The first thing you gotta understand about the Cypress Homes is that the smell gets everywhere. It's a thick, greasy cocktail of piss-soaked stairwells, fried grease from a hundred different kitchens, stale beer, and the faint, ever-present sweetness of rotting garbage from the overflowing dumpsters behind Building C. It's the kind of smell that seeps into your clothes, your hair, the pores of your skin. You stop noticing it after a while, the same way you stop noticing the constant, low-level hum of shouting, of bass from shitty car speakers, of sirens that are always someone else's problem.
To me, it just smelled like home.
My name is Kairo. I was thirteen years old, and my world was a five-block radius of cracked concrete, rusted chain-link, and desperation so thick you could choke on it. Mama called it a "testament to survival." My older brother, Deon, who was currently serving an eighteen-month bid upstate for something he probably didn't do, called it a "open-air prison." Me? I just called it what it was: a fucking jungle. And in any jungle, you got predators and you got prey.
I was doing my best not to be the latter.
"Yo, Kairo! Your head in the clouds again, little man?"
The voice, raspy and laced with a familiar teasing, snapped me back. I was perched on the bottom step of our building's stoop, a dog-eared copy of Lord of the Flies open on my knees. The book was a shield. It told the older guys I was busy, not to be fucked with, and it told any lurking social workers or cops that I was a "good kid," a scholar, destined for better things. It was a useful lie.
I looked up at Latrell. He was nineteen, big for his age, with hands that looked like they could crush cinderblocks. He was leaning against the graffiti-tagged wall, rolling a blunt with practiced ease. Latrell wasn't a bad guy. Not really. He was just a product of the Homes, same as me. He sold enough weed to keep his little sisters in fresh sneakers and his mama's lights on. In the jungle, that made him one of the smarter animals.
"Nah, man," I said, closing the book. "Just this fucked-up story. These kids get stranded on an island and start losin' their minds. Killin' each other and shit."
Latrell chuckled, licking the paper shut. "Sounds like a Tuesday around here. Don't need no book for that. Life's the only teacher you need in the Cypress, little man. And her lessons are goddamn brutal."
He wasn't wrong. My first lesson came when I was seven. I saw Jamal from 3B get his head busted open with a tire iron behind the rec center over a disputed dice game. The sound it made—that wet, crunching thud—didn't scare me. It fascinated me. I remember staring at the dark, almost purple blood pooling on the hot asphalt, the way it shimmered in the sun. Mama had screamed and covered my eyes, but I'd peeked through her fingers. I dreamed about it for weeks. Not nightmares. Just… replays.
That was the first crack in my lens. The way I saw the world was never quite right after that.
"Kairo! Get your narrow ass up here! Now!"
Mama's voice, a weaponized screech that could strip paint, sliced through the afternoon haze from our third-floor window. I flinched. Latrell just laughed.
"Sounds like you're the one 'bout to get brutalized, scholar. What you do?"
"Nothin'," I muttered, standing up and stuffing the book into my backpack. "Probably just forgot to take the trash out again."
"You better run before she comes down there with the chancla. That woman got an arm like a MLB pitcher."
I didn't need telling twice. I gave Latrell a nod and ducked inside the building, the familiar stench of piss and bleach hitting me like a wall. I took the stairs two at a time, my sneakers squeaking on the chipped tile.
Our apartment was 3G. The 'G' stood for 'goddamn shithole,' but only in my head. To Mama, it was her castle. She kept it obsessively clean, a tiny bastion of order against the chaos outside. The linoleum was worn through to the wood in places, and the walls were thin enough to hear Mr. Henderson next door coughing his lungs up every morning, but it was clean.
Mama was waiting by the door, her arms crossed over her chest. She was a small woman, but she had a presence that filled the whole room. Her hair was wrapped in a bright yellow scarf, and her eyes, the same dark brown as mine, were narrowed into slits.
"Where the hell have you been?" she demanded.
"Downstairs. Readin'."
"I called you three times. Don't you 'readin'' me. You got ears? Or they just for decoration?" She didn't wait for an answer. "I need you to go to Ms. Clara's. I got a shift at the hospital in an hour and I need you to take her this."
She thrust a plastic container into my hands. It was still warm. Smelled like jerk chicken and rice.
Ms. Clara lived two buildings over. She was old, older than God, and meaner than a snake with a toothache. She was also a shut-in since her son, Ray-Ray, got smoked in a drive-by two years back. Mama looked out for her. Said it was our Christian duty. I thought it was a waste of good food.
"Why I gotta go? She ain't never even say thank you," I grumbled.
Mama's hand moved faster than a cobra, smacking me upside the back of my head. It stung.
"Watch your mouth. That woman has buried a child. You show some respect. And you go straight there and straight back, you hear me? No lollygaggin'. No talkin' to Latrell and them. It's gettin' late."
"'S barely five o'clock," I mumbled, but I was already moving, grabbing my keys from the hook by the door.
"Five o'clock is when the wolves start wakin' up, Kairo. Don't you forget it. Now go!"
The slam of the door behind me was a period at the end of her sentence. No arguing.
The air outside was getting cooler, the long shadows of the projects stretching across the courtyard like grasping fingers. The vibe was shifting. The little kids were being called inside. The older ones, the ones like Latrell, were starting to post up, their eyes a little sharper, their stances a little looser. The jungle was changing shifts.
I kept my head down, walking with a purpose I didn't feel. Purpose was a good look. It made you look like you had somewhere to be, someone waiting for you. It made you less of a target.
