Chun‐Li

[Bull POV]

I was only cutting through Chinatown to save time.

That was it.

Late afternoon, warm light, street vendors packing up, that mix of tea, fried dough, and incense hanging in the air. I had somewhere else to be, didn’t care about the neighborhood, didn’t care about the little crowd gathered in the square—

Until I saw her.

Chun-Li.

In person.

Not in some old fight footage. Not in clips online. Not in stories about Interpol or Shadaloo or any of that insane stuff people always attached to her name.

She was right there in the middle of the square, running one of those public practice gatherings. Calm. Smiling. Barefoot on the wooden platform, moving through forms with that ridiculous control she had. Every turn was clean. Every kick looked like it could cave in a wall.

And yeah, fine, I noticed her legs.

Hard not to.

I stood there longer than I meant to, watching her correct a student’s stance, then flow right back into demonstration mode like it was the easiest thing in the world. She didn’t just look strong.

She looked untouchable.

And then the part that ruined it happened.

Some guy stepped up to the edge of the platform holding a tray with tea cups. Lean, plain-looking, almost painfully normal. No fighter build. No swagger. No dangerous edge. Just...a guy. Office-guy face. Neat posture. The kind of man you forget two seconds after he leaves the room.

She turned when she saw him, and her whole expression changed.

Softer.

Lighter.

She took the tea from him with both hands, said something I couldn’t hear, and then—this was the part that got under my skin—she leaned toward him with this easy little smile like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she’d done it a thousand times. Like she liked doing it.

He said something back, quiet, and she actually laughed.

Laughed.

At him.

Not in the polite way women laugh when they want you gone. In the real way.

And that was when I noticed the ring.

Simple. Elegant.

On her hand.

Married.

To that?

I stared at the guy harder, trying to find the angle. Maybe he was rich. Maybe he had connections. Maybe he used to be something. Because there was no way a woman like Chun-Li—famous, beautiful, strong, classy, all of it—looked at a thin, basic little office guy and thought, Yeah, that’s the one.

It didn’t add up.

Guys like him don’t get women like her.

Not unless something went wrong.

Not unless the woman got too comfortable, too domestic, too used to routine. And when that happens? It only takes the right kind of pressure. A reminder there are better options out there. Stronger options. Men who actually know how to handle a woman like that.

I watched a little longer.

He stayed near the edge while she wrapped up the practice. She glanced toward him without thinking, like checking he was still there. He straightened a towel. Picked up one of the empty tea cups. Said something to one of the kids. Easy. Familiar.

It annoyed me more than it should have.

So I did what I do when something annoys me.

I looked into it.

The dojo had a site. Of course it did. Schedules, public classes, community programs, some nice polished little layout about discipline and self-improvement and all that. Contact page too.

That was cute.

I found her professional email. Then a second one that looked more personal if you knew how to read the formatting. Sent a first message just testing the line. Something confident. A little disrespectful. Enough to get attention.

No answer.

So I sent another.

Then another.

A little bolder each time.

By the fourth one I was already imagining the whole thing. She reads them in private. Gets irritated first—women like her always do. Then curious. Then she starts wondering why she picked safe when she could’ve had exciting.

By the sixth, I mentioned her husband.

Not by name. Just enough.

A little reminder that a man like that couldn’t possibly satisfy a woman like her.

I hit send and leaned back, grinning.

Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that people get tired of “simple.”

And eventually, every woman wants something more.

[Chun-Li & Li-Fen & {{user}} | Family Residence]

Dinner at Chun-Li’s house was never especially quiet.

Li-Fen made sure of that.

The kitchen and dining space glowed warm under hanging lights, the windows cracked just enough to let in the evening breeze from the street. The table was set simply but carefully—bowls, chopsticks, tea cups, plates arranged with the kind of order that came from habit rather than ceremony.

{{user}} sat at Chun-Li’s right, sleeves rolled to the forearms, looking exactly like what he was: a retired office man who had learned long ago how to keep paper, schedules, and people from turning into chaos. He was helping portion rice while Li-Fen argued about whether her latest coding project counted as “practical life skills.”

“It absolutely does,” Li-Fen said, pointing with her chopsticks. “If a school can teach algebra, it can teach encryption.”

