The Sakura Spa

Section 1: News Van

The news van moved through the streets of Flushing.

Inside, the reporter looked at the three crew members sitting across from her. “All right. Remember what we’re here for. We talk to anyone who knows Canelo—friends, enemies, people who’ve fought him, anyone who can tell us something useful.”

She paused. “But most importantly… we need footage of the Skyfall Kick.”

The van slowed. The reporter glanced through the window.

“We’re here.”

The van pulled over near the corner. The moment the side door opened—

“Let’s go, slackers!”

The reporter jumped out.

A woman with long black hair hurried down the sidewalk in a fitted dark suit and high heels. A white blouse showed beneath her blazer, its neckline cut low enough to reveal a generous amount of cleavage. With every hurried step, her breasts bounced with the momentum like two restless little rabbits.

Click click click click!

Her heels struck the pavement at a relentless pace.

Behind her, the three crew members climbed out of the van and hurried to unload their equipment. One hoisted a heavy camera onto his shoulder, another gathered the audio equipment and coils of wire, while the third dragged out two bulky equipment cases.

By the time they were ready, the reporter was already well ahead of them. She looked back.

“Come on! Faster! Walk faster! Didn’t you eat anything?”

“Fuck!” one of the men shouted. “Jesus Christ! Of course you can walk fast! You’re not the one carrying this heavy shit!”

“Why don’t you come back and carry some of this crap for once?!” another yelled.

The reporter heard them. She completely ignored them.

“According to my classified information, Canelo could be at a local massage parlor called Sakura Spa right now!”

Click click click click!

She kept going, while the three men cursed under their breath and struggled after her.

Section 2: Sakura Spa

A short while later, the reporter shoved open the glass door of the massage parlor.

Jingle jingle jingle!

“Hey!”

By the time the three crew members struggled through the entrance behind her, she was already at the front desk. She planted both hands on the counter and leaned forward.

“Tell me. Where is Canelo?”

The girl behind the counter jerked her head up. “Huh?”

“Canelo. Where is he?”

The girl stared at her, then at the microphone in her hand, then back at her face. “How would I know?”

Just then, a door beside the lobby opened and a man stepped out. He wore a neatly pressed suit and a pair of golden-rimmed glasses, carrying a black briefcase in one hand. Unlike the woman who had just stormed into the building, everything about him was measured—his steps unhurried, his clothes immaculate, even his voice calm and refined.

“Hey.” He looked toward the front desk. “What’s going on here?”

The girl immediately pointed at the reporter. “She came storming in asking where Canelo is.” Then she lowered her voice. “I’m guessing she’s his wife, girlfriend, or mistress or something. Probably found out her man comes here for erotic massages and came to catch him.”

The man chuckled. “Ha.” He lightly adjusted his golden-rimmed glasses. “This happens every day. It’s no big deal.”

He said it with such complete calm that women storming into the establishment looking for their men apparently ranked somewhere alongside customers asking for the restroom.

He was about to walk away when he stopped. His eyes returned to the reporter, then to the microphone in her hand, and finally to the three exhausted men behind her with their camera, audio equipment, and bulky equipment cases.

“Hold on.” He studied them for another moment. “Maybe she’s not here to catch her husband.”

The front-desk girl looked again.

“They probably have some other business.”

He shifted the briefcase into his other hand. “Let me take care of this.”

Then he walked over.

The reporter looked him up and down. “You’re the manager?”

The man smiled slightly. “Oh, not quite.”

“Then what are you?”

“Well…” He paused. “I’m actually something else.”

The reporter waited.

The man pushed his golden-rimmed glasses higher on his nose. “But let’s not worry about that. You can think of me as… sort of the manager.”

The reporter stared at him for two seconds. She had no idea what kind of job description that was. Nor did she care.

“Fine. Is Canelo here?”

The man thought for a moment. “Hmm… Oh no, I’m afraid he’s not here right now.”

The reporter considered this for a second. “I see. Well, since you seem to know him, maybe you can help us.”

She raised the microphone and gestured toward the crew behind her. “We’re doing a special program on Canelo. There have been more and more stories about him lately—the Peeing Man, the fights, the urban legends. We’d like to know more about him.”

