The gym door opens. Bruce Lee enters with a simple canvas bag over his shoulder. No noise, no show; just another guy stepping onto the concrete.
A huge bodybuilder looks up from the bench press and laughs. Loud, confident.
“You’re too small to fight just anyone,” he says.
This isn’t just some guy talking trash. His name is Marcus Webb. Around the gyms of Los Angeles, that name means something. Marcus is Muhammad Ali’s primary sparring partner, the man Ali trusts to hit him hard, to push him, to test him. They grew up together in Louisville before their paths diverged. Ali chose speed and timing. Marcus chose size and strength. He built his body into a weapon. And standing before him now is a man he thinks he understands. Small Marco, quiet presence, no muscles to fear.
You are wrong.
Los Angeles, mid-summer of 1967.
The place was called “Iron Temple,” wedged between an auto body shop and a family-run taco stand in a neighborhood where rent was cheap and dreams were desperate. Inside, the air didn’t move as much as it hung there: heavy with chalk and sweat and that sharp, metallic smell that seeps into everything when men spend hours wielding iron. The walls were exposed brick, painted decades ago and now showing their age in chips and cracks that resembled a map of some forgotten country. Above, fluorescent tubes buzzed and flickered, casting everything in that relentless white light that made every vein, every visible muscle fiber, stand out.
This wasn’t a place for casual fitness. No smoothie counter, no branded merchandise, no membership cards with corporate logos; just weights, benches, and mirrors. And the kind of men who came there needed to build something, needed to prove something, needed to transform themselves into versions that could survive whatever awaited them outside those doors.
The soundtrack was constant: iron meeting iron, breath forced through clenched teeth, the occasional grunt or scream, and underneath it all, a radio playing soul music that nobody really listened to anymore.
Bruce walked in just after noon, and outside the temperature was climbing toward 38 degrees. Inside it was worse. He wore loose black cotton trousers and a simple gray T-shirt, both already beginning to darken with the humidity. The duffel bag over his shoulder looked light, almost empty. He moved like water, finding a smooth, unhurried path. Each step placed with that unconscious precision that separates those who have trained their bodies from those who have mastered them.
He had been invited by Danny Chen, a Chinese-American welterweight who had seen Bruce demonstrate in a tournament in Long Beach and had been talking about it ever since. Danny trained at the Iron Temple; he thought the powerlifters and bodybuilders there could learn something from how Bruce generated power from stillness, how he moved without telegraphing his intention.
Bruce had accepted the invitation out of genuine curiosity. He wanted to understand Western training methods, he wanted to see how these athletes built their kind of strength, he wanted to know if there was anything he could integrate into his own constantly evolving system.
The moment he walked in, the conversations died. The pull-ups paused mid-rep, heads turned with that automatic awareness gyms develop, that tribal sensor that detects anything unfamiliar in the territory. This compact Asian man, maybe 60 kilos, dripping wet, entered a cathedral of masses as if he had every right to be there.
Most of the athletes returned to their training after a quick glance. New faces appeared; sometimes it didn’t mean much. But some kept watching.
And at the far end of the floor, beneath mirrors that reflected bodies built like brutal sculptures, Marcus Webb was finishing his last set of deadlifts.
Marcus embodied everything bodybuilding stood for in 1967. 6’1″, 250 pounds of muscle piled on top of muscle. His body was sculpted as if someone had taken human anatomy and decided to make it louder. Arms that looked like they could bend rebar. A chest that seemed to take up its own zip code. Shoulders so wide they cast shadows. Legs that made walking look like a controlled fall between pillars.
Every inch of visible skin was slick with exertion. And every muscle group was so defined you could teach an anatomy class just by pointing. He lowered the bar with a controlled crash that made the concrete floor groan, straightened up with a sound like a building settling, and grabbed the towel hanging on the power rack.
That’s when she noticed Bruce, she really noticed him, and her expression changed through several emotions in rapid succession: confusion, amusement, something close to disbelief.
He wrapped the towel around his neck and walked toward him. Each step had that distinctive bodybuilder’s gait, that rolling motion that comes from thighs too massive to allow anything resembling normal locomotion. Other lifters noticed Marcus moving and paused their sets. When Marcus Webb crossed the floor with purpose, something was about to happen.
He stopped about two meters from Bruce, and the size difference was almost absurd. Marcus’s forearm was legitimately thicker than Bruce’s entire leg. His shadow fell on the smaller man like dusk.
