"Holy shit that's big,"
Tyrone said, looking at the massive black Jeep parked on the side of the road.
It was currently 5:35pm, and the sun was already showing signs of setting on this Thursday evening in Brooklyn. The streetlights were flickering, buzzing above the cracked sidewalks as Tyrone walked.
He adjusted the strap of his backpack, its weight heavy with textbooks borrowed from the public library. He had went there after school to study for the upcoming Physics exam the next day, but left early to beat the darkness.
As someone who grew up in the hood, he knew better than most. Once the moon was in the sky, it was all out warfare. He lived in the thick of it, and needed to head home early.
His home was eight blocks from the library, but these eight blocks were called Gang Haven, so he couldn't afford to stay here out at night.
He'd already paid the price once. Raised by a single father whose life had been claimed by Gang Warfare late at night, Tyrone promised himself that no matter what, he'd never be out later than 6pm.
VROOM!
Suddenly, the sound of an engine cut through the stillness, paired with the flashing of lights. Tyrone turned, just to see that same huge Jeep speeding down the street, and suddenly, a man in a balaclava peeked his head out the window.
Tyrone quickly ducked, his heart clenched as he immediately realized what was happening, clutching his bag to his chest.
~BANG~BANG~BANG!~
The sound of gunfire echoed out, and heavy footsteps pounding on the concrete also could be heard. Figures, dozens of them, all masked burst from the alleyways, fired off hails of bullets throughout the street.
Rival crews, locked in battle, spraying bullets. It was early, way earlier than normal and the battle already begun. Other civilians walking the street ran the other direction, some having their lives claimed by stray bullets.
However, Tyrone wasn't as lucky as the former who escaped.
BANG!
A fiery, shocking pain teared through his rips, stealing his breath. He stumbled back, hit the ground, his glasses cracking against the asphalt. His books spilled into the gutter, pages fluttering like broken wings.
The world around him blurred—the shouts, the gunfire, the running footsteps fading into a strange, muffled silence. His chest felt heavy, cold spreading through his body.
Through dimming eyes, Tyrone saw something surprising, the night sky, black and endless, and he thought of his father, his brother, his family, all taken by this same violence. And now him, too.
His lips trembled, barely moving as the last thought clawed its way out of his fading consciousness:
"If only… if only I had better luck. If only I hadn't been born in a place like this…"
Darkness swallowed him whole.
***
Multiple Years had passed since that day. When he had died, he found himself in an endless darkness for god knows how long, and eventually woke up as a baby.
Raised by his father and elder brother, he once again had a modest but happy life, and now, he was 12 years old, currently at home after school.
The house smelled faintly of oil and metal, even though the tools had been put away hours ago. Tyrone sat cross-legged on the couch, a stack of notebooks beside him, pencil twirling restlessly in his handle.
The clock on the wall ticked away the minutes, each second echoing louder in the stillness of the small apartment.
He was only twelve, but his head swam with schematics, numbers, and formulas most grown men struggled with. Sometimes he wondered how he could learn so fast, why his mind just… worked differently in this life.
Maybe it was his blessing? Super-Intelligence? Still, it didn't feel that way, he didn't think like a supercomputer or anything, he was just....academically gifted?
His dad, Henry, called it a gift and told him to turn it into money when he grew older.
His brother, Malik, teased him, saying he had a "computer brain."
They'd promised to be home before sunset. Malik wanted to show him a new basketball move, Henry had another set of mechanical texts ready. Tonight, they were supposed to get back to working on the busted lawnmower engine in the backyard.
But the clock struck seven, and they still weren't home. At this point, Tyrone grew a little worried, staring at the home telephone for any potential calls he would receive, but nothing came through.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
The sudden pounding on the door made Tyrone jolt upright. He shoved the notebooks aside, rushing to the door with a smile. "Finally," he muttered, pulling it open.
Instead of being greeted by his father and brother, he was greeted by two white police men, faces smug and unconcerned, carrying the kind of arrogance Tyrone had seen thousands of times from his two lives.
The arrogance of Gang Members & Cops who saw themselves as above the common folk.
"Kid," the taller one drawled, his tone flat, careless. "Your daddy and your brother… yeah, they're not coming back."
The words hit like bricks to the chest. Tyrone froze, gripping the edge of the door, "W-what?" His voice cracked. "No, no, you're lying—they were just,"
"Gang shootout," the second cop interrupted, his voice dripping with mock pity, "Natural order of things, huh? People like you," he said, eyeing Tyrone up and down and clicking his lips, "Happens all the time,"
The first cop leaned against the doorframe, smirking, "Maybe Papa should've just given up the business, huh? I heard they wanted his money. But guys like him never learn. Always wind up the same way, in a body bag."
Tyrone's chest heaved, "That's not true! My dad wasn't, he wasn't, "
"Spare us, kid." The second one sneered, "Heard he was in the business long time ago, jailed an all. People say he got clean and left that life, I guess that was just a lie, he's prob been running with them the entire time, and passed that down to your brother too,"
The taller cop shoved a paper into Tyrone's trembling hands, "You'll need to collect the body before it defiles the station. We're not a damn funeral home."
Tyrone's vision blurred with hot tears. He clutched the paper, jaw locked, every muscle in his body screaming to lash out, to scream. But he couldn't. He was twelve . Alone. Powerless.
The second cop bent closer, whispering, his breath sour with sarcasm and mockery, "World's run by people like us, kid. Don't forget that."
Then, without warning, the taller one jabbed a fist into Tyrone's gut. He doubled over, gasping, choking on air as pain ripped through his stomach. The paper crumpled in his hand.
"Your old man was a loser," the cop said coldly, straightening his badge as if to punctuate the insult, "And so are you."
They walked away laughing, boots thudding down the hall, leaving Tyrone collapsed in the doorway.
For a long time, he just knelt there, shaking, the paper trembling in his hands. His books lay scattered on the couch behind him, filled with dreams of machines, inventions, and futures that suddenly felt impossibly far away.
His tears hit the paper. His mind replayed the image of his father's smile, Malik's laugh, snatched from him. A second life in a row, his family, dead by gang warfare, it sparked both immense grief and rage.
And deep inside, beneath the grief, something darker stirred.
With the cops gone, the apartment returned to its natural quietness.
The kind of quiet that felt heavy, pressing against his ears. Tyrone sat slumped against the couch, the crumpled paper still clutched in his fist, staring blankly at the notebooks stacked neatly beside him.
His father's handwriting was scrawled across their margins, diagrams of engines, notes on torque and pressure, tiny sketches of parts they'd been working on together. Malik had teased him about "nerd stuff" written on every page.
Now the sight of them made Tyrone's stomach twist.
All he could see was blood.
All he could hear was the echo of the cops' laughter.
"Both of you…" he whispered, voice breaking. "Both of you gone… because of this. Because of… machines."
His chest heaved, rage boiling past grief. With a sudden, guttural yell, he seized the nearest notebook and tore it down the middle, paper ripping under his hands.
Another followed, then another. Pages scattered across the floor like feathers in a storm, diagrams shredded into nothing.
Tyrone fell to his knees among the wreckage, breathing ragged, eyes burning. "No more," he choked. "No more engineering. No more… Dad's dream. It killed him once. It killed him again."
His small fists clenched around a final handful of pages before flinging them across the room. The scraps drifted down like ashes.
That night, Tyrone didn't cry himself to sleep. He didn't sleep at all.
The child who had once looked at the world with wonder, who had dreamed of building and creating, died in that silence.
What was left was something colder, heavier. Something that would never forget.