Havenbrook doesn't care about feelings. You either move, or you get moved. And me? I was the kind of guy getting moved, flipped, and dropped on my face… usually at least twice a day.
My name's Tyrese "Ty" Walker, and I just lost everything. Parents gone, house burned down, dog probably chilling somewhere better than me. I'm sitting on the cracked curb outside Mr. Jenkins' corner store in Westside, munching on a half-burnt hot dog I found lying next to a trash can. Protein is protein, right?
The Westside streets are alive. Kids run basketballs across uneven asphalt, shouting at each other while dodging potholes. Someone's blasting old-school hip-hop from a boombox sitting on a fire hydrant. Smell of burnt street food, wet asphalt from last night's rain, and that unmistakable scent of Westside chaos—it all hits me at once. This is my home now, whether I like it or not.
"Yo! You new here? You look… lost."
I jerk my head up. A BMX wheel screeches around the corner, and Marcus "Marky" Brown rolls up sideways, sideways hat tilted just so, sneakers barely gripping the pebbled asphalt. He's grinning like he's got the world's best secret.
"Lost?" I choke-laughed through the sad crunch of my hot dog. "Bro… I just lost literally everything. I'm good."
Marky's grin widened. "Bet. Name's Marky. You tryna survive, right? I got a plan."
"Plan?" I said, eyebrow raised. "You tryna recruit me into… what? Gang? Bank heist? Street juggling circus?"
"None of that," he said, hopping off his BMX with all the grace of someone who's clearly done this a thousand times. "I'm talkin' survival. Westside style. Odd jobs. Hustle smart. Make some cash. Learn fast, live faster. And most importantly… laugh at life before it stomps on you."
He paused dramatically, letting his words hang in the air like a trap. I blinked.
"Sounds… dangerous," I said.
"Danger's part of the fun, man," he said. He leaned against his BMX, tossing it casually to one side. "I'll show you. Come on, let's tour the block."
As we walked, Marky pointed out the neighborhood.
"There's Mr. Jenkins' corner store," he said. "Easy odd jobs: deliver groceries, sweep the front, make small talk with old folks. Then there's Mrs. Rivera's laundromat—pick up clothes, fix washing machines if you got the skills."
I nodded. My stomach growled again. "And… what if I suck?"
"You'll suck at first," Marky said with a wink. "But suckin' builds character, my dude. And character builds hustle."
We passed a group of kids playing street basketball. One of them, a scrappy kid named Tony "Tiny" Williams, tried to trip me as I walked by. I stumbled but caught myself. Marky laughed.
"That's Tiny. Don't let the name fool you—he's small, but he's nasty with tricks. Friendly advice: stay on your toes."
I made a mental note. "Check. Avoid Tiny."
A few houses down, an old man, Mr. Jenkins' neighbor Mr. Patel, waved at Marky. "You got a new recruit?" he asked, squinting.
"Yeah," Marky said. "This is Ty. New in town."
I waved nervously. Mr. Patel grinned. "Good kid. Just don't knock over my mailbox."
Noted.
Then came the comedy of errors. My first real "job": delivering groceries to Ms. Jenkins herself. She was sweet but strict. She leaned on her cane, glaring at me like I was about to blow up the entire block.
I step inside, try to grab a bag, and the bag tears. Bread falls everywhere. Eggs roll across the floor like tiny missiles. Milk carton tilts. Disaster.
"Oh lord," Ms. Jenkins groaned.
Marky is outside laughing so hard I swear I can hear him across the street.
"I told you," he said between gasps, "Havenbrook's disaster king!"
A dog barks. Rashid "Rash" Ahmed, some guy from the corner with a hoodie and snacks in hand, laughs and says, "Man, you really trying to put the Westside on fire before lunchtime?"
I groan. "I… I think I am."
By the time I finally leave Ms. Jenkins' apartment, covered in spilled groceries, my hoodie smells like milk and embarrassment, I realize something. I'm alive. I didn't fail completely.
"See?" Marky says, clapping me on the back. "Survived your first job. Next? Food trucks, campus hustle, maybe even a college scholarship if you don't mess it up."
I stare at him. "Wait… food trucks? College? What do those even have to do with Westside streets?"
"You'll see," he said, tossing a churro from the corner store in my direction. "Hustle doesn't care where you start, Ty. Only where you end."
And just like that, I realized something else: I wasn't alone.
Marky, Tiny, Rash, random neighborhood folks—they're all part of this messy, chaotic, hilarious city. And if I'm gonna make it in Havenbrook, I'll need to learn their quirks, their tricks… and maybe even their secrets.
Because here's the truth: the city doesn't give second chances. But if you hustle right, make the right friends, and keep your wits sharp… maybe, just maybe, you survive, you rise, and you finally get a shot at proving everyone who doubted you wrong.
I looked down at my half-burnt hot dog. Protein, right?
Time to hustle.