“Help you find something, brother?” Marcus asked, his voice having that particular quality of false friendship that barely conceals the amusement.
His training partners had gathered behind him now, three other massive men forming a wall of muscle and curiosity.
Bruce looked at him with eyes that revealed absolutely nothing. No fear, no aggression, no submission; just evaluation. People who knew Bruce would recognize that look. It was the expression a leopard gives an elephant: aware of the size difference, completely unconcerned about it.
“Danny Chen invited me,” Bruce said softly. His voice carried traces of Hong Kong beneath the English, each word chosen with the care of someone speaking a language that wasn’t his first, but that he had decided to master anyway.
“Danny.” Marcus looked around, saw Danny near the heavy bags, and his smile widened. “Danny invited you to train here. You?”
He said it as if the concept were inherently hilarious. One of his friends chuckled. Another shook his head slowly, smiling. This was entertainment now. A break from the monotony of series and reruns.
“To observe,” Bruce explained. “To learn their methods.”
“Our methods.” Marcus repeated the words as if they tasted strange. He glanced back at his training partners, then down at Bruce again. “Brother, our methods involve moving weight that would put you in the hospital. No offense, but you’re what? Sixty kilos? Sixty-five soaked with rocks in your pockets.”
“Sixty-two,” Bruce said evenly.
Marcus laughed, and it wasn’t exactly cruel, but he carried that edge of superiority that comes from never having been physically challenged, never having met someone who made you question your assumptions.
—Look, that’s exactly my point. I carry over 100 pounds more than you in pure muscle. Do you understand what that means in a real situation? In a real fight.
Bruce’s expression didn’t change. “
I understand what you think it means.”
Something flickered across Marcus’s face. The smile didn’t fade, but it hardened.
“Which I think means… Man, I spar with Muhammad Ali. You know who he is? The real heavyweight champion of the world. I’ve been in the ring with the most dangerous man alive. And I can hold my own because I have the size, the strength, the mass to back it up. That’s not thinking, that’s knowing.”
“Ali is fast,” Bruce observed.
“Fast means nothing when you can’t generate power,” Marcus replied. “Speed is nice. Power is what wins fights. Mass is what creates power. This isn’t theory, little man. This is physics. This is reality.”
He raised a massive arm, flexed it, and his bicep swelled to the size of Bruce’s head.
“See this? This is what 2,000 calories a day and 6 hours of training build. This is strength. Real, measurable, undeniable strength.”
Bruce looked at the arm, then back at Marcus’s face.
“Do you think size and strength are the same thing?”
“I believe,” Marcus said, taking another half step closer and using his bulk as a wall, “that when someone my size connects with someone your size, all the kung fu in China doesn’t change what happens next. That’s not a belief. That’s how the world works.”
The gymnasium had fallen completely silent now. Even the radio seemed quieter. Everyone in the building was watching this interaction, sensing something building, wondering where it would lead. Bruce remained perfectly still, and that stillness had its own quality, like the moment before lightning strikes.
When she spoke, her voice was soft, but it cut through the silence as if amplified.
“Would you like to find out if you’re right?”
The question landed like a stone thrown into still water. Marcus blinked.
“What?”
—Your theory about size and power. Would you like to test it?
For a moment, Marcus just stared at him, processing what he’d just heard. Then he laughed again, but this time it sounded different, less confident.
“You’re challenging me. You’re really challenging me right now.”
“I’m offering you an opportunity to prove your point,” Bruce said calmly.
One of Marcus’s friends spoke up.
“Marcus, man, don’t waste your time. The kid’s delusional.”
But something had changed in Marcus’s eyes. Perhaps it was pride. Perhaps it was the audience watching. Perhaps it was just that age-old human need to establish dominance when challenged. He looked down at Bruce for a long moment, and in that moment you could see him calculating, weighing, deciding.
“All right,” he said finally. “All right, little man. But when this goes wrong, remember that you asked for it.”
Bruce nodded once, a small movement that somehow carried more weight than all of Marcus’s speech. He set his duffel bag down near the wall, rolled his shoulders in a movement so subtle you’d miss it if you blinked, and stepped into the open space near the heavy sacks where there was room to move.
