The Underwear’s Friendship

Section 1: Marvel at Sunset

It was a sweltering summer evening in Flushing City. The sun was sinking behind the apartment buildings, but the heat still clung to the park. Joggers moved along the path, old men walked beneath the trees, and dogs panted beside their owners.

Seated perfectly still on a wooden bench was a man in a fully buttoned Zhongshan suit. His hair was neatly parted down the center, his back was straight, and his hands rested calmly on his thighs. His slightly round belly pressed against the front of the suit, while his expression remained peaceful and almost completely blank.

This man was none other than Pervert Marvel.

For the past few weeks, Marvel had appeared at this exact bench almost every evening around sunset. Same time. Same spot. Same Zhongshan suit. Most people came to the park to exercise, walk their dogs, or enjoy the evening.

Marvel was simply there to … observe.

At roughly the same time every evening, a voluptuous woman came jogging down the path in a tight sports bra and pink, triangle-shaped workout shorts. Marvel knew which direction she came from, how long each lap took, and exactly when to look up.

She was the jogging girl.

The familiar rhythm of footsteps approached. As the jogging girl passed the bench, Marvel kept his head still and quietly observed her bouncing boobs until she disappeared around the bend.

Until one day, something changed.

Marvel was sitting in his usual spot when the bench creaked. Someone had sat down at the other end. He ignored it until a flash of pink caught his eye.

Pink. Triangle-shaped.

*Wait… was that her?*

Marvel cautiously lowered his eyes toward the other end of the bench.

It was not her.

All he saw was an enormous muscular body wearing nothing but pink women’s triangle underwear.

*A pervert. A complete pervert.*

He didn’t bother looking any higher and immediately returned his attention to the jogging path.

It was Dave.

Section 2: A Broken Dream

Ever since Michael had shattered his wrist, Dave had fallen into a spiral of doubt. The man who once wandered Flushing City looking for powerful opponents had lost interest in fighting. His wrist had healed, but his confidence had not. He sat with his elbows on his thighs, staring at nothing, his eyes hollow and tired.

Marvel never saw any of that. He simply didn’t care who was sitting beside him.

Neither man spoke.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. A mosquito landed on Dave’s shoulder, but he didn’t react. Marvel remained perfectly still beside him.

Two motionless figures. Two silent souls.

One broken fighter.

One man waiting for breasts.

The next evening, Marvel returned. Dave was there again. The evening after that, Dave was already sitting on the bench when Marvel arrived. Marvel sat down without greeting him, his eyes settling on the jogging path.

The same thing happened the next day. Then again. And again.

Eventually, Dave began noticing something strange about the quiet man beside him. Marvel never complained, never asked questions, and never bothered him. He simply sat there with that calm, almost sorrowful expression, staring into the distance.

*Could it be… that he’s just like me? A man with a broken dream?*

One evening, after nearly twenty minutes of silence, Dave leaned forward.

“Looks like… you’re a broken man too.”

Marvel continued staring down the path.

“You ever feel like… no matter how hard you train, eventually you hit a ceiling? And you just can’t break past it?” Dave looked at his once-shattered wrist. “At first, everything seemed simple. Train harder. Fight stronger people. Keep improving. But now? It’s just disappointment. Frustration. Helplessness.”

For the first time in weeks, Dave let everything out. He talked about Michael, his shattered confidence, and the feeling that everything he had spent his life pursuing had become meaningless.

Section 3: The Perfect Listener

Marvel heard almost none of it. His attention remained fixed on the jogging path. Despite sitting beside Dave for several evenings, he had still never looked at his face.

Then the jogging girl appeared.

Marvel’s eyes followed her as she passed. Dave kept talking beside him, but to Marvel his voice was little more than background noise. Still, after having someone constantly talking beside him, Marvel had developed an automatic sense of when a response was expected.

He nodded politely.

“Mm. I see.”

Dave looked at him.

*He understands.*

From then on, the bench became their meeting place. Every sunset, Dave returned and talked about his failures, regrets, and broken confidence. Marvel sat beside him waiting for the jogging girl. He never remembered what Dave said, and he never once looked at Dave’s face.

But to Dave, someone was finally there.

Two weeks later, Dave turned toward him.

“You know… I’ve never had a real friend. I’ve always been alone. But now… I think I finally understand the importance of friendship.”

Marvel stared ahead. The jogging girl was approaching.

“You might be the first real friend I’ve ever had. I don’t feel so hopeless anymore. Maybe friendship really can help me break through my limits.”

The jogging girl passed, and Marvel’s eyes went with her.

“Thank you,” Dave said.

