Two days passed.


Zaire’s fever broke. Maya never responded to Darius’s last message.


But that was fine.


He didn’t text to reconnect. He texted because his son needed him. Because even if he was neck-deep in street politics, he’d always answer when it came to that boy.


Now he sat on a worn park bench across from King Rawls—the old lion who once ran the West Side before Malik ever picked up a pistol.


Rawls wasn’t retired.


He was repositioned.


And when things got shaky, the young ones always came back to the ones who taught them the game.


“Word is,” Rawls said, pulling from his cigar, “you been offered the throne.”


Darius leaned back. “That’s what they saying.”


“And you gonna take it?”


“I don’t know yet.”


Rawls nodded slowly. “Let me tell you what that crown comes with, boy. Betrayal. Stress. Every dollar got blood on it. Every smile from a homie got a knife behind it. You ready to eat with dogs who’d rather bite than bark?”


Darius didn’t flinch. “I been eating with them.”


“Yeah, but once you the one holding the plate?” Rawls paused. “They gon’ either lick your hands or bite your wrist.”


Darius looked out at the playground.


A little boy in Spider-Man shoes ran across the grass.


Looked like Zaire.


“I’m trying to figure out how to keep my name clean,” he said.


“You can't,” Rawls said. “You wear that crown, dirt becomes your name. But maybe, just maybe… you can use the weight of it to protect somebody else.”


Darius looked over. “Maya?”


Rawls shook his head. “Your son.”


That night, Darius walked into the corner bar where the crew usually celebrated wins. It was mostly empty.


Mo sat in the back with a blunt in one hand and a girl on his lap.


“You in?” he asked.


Darius nodded. “Yeah.”


Mo clapped. “That’s what I’m talking about. King D-Roc.”


But the title didn’t feel right in his mouth.


Didn’t taste sweet.


Because Darius knew something now.


He wasn’t the king of anything.


He was the one who had to burn the kingdom down before it swallowed his son whole.