Marcus followed him, and the crowd followed Marcus. Within seconds, a rough circle had formed: bodybuilders, powerlifters, a few boxers who had been working on the speed bag. Even the old man who ran the front counter came shuffling over to see what was going on.
The energy in the room had completely changed. This was no longer training. This was something else, something primitive that gyms sometimes devolved into when egos clashed and men needed to establish hierarchy through action rather than words.
Danny Chen pushed through the crowd, his face tense with concern.
“Bruce, man, you don’t have to do this. Marcus’s just talking. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
Bruce glanced at him briefly.
“Okay, Danny. This is educational for everyone.”
“Educational?” Danny looked at Marcus, then back at Bruce. “He outweighs you by more than 100 pounds. Train with Ali. This isn’t some points-based fighting tournament.”
“I know,” Bruce said softly. And something in his tone made Danny recoil, made him understand that whatever was about to happen, Bruce had already replayed it in his mind a thousand times.
Marcus was loosening up now, rolling his massive shoulders, shaking his arms. He had that fighter’s pre-fight movement habit, that need to prepare his body for violence, even when the violence was supposed to be controlled. He wasn’t taking this as seriously as he probably should have, but he wasn’t completely careless either. You didn’t become Ali’s sparring partner by being stupid.
“Are we doing this for real or just playing tag?” Marcus asked.
“What would you prefer?” Bruce replied.
—I prefer —said Marcus, standing at attention— to show you what happens when theory meets reality.
—Don’t worry, I’ll control my punches. I don’t really want to hurt you.
Bruce said nothing. He simply stood there, feet shoulder-width apart, hands relaxed at his sides, his weight so perfectly distributed that he looked as if he could move in any direction without preparation. He wasn’t bouncing, he wasn’t shifting his weight, he wasn’t displaying any of the nervous energy fighters usually show before contact. He just stood there staring at Marcus with those dark eyes that revealed absolutely nothing.
Someone in the crowd shouted,
“They say the big man throws away 20 dollars in 5 seconds!”
“Five? I have 20 that say 3 seconds,” another voice replied.
Laughter rippled through the circle. This was entertainment for them. David and Goliath. Except they all knew how this version ended because physics didn’t care about mythology. Mass times velocity equals force, and Marcus had mass to spare.
Marcus settled into what looked like a boxing stance. Hands up, elbows in, chin tucked. His training with Ali showed in his form. It was clean, economical, professional. There was real skill backing up all that muscle. This wasn’t just some gym thug. This was an athlete who understood fighting.
“Your move, little man,” Marcus said through his guard. “Show me this kung fu magic.”
Bruce still wasn’t moving. He barely seemed to be breathing. He was reading Marcus the way scholars read ancient texts, searching for meaning beneath the surface, finding patterns in what appeared random.
“Come on,” Marcus urged, starting to circle now, light on his feet despite the mass. “You challenged me. Don’t freeze now.”
Bruce turned slightly, tracking Marcus’s movement but not mirroring it. His hands remained at his sides. He looked completely unprepared, completely vulnerable. Several people in the crowd exchanged glances. Was this guy serious? Was he just going to stand there?
Marcus feinted with his left, testing the waters. Bruce didn’t react, didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink.
Marcus threw a jab, pulling it back at the last second so it stopped inches from Bruce’s face. Quick, clean, the kind of punch that would have had legitimate power behind it if it had followed through. Bruce’s head moved maybe an inch, just enough for the punch to pass through empty air instead of connecting. The movement was so minimal it looked as if Marcus had missed rather than Bruce having dodged.
“Okay,” Marcus said, nodding slightly. “You’ve got some reflexes. Good. Now, let’s see what happens when I really try.”
He threw a combination. Jab, cross, hook. Real punches now. Still controlled, but with intent behind them. He was testing Bruce’s defense, trying to see what this little martial artist really had.
Bruce moved, not dramatically, not with the exaggerated movements of movie fights. He simply wasn’t where the punches were going. Each blow passed through the space his head or body had occupied a fraction of a second before, and each time he’d shifted just enough to make Marcus miss without appearing to have moved at all. It was economical to the point of being unsettling. No wasted movement, no unnecessary defense, just the minimum movement required to make the violence pass harmlessly.
The crowd grew quieter. This wasn’t what they’d expected. They’d expected Bruce to try to block, to retreat, to cover, and to survive. They hadn’t anticipated this ghostly evasion that made Marcus’s clean, powerful blows look clumsy.