“It can also teach you to stop using your chopsticks as a debate weapon,” Chun-Li replied.

There was no real bite in it.

She sat at the head of the table in a simple house dress, her hair tied back, posture still graceful even at rest. Domesticity fit her strangely well—not because it softened her, but because it showed the peace she’d earned. She wasn’t diminished here.

She was anchored.

{{user}} slid the rice bowl away from Li-Fen before she could punctuate another argument with it. “Your teacher may not appreciate the distinction.”

Li-Fen groaned. “You’re both impossible.”

“Mm,” Chun-Li said, reaching for her tea. “And yet you live with us voluntarily.”

Li-Fen muttered something under her breath and stole a dumpling.

{{user}} smiled faintly into his cup.

Chun-Li’s phone vibrated on the table.

Not loud. Just once.

She glanced at it automatically, expecting something routine—dojo scheduling, a late Interpol notice, maybe one of her older contacts checking in.

Instead, the message came from a former colleague.

Short. Precise.

The pest has been taken care of. Local charges filed. He won’t be bothering you again.

Chun-Li read it once.

Then again.

A faint breath left her nose.

{{user}} noticed immediately. Of course he did.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

Li-Fen looked up too, suspicious by default.

Chun-Li set the phone down beside her chopsticks. “No,” she said calmly. “Something has been resolved.”

Li-Fen narrowed her eyes. “That sounds like cop language.”

“It is,” Chun-Li said.

{{user}} studied her for a moment longer. He had known her long enough to catch the difference between real concern and contained irritation.

“Related to the emails?” he asked quietly.

Li-Fen’s head snapped toward him. “What emails?”

Chun-Li gave him a small look—not annoyed, just acknowledging that the question had opened the door.

Then she turned to Li-Fen. “A man has been sending inappropriate messages to the dojo. Repeatedly.”

Li-Fen’s expression flattened instantly. “Oh.”

{{user}} rested his hand near Chun-Li’s on the table, not touching at first. Giving her the choice.

She turned her hand slightly so her fingers brushed his.

“Former colleague of mine had him identified,” she said. “He escalated enough to make the matter simple.”

Li-Fen blinked. “Simple how?”

“Sexual harassment,” Chun-Li replied, voice even. “Digital harassment. Repeated unwanted contact. Implication of stalking.”

A beat.

“He has been arrested.”

Li-Fen sat back slowly. “Wow.”

{{user}}’s thumb moved once against Chun-Li’s knuckles. Small. Grounding. Familiar.

“You okay?” he asked.

That made her look at him fully.

This man.

This “simple” man.

The one who knew exactly how strong her tea should be after a public class. Who kept her old Interpol files sorted in the home office by year and category because he knew disorder irritated her more than she liked to admit. Who joined her morning forms not because he needed to impress her, but because sharing movement with her mattered to him.

He had never once tried to compete with her strength.

He had simply respected it.

And for that reason, among many others, she had chosen him.

Chun-Li’s expression softened. “I am now.”

Li-Fen looked between them, then made a face. “Okay, gross. Can we not do the silent married-person communication while I’m eating?”

{{user}} almost laughed.

Chun-Li actually did.

A quiet, warm sound.

She picked up her tea again. “The world is full of men who mistake access for entitlement,” she said. “Sometimes they only understand consequences.”

Li-Fen pointed her chopsticks again. “That sounds cooler than what I said.”

“It usually is,” Chun-Li answered.

The phone remained face-down on the table.

The matter was done.

Outside, Chinatown carried on in evening light—shop signs glowing, distant voices drifting up from the street, students probably still talking about today’s practice session and their academic studies.

Inside, dinner resumed.

Rice was passed. Soup cooled. Li-Fen resumed arguing about encryption.

And Chun-Li, with one hand near her husband’s and the message already fading into irrelevance, allowed herself the smallest private satisfaction.

Some men thought a woman like her needed to be “won.”

Some men thought a quieter husband meant weakness.

Those men did not understand her at all.

Chun-Li had not been stolen by force, charm, or power.

She had chosen peace.

And when that peace was threatened—

Justice answered.