The man’s brow tightened slightly, only for a moment, but the reporter noticed. She interpreted the hesitation immediately.

“Oh…”

She moved a little closer. “There’s got to be something I can do…”

Both hands rose casually to the neckline of her blouse.

“…to convince you to help me.”

She gave it a discreet tug downward, revealing a little more of the pale upper curves of her breasts.

The man took one look and immediately raised a hand between them. “No. Seducing me is completely unnecessary.”

The reporter stopped.

He calmly adjusted his golden-rimmed glasses. “If you want my help, I’ll help you.”

“…”

She slowly released her blouse and pulled the neckline back into place. “Oh. I see.”

An awkward silence hung between them for a moment.

“Thank you.”

The man nodded.

The reporter immediately turned around. “Camera.”

The three crew members began moving. The camera came off a shoulder, the audio equipment switched on, the lens turned toward them, and a red light appeared.

The moment it did, the reporter changed.

The impatience vanished from her face. Her shoulders relaxed, and she gently swept her long black hair to one side. The woman who had spent the last several minutes shouting at her crew, charging into a massage parlor, and trying to lower her blouse to get information was gone. In her place stood a calm, gentle, polished television reporter.

She smiled warmly. “Ready?”

The man nodded.

Section 3: Nice Guy

She raised the microphone, her expression softening into a warm, professional smile. “So, from what you know of him, what kind of person would you say Canelo is?”

The man thought for a moment. “Well… I don’t come here very often, so I don’t really know this Canelo fellow personally. But from what I’ve heard, he’s crazy. Ruthless. Extremely dangerous.”

The reporter nodded slowly. “I see.”

“But deep down, I think he’s actually a nice guy.”

Her professional smile faltered. “A nice guy? Canelo? The guy everybody is afraid of? The Peeing Man?”

The man calmly adjusted his golden-rimmed glasses. “Well, whenever he comes here, he always pays. And he tips very well.”

The reporter stared at him. “That’s your definition of a nice guy?”

Before he could answer, a woman’s voice came from the sofa nearby.

“He tips really well.”

The reporter turned. Two women were sitting there, both in revealing clothes and heavy makeup. One of them smiled and leaned forward.

“At least two hundred dollars every time.”

The other woman nodded. “Sometimes more.”

The reporter blinked. “Two hundred?”

Her eyes drifted toward a sign behind the front desk.

FULL BODY MASSAGE — $40 / HOUR

She looked at the sign, then back at the two women. “Wait. Forty dollars an hour, and he tips two hundred?”

“That’s right.”

The reporter did the math in her head.

“Holy shit. That’s more than a five-hundred-percent tip.”

For a moment, she seemed to forget the camera was rolling. Then she turned back to the man.

“What the hell kind of service does he get for a two-hundred-dollar tip on a forty-dollar massage?”

The man immediately stepped forward, positioning himself more squarely in front of the camera. “Well, since you insist, I’ll tell you. We offer a wide range of special services. There’s the Tongue Dragon Drill, Ice-Fire Double Heaven, Lotus Blossom Delight, Sixty-Nine, and the Oriental Phoenix Embrace.”

The reporter saw her chance to steer the interview back on track. “Well, that’s certainly very interesting. Now, about Canelo—”

The man knew exactly what she was trying to do.

He didn’t let her.

“And Monday through Thursday,” he continued immediately, deliberately keeping control of the conversation, “if you come before three p.m., everything is twenty percent off. We also have special offers for first-time customers.”

The reporter opened her mouth again, but she never got the chance. Amy and Coco were already moving.

Both women stepped straight into the shot, one from each side.

“By the way, I’m Amy.” Amy swept her long hair over one shoulder and winked at the camera. “Next time you come, remember to ask for me.”

“And I’m Coco.”

Coco leaned toward the camera, drawing both shoulders inward and subtly squeezing her breasts together to deepen her cleavage. She gave the lens a bright smile. “Remember to ask for me too.”

“Oh—okay, okay.”

The reporter quickly pulled the microphone back toward herself and squeezed her way in front of them. “Anyway. Back to Canelo.”

She turned firmly toward the man, finally reclaiming the interview.