Marcus’s expression changed. The fun was gone now, replaced by focus. He was a professional athlete, and professionals adjusted. He pressed forward, throwing faster combinations, using his reach advantage, trying to cut off the angles Bruce was using to evade.
But something strange was happening. The more Marcus threw, the more he seemed to be fighting himself; his punches landed in empty air, his combinations threw him off balance, his footwork became tangled as he chased a target that refused to be where he expected.
And Bruce still hadn’t thrown a single punch.
“Stay still,” Marcus growled, frustration creeping into his voice.
“Why?” Bruce asked, his breathing completely normal, as if he were having a conversation instead of dodging blows from a trained fighter.
Marcus changed tactics. He had been trying to box, trying to use the skills Ali had taught him. Now he decided to use what nature had given him: overwhelming physical power. He lunged forward, trying to grab Bruce, trying to use his size and strength to trap this elusive, smaller man and end this shameful display.
He was fast for a man his size. Genuinely fast. His hands reached out to grab, to clinch, to put his weight and power into play in a way that speed couldn’t counteract.
Bruce moved again, but this time differently. He didn’t evade backward or to the side. He moved forward within Marcus’s reach, closer to the larger man’s body than seemed possible. And as he moved, his hand rose.
It wasn’t a punch. It didn’t look like a punch. It looked like Bruce was pushing, as if he were simply placing his palm against Marcus’s massive chest with no more force than you’d use to test if a wall was solid.
The sound was high-pitched and wet, like a chicken leg hitting a meaty side.
Marcus’s entire body froze as if he’d hit an invisible wall. His eyes widened, his mouth fell open in a perfect O of shock, and then, impossibly, this 250-pound mass of muscle stumbled backward three full steps, his arms twisting to steady himself, his face contorted in an expression that mixed pain with utter disbelief.
He leaned against a weight rack, one hand going to his chest where Bruce had touched him. His breathing was labored, as if he’d just finished a run. He stared at Bruce, his expression one of disbelief at what had just happened.
The gym was absolutely silent. No one moved. No one breathed. Everyone had seen it, but seeing and understanding were two different things. Bruce stood in the same spot, his hand returning to his side, his breathing still calm and even. He looked at Marcus without triumph, without mockery, just patient observation.
“You said mass creates power,” Bruce said softly, his voice cutting through the shocked silence. “But power doesn’t come from mass. It comes from the transfer of energy, from understanding how force moves through the body, from precision, timing, and intention.”
Marcus was still trying to catch his breath. His hand remained pressed against his chest, and you could see him testing it, probing, trying to understand what had just happened to his body. There was no mark, no visible damage, but something had happened. Everyone had seen it.
“That was…” Marcus began, then stopped. He was speechless.
“Three inches of penetrating force,” Bruce said, “directed through your sternum, compressing your solar plexus, disrupting your breathing and your nervous system’s ability to maintain structure. I didn’t hit you hard. I hit you precisely.”
One of Marcus’s friends stepped forward, a worried expression on his face.
“Marcus, are you okay, man?”
Marcus nodded slowly, but didn’t take his eyes off Bruce. The way he looked at him had completely changed. The condescension was gone. The amusement was gone. In its place was something akin to respect mixed with a healthy dose of caution.
“You could have hit me harder,” Marcus said. It wasn’t a question.
“Much stronger,” Bruce confirmed. “But you weren’t trying to hurt me. I saw no reason to hurt you.”
Marcus pushed himself off the weight rack, standing upright, but moving cautiously as if his body was still figuring out what had been done to it.
“How? How is that even possible? You’re half my size.”
“Because you’re thinking about strength the wrong way,” Bruce said, his voice now shifting to something that sounded almost didactic. “You’ve built your body like a fortress. Walls of muscle, maximum mass. And fortresses are powerful things. But they’re also rigid. They can’t adapt. They can only resist.”
He took another step closer to Marcus. And this time, Marcus didn’t use his size to intimidate him. He just listened.
“Water is soft,” Bruce continued. “Weak by your definition. But water shapes stone, not through force, but through persistence, by finding the weakness in the structure and flowing toward it.”
Marcus was still rubbing his chest, and you could see his mind working, trying to reconcile what his body had just experienced with everything he thought he knew about fighting. Around him, the circle of spectators remained frozen, watching this conversation as if it were sacred scripture being written in real time.
