The night was heavy with humidity, the kind that made even breathing feel like effort. Kyle sat on the balcony of his cousin Omar's apartment, overlooking a patchwork of zinc roofs and dim streetlights flickering against the black sky. He couldn't shake the voice from that anonymous call. The way it carried weight, familiarity, danger.
It wasn't just a threat—it was an invitation.
And Kyle hated himself for knowing he couldn't ignore it.
OmarInside, Omar poured two glasses of white rum and stepped out to the balcony. He handed one to Kyle and sat down.
"Bruh," Omar said, taking a sip, "I tell yuh already. This ain't Boston. This ain't the NBA. Jamaica have a memory longer than time, and every step you take, it feel like people watching."
Kyle leaned forward, elbows on knees. "You saying I shouldn't even ask questions?"
Omar shrugged. "Questions? Questions easy. Answers is the problem. Derrick name still carry weight out here, but not the kinda weight you want."
