Dragon's Fall
The air in the clandestine arena was thick and cloying, a mixture of sweat, expensive perfume, and the metallic tang of old blood. It clung to the back of the throat, a taste of opulence and decay. Bruce Lee stood in the center of the sand-strewn pit, his bare torso gleaming under the harsh, theatrical spotlights. His iconic yellow and black track pants were a splash of vibrant life in the otherwise grim amphitheater. He wasn't here by choice. They had taken his students, the young men and women he had sworn to guide, and held them in a gilded cage that now hung suspended high above the arena floor. Their faces, pale with terror, were his only focus. His captor, the man who orchestrated this grotesque theater, sat on a throne-like chair carved from obsidian. Han. His face was a mask of placid cruelty, one hand a claw of polished steel, the other stroking a white Persian cat. "Mr. Lee," Han's voice, amplified by hidden speakers, echoed through the cavernous space, smo...