“Water shapes stone,” Marcus repeated slowly, testing the words. “That’s philosophy, man. That’s not fighting.”
“Everything is philosophy until you understand it,” Bruce said. “Then it becomes technique. Then it becomes reflex. Then it becomes truth.”
One of the other bodybuilders, a thick-necked guy with arms like tree trunks, spoke from the crowd.
“Okay, but that’s a punch. A good punch doesn’t mean you’d win a real fight. Marcus holds back his punches because he’s a good guy. But on the street, in the ring, size still matters. Power still matters.”
Bruce turned to face him, and the movement was so fluid it didn’t seem like a turn at all. More as if his attention had simply shifted.
“You’re right. Size matters. Power matters, but not in the way you think.”
He walked over to the nearest bench press station where a barbell was loaded with what looked like 136 kilos. He gestured toward it.
“This is power, yes, this is strength. The ability to move heavy weight.”
The thick-necked man nodded.
“Damn, of course he is.”
“But power? For what purpose?” Bruce asked. “To lift, to press. These are useful things. But in a fight? When does fighting resemble weightlifting?”
He picked up a pen someone had left on a nearby bench and held it up.
“This weighs almost nothing. By your definition, it has no power, no strength. But if I know where to apply it, I can end a fight with him. The eye, the throat; precision points where the body is vulnerable regardless of how much muscle surrounds them.”
Marcus had recovered enough to rejoin the conversation, though he still moved cautiously.
“Okay, I get what you’re saying. Technique matters. Accuracy matters. I’m not stupid enough to argue with what I just felt. But you’re still talking about perfect scenarios. What happens when someone really connects with you? When you can’t dodge every punch? Mass absorbs the damage. Muscle protects. That’s biology, not philosophy.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Bruce said. And several people seemed surprised that he agreed. “Muscle protects. Mass absorbs damage. If two fighters are equally skilled, the bigger fighter has an advantage. But that’s the question, isn’t it? Equal skill.”
He moved back to the center of the open space, and the crowd moved with him, reforming the circle.
“Most fighters train their bodies, but they neglect the weapon that determines every fight before it even begins.” He touched his temple. “The mind, the ability to read an opponent, to see not only what they’re doing, but what they’re about to do, to understand the pattern before it’s even completed.”
Danny Chen had been silent this whole time, but now he spoke.
“Bruce, show them the one-inch punch. They need to see the one-inch punch.”
Several people in the crowd cheered at this.
“One-inch punch? What’s that?”
Bruce hesitated, and you could see he didn’t love the theatrical aspect of demonstrations, but he also understood that sometimes showing was more effective than telling.
“It’s not magic,” he said. “It’s an illustration of how force generation works. How the entire body can contribute to a single point of impact even when there’s minimal acceleration distance.”
Marcus’s interest was clearly piqued despite himself.
“Are you telling me you can generate thrust power from an inch away?”
“Not thrust power,” Bruce corrected. “Penetration power. There’s a difference. Thrust is what happens when you hit someone and they fly backward in the movies. That’s wasted energy. Force passing through the target and dissipating into space. Penetrating power enters the target and stays there, disrupting the structure from within.”
The thick-necked bodybuilder took a step forward.
“Okay, I’ll take the bait. Show us. Hit me with this one-inch punch.”
Bruce looked at him carefully.
“Are you sure? It’s awkward, man.”
“I can bench press 190 kilos. I’ve taken hits from heavy hitters. I think I can handle whatever you’re selling.”
Bruce nodded.
“What’s your name?”
—Trevor.
—Trevor, stop here.
Bruce positioned him, making sure his feet were planted, his weight evenly distributed.
“Don’t lean back. Don’t brace yourself in any unusual way. Just stand naturally, as you would if someone were about to push you.”
Trevor nodded, settling into position. He was massive, easily 238 pounds. All muscle and bone, and the kind of density that came from years of progressive overload. He looked completely stable, like you could ram him with a car and he’d just dent the bumper.
Bruce stood in front of him, carefully gauged the distance, then placed his fist against Trevor’s chest, right above the solar plexus. An inch of space between his fist and the point of contact. His other hand rested on Trevor’s shoulder, not for support, just for positioning.
“Ready?” Bruce asked.
“Do the worst you can,” Trevor said, smiling confidently.
