There’s a startled laughter through the bar as I whirl around to grab the phone. This is going to end badly and I can’t afford to let this man hurt Lander. But I’ve only dialed 9-1—when I hear the crushing impact of the first punch. Lander’s name bursts from my lips as I turn back to the fight . . .

But it’s not Lander who’s been hit. In fact, I turned just in time to see the biker hit the floor. He tries to get up, still snarling his aggression and holding what looks like a switchblade in his hand, but Lander is having none of it. Another punch and the knife goes flying. Blood is coming from the biker’s nose, but he doesn’t have time to tend to it because Lander quickly lands another blow to his ribs and then yet another to his jaw. And the entire time, Lander’s expression is almost . . . bored. This man is bleeding at his feet as he continues to pummel him, but looking at Lander’s face you’d think he was doing nothing more significant than killing a spider.

The biker turns onto his stomach as if trying to protect his face from the blows. But Lander grabs the man’s arm, bends it back until it’s about to break.

“Are we done?” Lander asks.

The man whimpers and wheezes. “Yes.”

And just like that, Lander releases him. The fight’s over. The biker, humiliated and teary-eyed, manages to get to his knees and looks up at Lander. And Lander looks down at him, and smiles. With his head low the biker tries to get to his feet, attempts to retrieve his knife from where it lies uselessly under a table, but Lander just looks at him and shakes his head.

The biker nods, leaves the knife where it is, and makes his way to the door. The drunk who started it all with his clumsiness finds a dark corner to huddle up in as he rubs his hand back and forth across the back of his head.

One of the other patrons swears his disappointment as the biker exits.

“That guy’s a fucking pussy!” yells out another.

And, of course, they’re not talking about Lander.

The dissatisfied audience turns back to their drinks and conversations while Lander turns to me, looks me in the eyes, and then walks out.

In seconds I’ve gathered my things and I’m following him out the door.

I find him standing just outside the bar, watching as the vanquished man retreats down the block.

I stand only a few feet behind him. He doesn’t turn . . . and yet somehow I know he’s aware of me.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” I ask.

“Does it matter?”