Evening had draped Lincoln Heights in that lazy, sticky kind of calm like the neighborhood itself is exhaling. The usual crowd was assembled at Elm and Third like it was the town's unofficial meeting of the bored and curious. Porches sagged under the weight of old men, kids were still running around pretending streetlights were lava, and everyone was somewhere between nosy and dangerously opinionated.
The folding chairs formed a crooked circle under the flickering streetlight, which probably doubled as some sort of unofficial haunted signal. Ray the taxi driver was doing his usual thing—gesturing while holding a coffee cup like it contained the meaning of life.
Tommy perched on the curb, laptop on knees, trying to look like a normal teenager who just happened to be casually hacking the social dynamics of the block. Inside, though? He was internally high-fiving himself—finally, an audience for his Vampire House theories.