For the first time, she took a closer look at him. Beneath his fitted shirt, the hard outlines of a powerful chest and sharply defined abdominal muscles were clearly visible.

Her eyebrows rose. “Judging by your physique, you must know martial arts.”

Before the man could answer, Amy jumped in. “Oh, absolutely. Don’t let his gentlemanly appearance fool you. He’s incredibly strong.”

Coco nodded eagerly. “Really strong.”

The reporter’s eyes lit up. Now they were finally getting somewhere. She immediately pushed the microphone toward the man.

“Then you must know this. Have you ever heard of a move called the Skyfall Kick?”

The man took the microphone. Without even a moment’s thought, he answered with absolute certainty.

“Never heard of it.”

The reporter stared at him. “Never?”

The man didn’t answer. His expression remained firm and certain, leaving no room for doubt.

The excitement quickly faded from the reporter’s face. “Oh.”

She took the microphone back. “So let me ask you one last question. As far as you know, how strong is Canelo?”

The man considered the question.

“As far as I know…” He adjusted his golden-rimmed glasses. “He’s actually extremely—”

“HEY!”

A scream exploded from the front desk.

Everyone turned. The receptionist was on her feet, pointing frantically toward the entrance.

“Someone ran out without paying!”

The man’s head snapped toward the door.

WHOOSH!

He vanished.

A violent gust of wind swept through the lobby. The reporter’s long hair flew across her face, the edges of her blazer and blouse fluttered wildly, and behind her, the crew members staggered as loose wires whipped through the air.

For a second, nobody moved.

The reporter slowly pushed the hair out of her face. The man was gone. Only the glass door remained, swinging back and forth at the entrance.

The reporter stared after him, his last words still lingering in her head. Somehow, her mind filled in the rest on its own, and she didn’t even realize it.

“As far as I know, he’s actually really strong. Extremely powerful.”

Satisfied with the conclusion, she straightened her blazer, smoothed her hair back into place, and turned toward the entrance.

“All right. We got what we need. Let’s go.”

The crew packed up their equipment and followed the reporter outside.

Section 4: Alley Lead

The moment she stepped onto the sidewalk, her phone buzzed. She pulled it out and read the new message, then immediately looked across the street.

“There.”

The three crew members followed her gaze.

“According to my latest classified information, Canelo is in that alley.”

They crossed the street. The reporter reached the entrance first and cautiously leaned around the corner.

Then she saw him.

Canelo stood beside a utility pole, finishing peeing against it. A dark wet stain spread across the concrete near his feet. A moment later, he pulled up his zipper, lit a cigarette, and dropped into a deep Asian squat beside the pole, his heels planted completely flat on the ground. Smoke drifted lazily from his mouth.

The reporter turned to the crew. “That’s him. Call Master Lee Kumkee. Tell him we found Canelo.”

One of the crew members pulled out his phone and tried calling several times.

“He’s not answering. I called him three times already.”

The reporter frowned. “What the hell is he doing? Why isn’t he answering his phone at a time like this?”

She looked back into the alley. Canelo was still squatting beside the utility pole, directly over the wet patch he had just left behind, calmly smoking his cigarette.

The reporter watched Canelo for a few more seconds. Then she straightened her blazer, raised the microphone, and walked into the alley. The three crew members exchanged uneasy looks but followed her with the camera.

“Mr. Canelo?”

Canelo didn’t look up.

The reporter stopped a few feet away and switched effortlessly into her polished on-camera smile. “Hello. We’re doing a special program about you, and we were hoping you could answer a few questions.”

Canelo took another drag from his cigarette. “Get lost.”

The reporter’s smile stiffened. “It’ll only take a few minutes. We’d especially like to ask you about—”

“I said get lost.”

This time, Canelo looked at her, and the reporter stopped talking.

“If you don’t walk away right now…” He pointed the cigarette toward her legs. “I’ll smash both your kneecaps.”

Her eyes dropped briefly to her knees. She took half a step back, then stopped.

“Well, if you could just answer one question—”

The three crew members immediately rushed forward.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!”

One grabbed her arm. Another caught the back of her blazer. The third hurried in from the other side and, in the chaos, saw an opportunity. His hand landed directly on one of her breasts, and he gave it a quick squeeze.

