It was nearly midnight when the knock came.


Soft.


Careful.


Maya froze in the middle of her packaging table. Zaire was already asleep. The apartment lights were low.


She moved to the peephole slowly.


It wasn’t Devin. Not a cop. Not a neighbor.


It was Darius.


He looked worn—hoodie wrinkled, eyes bloodshot, beard grown in like he hadn’t slept in days. Fresh out on bail. Or maybe just bold enough to show up one last time.


Maya didn’t open the door.


She just spoke through it.


“You need to leave.”


He sighed. “I just wanna talk.”


“There’s nothing left to say.”


“I ain’t touch your stuff.”


“You sent someone to.”


Silence.


“I never wanted it to go this far, May.”


She almost laughed. “You wanted me scared. That’s exactly how far you wanted it.”


He leaned his head against the door. “I don’t even know who I am without you.”


Maya’s voice was sharp. Clean. Unapologetic.


“That’s your problem to fix. Not mine.”


A long silence followed.


Then, softly—“You really gone for good, huh?”


“I been gone,” she said. “You just now noticing.”


He didn’t knock again.


Didn’t threaten.


Just walked away.


She watched him leave through the peephole, waited until she couldn’t hear his steps anymore, then locked the door again—twice.


She stood in the quiet and whispered to herself:


“Legacy ain’t fear. It’s choice.”