Word spread, and inevitably attracted new challengers. The Hellhounds motorcycle gang, led by a brute known as "Mad Dog" Johnny, saw Mike's growing influence as a direct challenge to their territory. Unlike the Eastern European thugs, Johnny came prepared. After studying Mike's previous encounters, he developed what he considered a foolproof strategy. On a busy Friday evening, Johnny and five patch-wearing members stormed into the Vietnamese nail salon, baseball bats in hand. His secret weapon: industrial-grade pepper spray concealed in his leather jacket. "Let's see how fancy your kung fu is when you can't see shit," he'd boasted to his crew beforehand.

When Mike arrived, Johnny's lips curled into a victorious smirk—until Mike paused at the doorway and calmly retrieved something from his briefcase. Safety goggles. Not just any goggles, but full-seal industrial-grade eye protection that transformed him into something between a scientist and a steampunk character. Johnny's smirk evaporated. "Get that motherfucker!" he bellowed, whipping out his pepper spray. Mike pivoted gracefully as Johnny charged, causing the spray to hit one of Johnny's own men square in the face. The blinded biker howled, flailing his bat wildly in panic.


Mike moved through the ensuing chaos like water through cracks. Never throwing a punch, he simply redirected energy—a subtle elbow causing one thug's wild swing to connect with another's jaw; a perfectly timed sidestep making two bikers collide; a gentle push sending the pepper-sprayed man's bat crashing into a third man's kneecap. Within forty seconds, five Hellhounds writhed on the floor, each convinced someone else had attacked them. Johnny, face flushed with rage, made a final desperate lunge. Mike merely extended his foot at the perfect moment, sending Johnny sprawling. As the gang leader fell, Mike "stumbled" against him, directing Johnny's momentum into the salon's glass display case with surgical precision.

Back at the precinct, Detective O'Malley's headache intensified as he reviewed the medical reports. His phone rang—the medical examiner sounding half-hysterical: "O'Malley, this is beyond science! The glass laceration on Thornfield's forearm is exactly 1.7 centimeters deep—precisely the minimum depth required to qualify as 'significant injury' under Michigan assault statutes! Two stitches, not one, not three! It's like watching a goddamn surgeon operate in reverse! I'm telling you now—I'm not examining any more of his 'injuries.' This is art, not medicine!"

The following morning, Mike received a call directly from Chief Williams. The aging Black police veteran, three months from retirement, closed his office door and offered Mike a seat without witnesses. After pouring two glasses of water, he studied Mike in prolonged silence. "Mr. Thornfield," he finally said, "I've read your file. Harvard. Law Review. Offers from firms that pay more in Christmas bonuses than my annual salary." He leaned forward. "I don't know what game you're playing in my district, and I don't want to know. But violent crime in this sector is down eighteen percent this quarter—first decrease in five years." His weathered face betrayed a complex mixture of respect and warning. "Legally, you're bulletproof. I get that. But listen carefully—no fatalities. Not one. Detroit's underbelly runs deeper than your Harvard professors ever taught you."


The Chief's tacit approval functioned as an invisible shield. Within weeks, Mike's reputation permeated Detroit's criminal ecosystem. Enforcers began checking whether businesses retained "that Thornfield guy" before attempting collections. Street dealers created new routes to avoid passing his modest office. None of them understood the Latin phrase on his door, but they all recognized that the bespectacled attorney in the tailored suit represented something more dangerous than their weapons—accountability. The neighborhood stopped referring to him as "the Harvard lawyer." Instead, they bestowed upon him an older, more fitting title that spread through the streets like wildfire: "The Knight of Detroit."