One year later...


Zaire ran across the newly paved court of the reopened West Side Community Haven—laughing, carefree, alive.


Maya handed out gloss samples at a pop-up shop near the entrance.


Tia DJ’d from the corner, spinning a mix of neo-soul and house that made even the old heads nod.


Darius watched it all from the entrance, arms crossed, heart full.


He was still healing.


Still fighting to stay clean.


Still walking with scars.


But he was there.


Present.


Rooted.


He walked over to Maya, standing behind her like he belonged there now—not as her man, but as her equal.


“You good?” she asked.


“Getting there.”


She handed him a tube of gloss. The newest shade.


He read the label:


“Thorns of Loyalty.”


He smiled.


Because now?


He finally understood:


Loyalty that asks you to bleed without healing...


Ain’t loyalty at all.


But loyalty that protects, that grows, that rebuilds?


That’s the kind that makes a rose bloom in the middle of a war zone.


And he was done bleeding for crowns that never fit.