Suddenly, the voice beside Marvel stopped. Marvel had no idea what Dave had said. He only knew the man had finished talking and some kind of response was probably expected.

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

Dave stared at him, deeply moved.

Marvel still didn’t look at him.

And just like that… their friendship was born.

Section 4: Power of Friendship

That same night, Dave returned to the gym for the first time in nearly a month. Under the buzzing fluorescent lights, he stood before the weight rack in nothing but his pink triangle underwear.

He grabbed two 500-pound dumbbells, one in each hand, and lifted them off the floor. His arms tightened and veins rose across his shoulders, but the weights somehow felt lighter than he remembered.

Dave stared at himself in the mirror.

*Could it be…? Maybe… this is the power of friendship.*

The sadness faded. The old fire returned.

Dave was back.

And soon, Flushing City knew it.

He returned to the streets full of energy and aggression. Alleys, parking lots, shopping malls, even public restrooms—wherever Dave went, someone eventually ended up in the hospital. Bones were broken. Teeth went missing. Faces were rearranged.

But now, in Dave’s mind, every punch carried something deeper.

Friendship.

One afternoon, Local Hero Sean lay battered beside a pile of trash bags. His face had swollen like a balloon, one eye was nearly shut, and every few seconds his body gave a small involuntary twitch.

Dave stood over him.

“You can’t beat me anymore,” he said. “Because I’m not fighting alone… I have friendship.”

Sean forced his remaining eye open.

“You… bastard… get out of here… cut the friendship crap…”

Dave casually drew one leg back and kicked Sean squarely in the face. The impact sent him flying backward. He hit the pavement and skidded nearly twenty meters down the street before slamming back-first into a lamppost and going completely limp.

Dave calmly lowered his leg.

“You know nothing about friendship,” Dave said. “That’s why you haven’t improved at all since the last time we fought.”

Section 5: Wedding Day Challenge

Then came the church.

One sunny afternoon, Dave passed a wedding in progress. Guests in formal clothes gathered near the chapel while soft piano music drifted through the open doors. Beside the entrance stood a large framed wedding photograph.

Dave stopped.

The bride was smiling brightly. Beside her stood the groom—a tall, muscular man in a dark suit, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric.

Dave leaned closer.

“This guy… looks powerful.”

That was enough.

He walked straight through the chapel doors.

The pianist was halfway through a gentle wedding melody when Dave entered. His fingers slowed. Guests turned around.

Then the piano stopped.

Dave marched down the center aisle in nothing but his pink triangle underwear. At the altar, the bride stared at him while the groom’s expression hardened.

Dave stopped directly in front of him. The two men were almost exactly the same height, around 180 centimeters, although Dave was considerably less dressed.

“What the hell are you doing, big guy?” the groom asked. “This is the most important day of my life. I’m marrying this beautiful woman today. Please leave.”

“I refuse.”

Dave looked over the groom’s muscular body.

“You must be a strong fighter. Let’s spar.”

The groom stared at him, then grabbed Dave by both shoulders.

“Stop this nonsense. Go find someone else to play with.”

He tried to shove Dave toward the doors.

Dave barely moved.

Instead, he grabbed the groom’s stiff bow tie and ripped it clean off like he was unwrapping a package.

The groom flinched. Dave immediately threw a punch, but the groom raised both arms and blocked it with a heavy thud. The force pushed him back half a step.

Dave’s eyes widened slightly.

The pianist looked between them, hesitated, then slowly placed his fingers back on the keys.

A fast, dramatic battle tune filled the chapel.

And the real fight began.

Section 6: Friendship Punch

They crashed into each other in front of the altar. Fists flew. Shoes scraped across the floor. Chairs toppled. One punch sent the groom stumbling into a flower arrangement, exploding white petals across the aisle.

Guests screamed and scrambled away. The bride lifted her dress and hurried behind the pulpit. The priest ducked behind it with her and wrapped an arm around her trembling shoulders.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “You’ll be fine.”

The bride stared at the fight.

The priest checked that nobody was watching. His free hand slowly moved across the front of her dress, settled over one of her breasts, and discreetly gave it a gentle squeeze.

She didn’t notice.

At the altar, the groom blocked another punch, drove an elbow into Dave’s shoulder, then struck him across the jaw. Dave staggered back, but the groom charged again.

They exchanged blow after blow as the pianist played faster, chairs and flowers scattering around them.

Behind the pulpit, the bride remained completely focused on the fight, watching her groom with terrified eyes as he traded blows with Dave. She was so worried about him that she barely noticed the priest shifting closer beside her.

The priest checked the fight again. Seeing that her attention was completely elsewhere, he quietly slipped his hand inside the front of her dress and grabbed a full handful of her breast against the bare skin.

