The corner store on Simpson and Lee buzzed like always. Boys posted on crates, eyes sharp under low hoods. Girls walked past, hips swaying like they owned the block. And in the middle of it all was Kiki—slim figure, big hair, and a stare that could cut glass.


She had a black Nike bag slung low on her shoulder and Air Maxes so clean they looked dipped in bleach. In her pocket was $300 from a drop she’d made to a dude outside an abandoned auto shop. It was easy work—too easy.


Rico liked her because she was invisible in plain sight. Cops never looked twice at a smart girl with a report card full of A’s. What they didn’t know was that her locker held burner phones, and her backpack had more trap house addresses than textbooks.


She ducked into the store, nodded at old Mr. Sampson behind the counter, grabbed a Sprite, and texted Rico: Done. What's next?


As she waited, her eyes landed on a tall dude across the street painting a mural on a brick wall. It was bold—colors twisting up like fire, a face forming in the middle. He moved like the world didn’t exist. Just him and the wall.


Toya: Girl, you see that fine art project walking around the block?


Kiki smirked. Kiki: Already clocked him. He’s different.


The Sprite hissed open. She took a sip and stepped out just as her phone buzzed again. But this time, it wasn’t Rico.


Unknown Number: Dre out. Coming home tonight.


Her stomach dropped.


Dre wasn’t supposed to be out for another year. If he was home early, it meant two things: somebody pulled strings, or something bad was coming.