Bruce’s entire body changed. It wasn’t a sudden impulse, it wasn’t a telegraph. It was like watching a wave travel across the water, starting from his back foot, rising through his legs, torso, shoulder, and finally expressing itself through his fist in a sharp, compact explosion.
The sound was like thunder in a small room.
Trevor’s eyes shot out of his head, his mouth fell open, and his entire 238-pound body lifted slightly off the ground and traveled backward a good six feet before his legs remembered how to work. And he caught himself stumbling, gasping for air as if he’d been underwater.
The gymnasium erupted with noise, shouts of disbelief, someone cursing aloud, others laughing—not out of amusement, but at the absurdity of what they had just witnessed. Trevor stood there, leaning slightly forward, both hands on his chest, breathing heavily.
When he finally looked at Bruce, his expression had gone from confusion to somewhere close to religious conversion.
“What the hell was that?” he managed to gasp.
“That,” Bruce said calmly, “was your entire body receiving focused force that it wasn’t structurally prepared to absorb or redirect. Your muscles didn’t protect you because the force didn’t give them time to react. It passed through gaps in your structure, found the nervous system underneath, and disrupted it.”
Marcus was watching now with undisguised fascination. The professional athlete in him was fully engaged.
“Do it again. Do it to me again. I want to feel it, knowing what to expect.”
Bruce shook his head.
“Knowing what to expect doesn’t change physics, and I’d rather not cause unnecessary discomfort.”
—Man, forget the discomfort. I need to understand this.
Marcus moved to where Trevor had been standing, took his position, and planted his feet.
“Come on, I can handle it.”
Bruce studied him for a moment, then nodded. He took his stance, placed his fist against Marcus’s massive chest, and gauged the distance. This time, Marcus was watching everything—Bruce’s feet, his hips, his shoulder—trying to see where the power was coming from, trying to understand the mechanics of what was about to happen to him.
Bruce’s body shifted again, that same wave-like motion, and his fist shot forward with a sharp crack.
Marcus’s reaction was even more dramatic than Trevor’s. This 250-pound man who had sparred with Muhammad Ali, who had absorbed punishment from one of the hardest punchers in boxing history, stumbled backward more than six feet, hit a support pillar, and partially slid down it, his face a mask of shock and pain.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, his voice barely audible. “Jesus Christ, how is that possible?”
The crowd had gone from excited roar back to stunned silence. They were witnessing something that violated their fundamental understanding of how strength worked. These were men who had spent years building their bodies according to a very specific philosophy: more mass equals more power equals more capability. And in less than 10 minutes, this 135-pound martial artist had dismantled that entire worldview.
Danny Chen was smiling now. That smile of someone who had tried to tell people something and finally had proof that he was right.
“See? See what I’ve been talking about? Bruce isn’t just a fighter. He’s discovered something different. Something most people don’t even know exists.”
Marcus pushed himself away from the pillar. Still moving carefully, still processing, he walked toward Bruce, and this time there was no arrogance, no condescension, no amusement; only genuine respect and curiosity.
“Teach me,” he said simply.
Bruce raised an eyebrow.
“Teach you?”
—Whatever that is. Whatever you’re doing, I want to learn it.
Marcus looked around at his training partners, at the crowd.
“We all want to learn it.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the audience. These massive men who had entered here thinking they understood strength were suddenly starving students before a master they hadn’t known existed.
Bruce was silent for a moment, considering. Then he shook his head slowly.
“What I’m doing isn’t a technique you can learn in an afternoon. It’s not a trick. It’s a complete rethinking of how the body generates and applies force. It requires unlearning most of what you think you know.”
“Then help us unlearn it,” Marcus said. “Man, I’ve been training my whole life. I’ve worked with the best boxers alive. I thought I understood fighting. But what you just did… I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never felt anything like it.”
Trevor had recovered enough to join them.
“Now he’s right. That wasn’t just hitting hard. I’ve been hit hard. I box on the weekends. I know what power feels like. This was different. It was like you were hitting me from the inside out.”
“Because I did it,” Bruce said. “Your outer muscle is armor.”
—Yes, but armor has gaps, seams, weak points where the structure transitions. The solar plexus is one of these points. It’s where your respiratory diaphragm connects, where important nerve groups reside, where your rib cage structure is most vulnerable to compression. I didn’t strike your armor. I struck through it, targeting what it’s meant to protect.