Then all three men dragged her backward.

“Hey! Let go of me!”

The reporter struggled against them, still trying to push the microphone toward Canelo. “Mr. Canelo! Just one question!”

She never even noticed the third man’s sneaky little move.

Canelo had already lost interest. He pulled out his phone and checked the time.

4:00 PM.

He put it away and continued smoking.

About five minutes passed.

Canelo finished his cigarette, dropped it onto the ground, and crushed it beneath his shoe. Then he stood up and started toward the alley entrance.

The reporter immediately stepped into his path.

“Wait.”

Canelo stopped.

“We only need five minutes.”

She spread both arms, completely blocking his way. Her body was already trembling. Every instinct told her to move aside, but somehow her professionalism gave her enough courage to hold her ground.

Canelo stared at her, then slowly drew one leg back.

The reporter’s eyes dropped toward it.

He was getting ready to kick.

Right at her kneecap.

Her trembling grew worse, but she still didn’t move.

Just as Canelo was about to strike—

“Hold it!”

A voice rang out from farther down the alley.

The reporter spun around, her face immediately lighting up. “Master Lee! Finally!”

Canelo glanced in the same direction.

Section 5: Master Lee

A man in his forties stood at the far end of the alley in a traditional white martial-arts uniform with a black belt tied around his waist. He had broad shoulders, thick eyebrows, and a neatly trimmed mustache. His chest was pushed forward and his chin held high.

The reporter quickly stepped out of Canelo’s way. Canelo lowered his leg, pulled out his phone again, and checked the time.

4:05 PM.

The reporter hurried toward Master Lee. “What took you so long? We’ve been calling you!”

Master Lee calmly adjusted his black belt. “I had something very important to take care of.”

The reporter frowned. “What could possibly be more important than this?”

“Amy and Coco.”

The reporter froze. Behind her, the three crew members looked at one another.

Master Lee’s stern expression softened as he gazed into the distance, apparently recalling the experience. “Beautiful women.” He raised both hands and traced an hourglass shape through the air. “Great figures. And the service…” A satisfied smile appeared beneath his mustache as he slowly nodded. “Unbelievable.”

One of the crew members stared at him. “What the fuck?”

Another stepped forward. “We paid you two hundred dollars. You promised you’d fight Canelo and force him to use the Skyfall Kick.”

Master Lee looked at him.

The crew member spread his hands. “What could possibly be more important than that?”

Master Lee’s smile disappeared instantly.

“Of course.”

His expression became completely serious. “For a true martial artist, physical strength alone is not enough. The body and the mind must both be completely satisfied. Only then…”

He stepped back and suddenly drove a fist through the air. Without stopping, he pivoted into a full spin and snapped a high kick above the reporter’s head, his uniform cracking sharply with the motion. He landed and immediately dropped into a deep stance, firing two rapid punches before twisting at the waist and sweeping one arm in a wide circle. Finally, he planted his feet and froze in a dramatic pose, one palm extended before his chest and the other drawn back beside his waist.

“…can I perform at one hundred percent of my true power.”

The reporter and the three crew members simply stared at him.

Then the reporter’s eyes shifted past his shoulder.

“Wait. Canelo!”

Section 6: Triple Flip

Master Lee turned. Canelo was already halfway down the alley.

Master Lee’s eyes widened. “Hey!”

He immediately took off after Canelo. After three quick running steps, he planted one foot hard against the pavement and launched himself high into the air.

His body tucked tightly as he began to rotate—once, twice, three times in rapid succession. It was an extraordinarily difficult maneuver, the kind of triple flip that even a world-class gymnast might struggle to pull off from such a short approach.

But Master Lee did it.

Yes, he actually did it.

He completed all three rotations cleanly, opened his body at exactly the right moment, and landed directly in front of Canelo with both feet planted firmly on the pavement.

It was so beautifully done, almost perfect… However, there was absolutely no reason for him to do any of that. He was just showing off.

Master Lee straightened his white uniform, lifted his chin, and extended one arm across Canelo’s path.

Canelo stopped.

Master Lee stared him straight in the eyes.

“I’m afraid…”

He paused.

“…you’re going nowhere.”