The bride didn’t notice. Her eyes never left the groom.

The groom suddenly saw an opening. He took two quick steps, launched himself into the air, and drove a flying kick into Dave’s face.

BOOM.

Dave flew backward through a row of chairs and hit the floor.

The groom landed, breathing heavily.

For several seconds, Dave didn’t move. There was only a faint bruise on his cheek. He touched it with two fingers and slowly climbed to his feet.

The groom’s expression changed.

Dave brushed a flower petal from his shoulder and stepped forward. His body dropped low, knees bending as his right fist pulled far behind him.

He closed his eyes.

The ruined chapel disappeared.

In his mind, Marvel stood behind him in his Zhongshan suit, perfectly straight and completely silent. The same neatly parted hair. The same blank expression.

Marvel placed one hand firmly on Dave’s shoulder.

No words. No instructions.

Just presence and support.

Dave felt his heartbeat slam against his chest. His fingers tightened, his right arm swelled, and veins rose from his fist toward his shoulder. All those evenings on the bench rushed back to him—every silent nod, every “Mm. I see,” every moment he had believed Marvel understood him when nobody else did.

His loneliness. His defeat. His humiliation. His rebirth.

Friendship.

Dave’s eyes snapped open.

The groom stepped backward.

Dave’s fist trembled with tension, and tiny cracks spread beneath his feet.

“Friendship Punch,” he whispered. “Full release.”

In reality, there was no mysterious energy. Marvel wasn’t there, and the Friendship Punch was no supernatural technique.

Dave was simply extremely emotional and punching much harder than usual.

But the groom didn’t know that.

Dave exploded forward.

The groom planted his feet and crossed both arms over his chest.

BOOM.

Dave’s fist smashed through his guard. Both forearms snapped under the force, and the punch drove into his chest before his body could even move backward.

For a fraction of a second, everything stopped. The groom remained standing. The pianist’s hands hovered above the keys.

Then—

BOOOOOOM!

The groom exploded.

A cloud of red mist swallowed the altar. Blood sprayed across the white flowers, pews, stained-glass windows, and horrified wedding guests. The front of the chapel disappeared behind a drifting crimson haze.

Pieces of bone and flesh shot in every direction. One struck the wall. Another landed on the piano. Something wet slapped against a stained-glass window and slowly slid downward.

A piece of flesh landed on one guest’s shoulder. He turned, saw it, screamed, and collapsed. Another fragment struck a woman across the cheek. She wiped her face, saw the blood on her fingers, and shrieked.

A small piece of bone bounced off another man’s forehead.

His eyes rolled backward.

THUD.

Within seconds, the chapel descended into chaos. Guests screamed and shoved past one another. Some hid beneath the pews while others stood frozen. The white flowers were stained red, and crimson mist still hung beneath the sunlight pouring through the stained glass.

The pianist looked down.

A small piece of flesh sat between two piano keys.

He slowly lifted his hands.

The bride remained completely still. Seconds earlier, her groom had been standing in front of her. Now pieces of him were scattered throughout the church.

Her bouquet slipped from her fingers.

Then she screamed.

She collapsed to her knees and broke down completely, sobbing uncontrollably as she stared through the fading red mist.

The priest crouched beside her and pulled her close. His hand was still inside the front of her dress.

Seizing the moment, the priest began moving his hand frantically inside her dress.

In the middle of it all stood Dave, his fist still extended as blood dripped from his knuckles.

He stared at his hand in amazement.

Then a peaceful smile appeared on his face.

“This… is the power I found after discovering friendship.”

Around him, guests screamed, fled, or simply stared in horror.

The pianist looked over the ruined wedding, then quietly placed his fingers back on the keys.

A slow, mournful tune began to play.

Dave lowered his fist and casually glanced toward the widowed bride.

The priest froze.

He yanked his hand from her dress, straightened his posture, folded both hands in front of himself, and stared solemnly at the altar as though he had spent the entire time praying.

Dave said nothing.

He turned and walked down the aisle, passing overturned chairs, scattered flowers, blood, and stunned guests with the calm confidence of a hero walking away after saving the day.

Nobody stopped him.

Outside, Dave looked up and noticed the sun beginning to set.

“Oh. It’s getting late.”

Marvel entered his thoughts.

“I kind of miss my new friend… whoever he is.”

Dave paused.

After all those evenings together, all those conversations, and all the deepest insecurities he had shared with the man…

He still didn’t know his name.

Dave scratched his chin.

“I wonder how he’s doing at the park.”

Then he turned and began walking back toward the bench where it had all started.