-deep voices shouting, "Hee-ah!" in reply.

Michael thought he knew where every Martial Arts school on Hong Kong Island was, but he didn't know about this one. He walked closer and stood at the doorway. He could see about 9 people, all around his age. Some were wearing proper black Yi Fook outfits, others just t-shirts and tracksuit pants. He couldn't see the Sifu, but he could hear him walking behind his students, still counting alternately with his students' shouts. The students were performing quick one-two punches and seemed impressively disciplined. Only one or two of them looked at Michael as he stood at the doorway of the studio. The rest kept their eyes riveted to the front.

When the Sifu walked around to the front, he stopped dead and stared at Michael. Michael inhaled sharply and took a step back. It was the American man from that day at the Temple Street night markets - the one whose wallet Michael had tried to steal.

After a moment's hesitation, the man continued counting in Cantonese. "Yaht! Yee! Sahm! Say!" but remained at the doorway and continued to stare at Michael.

Michael turned around and walked away. After a few steps, he heard the man give an order to his students. "Continue!"

The man followed Michael outside and called out, "Hey, kid! Hang on a minute!"
Michael stopped and turned around.
"You still hangin' around with those guys I saw you with last time?"
"Yeah." Michael stared at his feet.
"I've seen you at Mr Pak's studio. You like martial arts?"
Michael nodded. His blonde hair flipped over his face and he smoothed it back with his fingers.
"Are you any good?" the big American man asked.
"Mr Pak thinks so." Michael said, almost defiantly.
"Well, no offense to Mr Pak, but I think you could learn a lot more from me, kid."
Michael wanted to defend Mr Pak. He was a good teacher, but Michael couldn't help thinking of that day in Temple Street when this man standing in front of him took down Snake, Tommy and Blade in the blink of an eye – while never letting go of Michael's arm. He knew Mr Pak was an exceptional martial artist - that he had learned the arts from his father, who had learned from his father, and so on - but there was no mistaking that this huge American man, even though Michael had only seen a very small example, was far, far superior.

"Sorry." Michael said. He really meant it. "I can't afford it. Mr Pak only teaches me in exchange for odd jobs I do around the studio."

The big man laughed. "Most of my students can't afford to pay me either, kid. We'll work something out. Come on back and meet the rest of the students. He turned around and walked back towards his studio. After a moment's hesitation, Michael followed.

"What's your name, kid?" The big man asked, without looking back.
"Michael. Michael MacLaren."
The man turned around and held out his hand.

"Pleased to meet you, Michael MacLaren. My name's Leo."

* * *