Darius woke to the sound of Maya humming.


Soft. Low. Familiar.


She sat beside his hospital bed with Zaire asleep in her lap, the boy’s tiny arm draped across her chest, his little Spidey socks poking from under the blanket.


The room was dim, the hallway buzzing faintly with nurses and machines.


Darius moved to speak, but the pain gripped him like a reminder.


Maya looked over and met his eyes.


“You ain’t dead,” she said softly.


“Almost,” he croaked.


She smirked. “Almost don’t count.”


He tried to sit up but winced.


“Don’t be stupid,” she warned. “Lay down and heal.”


Zaire stirred slightly. Darius watched him sleep.


“I didn’t think I’d get this far,” he whispered.


“You almost didn’t.”


Silence.


Then Maya added, “They’ll come again. You know that, right?”


“I know.”


“So what now?”


Darius blinked slow. “Now I don’t run. I rebuild.”


“You think you can really make something clean out of all this?”


He nodded. “That’s what scars are for, right? To remind you what you survived. And why you don't go back.”


Across town, Mo stared at a burner phone.


The call he just received wasn’t about Darius getting shot.


It was about him getting sloppy.


“Should’ve finished the job,” the voice had said.


Mo hung up.


Paced his small, dark kitchen.


He knew what had to happen next.


Because Darius still breathing meant the streets were watching him now.


And in the game they came from?


There could only be one story left standing.


Back in the hospital, Darius closed his eyes and whispered to Maya:


“Whatever comes next… we face it different.”


Maya nodded.


“Together?”


He didn’t answer with words.


He just reached over, slowly, and placed his hand on top of hers.


Not as a promise.


But as a start.