The block party on Beale Street was in full swing.


Red, black, and green banners hung from lampposts like flags of a forgotten army. Soul food trucks lined the curb, serving everything from catfish po’ boys to fried Kool-Aid. A local DJ spun a mix of classic blues and modern trap while kids danced in the street, sparklers lighting up the dusk like fireflies.


Zariah leaned against a wall near B.B. King’s Blues Club, sipping sweet tea from a mason jar and watching the crowd. She was trying to enjoy it—to let the music and laughter drown out the unease in her gut—but something about the air felt… wrong.


Marcus was nearby, filming everything with his Canon. He moved through the crowd like a ghost chaser, pausing at murals, snapping shots of brass plaques, zooming in on old buildings like they might bleed secrets.


“Yo!” Tamika called, dragging Zariah toward the street. “Dance with me!”


Zariah laughed despite herself, letting the rhythm carry her a few steps before she stopped abruptly.


A trumpet was playing.


Not on the speakers. Not part of the show. A real trumpet. Off-beat. Off-key.


It drifted from the alley between a closed cigar lounge and an old record store—slow, haunting, deliberate.


“You hear that?” she asked.


“Hear what?” Tamika frowned, still swaying.


Zariah moved toward the alley, curiosity outweighing caution. As she stepped into the shadowed passage, the sound sharpened. A single trumpet note rang out, high and painful.


Then—a scream.


She ran.


The alley opened up into a small back lot behind the record store. A small crowd was already gathering. Someone was crying. A boy—no older than seventeen—lay sprawled on the pavement, eyes wide in horror.


Blood pooled beneath him.


A trumpet mouthpiece was shoved halfway down his throat.


“Oh my God…” Zariah whispered, heart thudding.


Marcus appeared beside her, pale and shaking. “That’s DeShawn. He was one of the street performers. Played right over there, near the statue. Every year.”


Tamika arrived next, mouth open in shock. “Who would do this?”


The police showed up ten minutes later—slow, uninterested, already writing it off. “Probably gang-related,” one officer muttered.


“No gang kills like this,” Zariah snapped. “Look at him.”


The cop narrowed his eyes. “You a detective now?”


But Marcus had already pulled her back. “Don’t waste your breath. You know they won’t do shit.”


He looked down at the body again. “This is it. This is how it starts. Just like the old stories.”


Zariah shook her head, but she couldn’t unsee the way the blood curved into a crescent, or how the trumpet mouthpiece had been wedged like a calling card.


Somebody wanted them to see.


Somebody wanted to play.