This was the moment to disarm him. I could protect everybody.
On the night of Lunar New Year, a 26-year-old man working at his family's Alhambra dance hall found himself face to face with a gunman who had already killed eleven people two miles away. In four desperate minutes, Brandon Tsay wrestled the weapon free and ordered the man out — an act of terrified resolve that closed the door on what might have been a second massacre. The shooter, 72-year-old Huu Can Tran, later died by suicide, and investigators found no motive beyond the deeply personal. What endures is the quiet, staggering weight of what one person's decision, made in a moment of pure fear, can prevent.
- Eleven people were already dead at a Monterey Park dance studio when the gunman walked into a second hall, weapon loaded and ready for more.
- Brandon Tsay froze first — convinced he was about to die — before something in him shifted and he lunged for the gun.
- The four-minute struggle was brutal: punches to the head, bodies thrown against walls, the gunman still grasping for the weapon even after losing his grip.
- Tsay finally shoved the man out at gunpoint, then immediately called police — turning a near-catastrophe into a crime scene with no new victims.
- The gunman fled, was identified as Huu Can Tran, 72, and died by suicide hours later after a thirty-mile manhunt, with investigators pointing to a personal grievance as motive.
- The night leaves an open question hanging over every crowded room: what is the distance between tragedy and survival, and who among us will be standing at that threshold?
Brandon Tsay was winding down a Lunar New Year shift at his family's Alhambra dance hall when a man in dark clothing walked in without a word, his eyes scanning the room. Tsay didn't know that eleven people had just been killed two miles away at a Monterey Park dance studio, or that the man now standing in his lobby was the same gunman.
Video obtained by NBC News captures what followed: an immediate, violent struggle in the near-empty lobby. The gunman threw punches at Tsay's head; Tsay used his elbows to create space and pry at the weapon — a semi-automatic pistol with an extended magazine. Tsay later told NBC's Lester Holt that he initially froze, certain he was about to die. Then something shifted. He saw the gunman preparing the weapon and realized it was the moment to act — for himself, and for everyone else inside.
After roughly a minute of fighting, Tsay wrenched the gun free. The gunman kept reaching for it. Tsay shoved him back, pointed the weapon at him, and shouted at him to leave. After a moment's hesitation, the man walked out and fled in a white van. Tsay called police immediately.
The gunman was identified as Huu Can Tran, 72. He died by suicide hours later at the end of a manhunt stretching thirty miles. Investigators ruled out terrorism and hate crime, pointing instead to a personal grievance possibly involving an ex-wife. The weapon recovered at the Alhambra hall was loaded. The second dance hall never became a second massacre — not because of luck or police response, but because a part-time computer coder chose, in a moment of absolute terror, to fight back.
The lobby of the Alhambra dance hall was nearly empty when Brandon Tsay heard the front door creak open, followed by the metallic clink of something hard being moved. It was a sound that would define the next four minutes of his life—and possibly save dozens of others from the fate that had already claimed eleven people just two miles away.
Tsay, 26, was working that Saturday night at Lai Lai Ballroom & Studio, a family business he helps operate as its third-generation manager. The Lunar New Year celebration was winding down. Most customers had already left when the man in dark clothing and a hat walked in. Tsay didn't recognize him. The gunman said nothing, his face expressionless except for his eyes, which moved methodically around the room as if searching for targets.
Exclusive video obtained by NBC News shows what happened next in stark, silent detail. The man and Tsay begin to struggle almost immediately. They wrestle in the empty lobby, their bodies colliding against walls and each other. The gunman throws punches at Tsay's head and face. Tsay uses his elbows to create distance, to pry the weapon away. The fight is brutal and desperate. After about a minute, Tsay manages to wrench the gun—a semi-automatic assault pistol with an extended magazine—from the man's grip. But the struggle doesn't end. The gunman continues reaching for it, continues fighting. Tsay shoves him back, points the weapon at him, and shouts commands to leave. For a moment, the man hesitates, as if weighing whether to charge again. Then he turns and walks out of the frame.
Tsay told NBC News' Lester Holt that in those first moments, he froze. "There was a moment I actually froze up, because I was, I had the belief that I was gonna die, like my life was ending here, at that very moment," he said. But something shifted. As the gunman began to prepare the weapon, Tsay realized this was his moment—the instant when he could act. "It dawned on me that this was the moment to disarm him. I could do something here that could protect everybody and potentially save myself."
The gunman fled to a white van. Tsay, still holding the weapon, immediately called police. The man he had just disarmed was later identified as Huu Can Tran, 72. Hours later, after a manhunt that stretched thirty miles from the shooting sites, Tran died by his own hand. Law enforcement officials said the motive appeared to be personal—possibly connected to an ex-wife—and ruled out terrorism or hate crime.
But the calculus of that night is stark. At the Star Ballroom Dance Studio in Monterey Park, Tran had killed eleven people and wounded at least nine more. He had then driven to a second dance hall with the same weapon, the same apparent intent. What stopped him was not police intervention, not luck, but a 26-year-old computer coder who worked part-time at a family business and chose, in a moment of terror, to fight back. The weapon recovered at the Alhambra hall was loaded and ready. The second massacre never happened.
Notable Quotes
There was a moment I actually froze up, because I had the belief that I was gonna die. But something amazing happened, a miracle actually. It dawned on me that this was the moment to disarm him.— Brandon Tsay to NBC News
When he came in, he said nothing. His face was very stoic. His expressions were mostly in his eyes—looking around trying to find people, trying to scout the area.— Brandon Tsay describing the gunman
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
When you watch that video, what strikes you most—the physical struggle itself, or the decision that had to happen before it?
The decision. Tsay says he froze at first. That's the honest part. Most people would freeze. But then he saw the gunman preparing the weapon, and something shifted from fear to purpose. That's not instinct. That's a choice made in four seconds.
He's a computer coder working a few nights a week at his family's business. Not trained in any of this. How does someone untrained survive a four-minute fight with an armed person?
Desperation, partly. But also the fact that Tran was 72 and apparently not expecting resistance. Tsay was younger, faster, and he understood that the moment the gun was ready, people would die. That clarity matters.
The mayor suggested Tran may have been targeting his ex-wife. Does that change how we understand what happened?
It complicates the narrative of random violence, yes. But it doesn't diminish what Tsay did. He didn't know the motive. He just knew a man with a loaded weapon was in his dance hall, and he chose to act.
What happens to someone after they do something like that? After you've fought for your life and won?
Tsay called police while still holding the gun. He was coherent, he was thinking. But there's a difference between surviving and processing what survival cost. That's the part we don't see in the video.