Chores meant laundry.Heat. Steam. Machines thumping like broken drums.
I counted loads. Counted cycles. Numbers calmed me.Machine 1 stalled every third run. Machine 2 leaked.Patterns don't lie. People do.
"Shadow."
Spider leaned against a dryer like he owned it. Arm folded, grin sharp. His two boys stood behind him, laughing before he even spoke.
"Yo, you out here counting towels like it's math class?" Spider said."Yeah," I answered. "At least math don't bite."
The grin twitched. His boys cracked up anyway.
Tyrone slid in beside me, whisper-loud: "Ooooh, Shadow got bars now!"Marcus pretended to faint against the washer.Andre wrote something dramatic in his notebook: "Respect bleeds louder than heat."Jamal kept folding, calm as a brick wall.
Spider stepped closer. "You think rhythm makes you king? Respect's not beats. It's fists. Remember that."
Before I could answer, Patel walked in.Short Indian dude, wire glasses sliding down his nose.Carried a ledger tighter than the Bible.
He scanned the room, sharp eyes under tired lids. "Four towels missing," he muttered.
I said it without thinking. "Yeah. Hundred eighty-two out, hundred seventy-eight back."
Patel blinked. "How you know that?"
I shrugged. "Been counting."
Tyrone slapped my shoulder. "My man's a human calculator. Invest in Shadow, returns guaranteed!"
Marcus groaned. "Bro, stop trying to make him Wall Street."
Spider's grin vanished. He stared at Patel, then at me.Patel smirked. "Smart boy. Numbers don't lie. Watch out for lies."
He left.
Spider hissed, low so only I heard. "This ain't over, Shadow."
I kept folding. "Never is."
Back in the dorm, night fell heavy.I tapped the bunk frame. Tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap-tap.
Tyrone freestyled nonsense about cafeteria beans.Marcus stomped rhythm with both feet.Andre read his notebook like he was at open mic night.Jamal added one low knuckle rap.
The beat grew until even kids from the far bunks joined.For a minute, we weren't locked in.
But in the dark, Spider didn't tap.He just stared, waiting.
And I counted that, too.