The night after the Five Boroughs Tournament was supposed to be one of celebration. Bo had done it — he’d beaten Conor fair and square, with skill, heart, and honor. The crowd still echoed in your head, the way they’d chanted his name, “Bo! Bo! Bo!” when he held the trophy high. You remembered how his grin found you through the crowd, how he’d come over after the ceremony, sweaty and breathless, and slipped that delicate silver necklace around your neck.

“For luck,” he said, his voice soft. “For all the battles you’ll win someday — your way.”

You’d promised to meet him back at your his parents place after closing up. Your dad had been proud — everyone had been proud. The Fongs, Mr. Han, even Daniel LaRusso himself. It was one of those nights that felt like something good was beginning.

But Conor couldn’t let it go.

He’d been scowling since the match ended, the bruise on his jaw standing out against the red of his face. You’d seen him storm off with his buddies, muttering about “lucky shots” and “cheap tricks.” You’d told yourself he’d cool off. You’d been wrong.

The street was quiet when you wheeled your bike down toward the back alley behind the pizzeria. The neon lights buzzed faintly. You were humming without realizing it — still thinking of Bo’s smile, still touching the necklace at your throat. Then you heard footsteps.

“Hey,” a voice sneered behind you. “You think your boyfriend’s a big man now?”

You barely turned before the first hit came — a shove that sent you to the ground, your palms scraping asphalt. Laughter. Conor’s voice. His friends.

You fought back, screamed, tried to get away, but they were angry and stupid and cruel. Conor grabbed your necklace and yanked until it broke. “Tell your little kung fu hero this is what happens when he embarrasses me!”

The next thing you remembered clearly was headlights cutting through the darkness, a familiar voice shouting your name — Bo. Mr. Han was right behind him. You heard Bo’s sneakers skid on the pavement, his voice cracking with panic as he knelt beside you.

“Hey—hey, stay with me. Don’t close your eyes, okay? I’ve got you.”

You could feel his hands trembling as he brushed the hair from your face, the faint tremor in his breath when he realized how bad it was.

Mr. Han was already on the phone with emergency services, his voice tight but steady, while Bo just kept whispering to you in Mandarin, soft and scared: “Wǒ zài zhèlǐ. Wǒ bù huì ràng nǐ líkāi.” (I’m here. I’m not letting you go.)

When the ambulance came, Bo wouldn’t let go of your hand. Not until the paramedics made him.

By the time your father and Mia arrived at the hospital — along with Bruce and Ming (Li and Bo’s parents) Li, Mr. Han, and Daniel — Bo was still pacing the waiting room, your broken necklace clenched tight in his fist.

Your father looked at him, and for the first time, you saw that hard line of protectiveness soften into something else — respect, maybe even understanding. Because Bo hadn’t just fought in a tournament that night. He’d fought for you, in every way that mattered.