I was cutting through the narrow alley between Buildings D and E—a shortcut Mama would have tanned my hide for taking—when I heard it.
Pop. Pop-pop-pop.
Gunfire. Not unusual. Like Latrell said, a Tuesday in the Cypress. But this was close. Real close.
The sounds weren't the lazy, distant pops of a turf war three blocks over. These were sharp, percussive, present. They echoed off the brick walls of the alley, disorienting, loud enough to feel in my teeth.
My first instinct, the one Mama drilled into me, was to hit the deck. I dropped into a crouch behind a overflowing dumpster, the plastic container of food clattering to the ground. The smell of spoiled meat and diapers filled my nose, but I barely registered it.
My heart was a jackhammer against my ribs. Boom. Boom. Boom. Adrenaline, cold and sharp, flooded my veins. This wasn't like watching from a window. This was here.
There were more shots. A rapid volley. Then a different gun answered, deeper, angrier. Then shouting. Running footsteps, slapping against the wet pavement, getting closer.
I curled into a smaller ball, making myself invisible. This wasn't my fight. This was just noise. Just the jungle being the jungle.
The footsteps ran past the mouth of the alley. A guy, maybe Deon's age, face a mask of pure panic, clutching his side. Dark blood welled through his fingers. He glanced into the alley, our eyes met for a split second—a shared moment of animal terror—and then he was gone, vanishing around the corner.
Silence.
For a long moment, there was nothing. Just the distant wail of a car alarm that had been set off and the frantic beating of my own heart in my ears.
Then, a new sound. A wet, gurgling breath. It came from the other end of the alley, the direction the running guy had come from.
The prey had been caught.
The smart thing, the survival thing, was to stay put. Wait five minutes. Then get the fuck up and run all the way back to 3G and forget any of this ever happened.
But that crack in my lens… it widened.
The gurgling sound was… interesting. It was a sound I'd never heard before. Not in a movie, not in a game. This was real. This was the sound a man makes when he's got a hole in him and his lungs are filling up with blood.
I had to see.
I moved on pure instinct, slinking along the wall, staying in the shadows. The alley opened into a smaller service courtyard behind the old laundromat that had been closed down for years. A place where nothing good ever happened.
And there he was.
A man was on his back, one leg twisted underneath him at a sickening angle. He was big, wearing a dark hoodie and jeans. Even from twenty feet away, I could see the dark, spreading stains on his chest and stomach. Three, maybe four. His hands were clutching at one of the wounds, but the movements were weak, twitchy. His eyes were open, staring at the darkening purple sky, but they weren't seeing anything. They were glassy, unfocused.
The gurgling sound came from his mouth. A pink, frothy bubble formed on his lips and popped.
I should have been scared. I should have puked. I should have run.
But I didn't.
I stepped closer. Each step was slow, deliberate. My breathing had evened out. The jackhammer in my chest was gone, replaced by a cold, humming stillness. It was like the whole world had narrowed down to this courtyard, to me, and to the dying man on the ground.
I stopped a few feet away. The metallic, coppery smell of blood overpowered the stink of the garbage. It was a vibrant, alive smell. It was the most real thing I'd ever smelled.
He was young. Maybe twenty. He had a tattoo on his neck—a poorly drawn crown. His face was slack, his jaw hanging open. The gurgling stopped. His chest gave one final, shuddering rise… and then it didn't fall again.
The silence that followed was absolute. Heavier than any noise.
He was gone. Just like that. A thing. A piece of meat.
My eyes scanned the ground around him. A wallet, kicked away in the struggle. A few spent shell casings glittering near a puddle. And there, half-hidden under his outstretched arm, was the gun.
It was a pistol, black and ugly. It looked heavy.
I looked around. The courtyard was empty. The alley was empty. The only witness was a dead man.
I don't remember deciding to move. My body just did it. I walked over, my sneakers silent on the pavement. I crouched down next to him, my knees inches from his pooling blood.
I reached out. My fingers, steady as a surgeon's, wrapped around the grip of the gun. It was still warm. I picked it up. It was heavy. A solid, serious weight. A tool for one purpose only.
I held it in my hand, looking from its cold, mechanical perfection to the ruined mess of the body beside me.
This thing in my hand did that. It turned a living, breathing, thinking person into… this. This empty shell.
A feeling bloomed in my chest, hot and terrifying and exhilarating. It wasn't horror. It wasn't sadness.
It was awe.
A bone-chilling, electric thrill shot down my spine. My lips curled back from my teeth in something that wasn't a smile. It was a grimace of pure, unadulterated excitement. This was real. This was the truth behind everything. All the posturing, all the colors, all the loud talk and bass-heavy music… it all came down to this. To this simple, brutal transaction. To this gun in my hand and this corpse at my feet.
It was the most beautiful and disgusting thing I had ever seen.
I looked at the dead man's face. I raised the gun, my arm straight, mimicking what I'd seen in a hundred movies. I pointed it at his head. At the temple.
What would it sound like from here? Up close? Not a pop, but a BANG. What would it do? Would it jerk? Would it just… make a new hole?
The fantasy unfolded in my head in glorious, high-definition detail. The noise. The spray. The finality.
My finger, moving on its own, slipped inside the trigger guard. The pad of my index finger rested against the curve of the trigger.
I took a breath.
And I squeezed.
CLICK.
The hammer fell on an empty chamber. The sound was small, dry, anti-climactic.
But in my head, it was a thunderclap. I saw it. I felt it. The jolt. The splatter. The profound silence after.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. A laugh, low and shaky, escaped my lips. "Holy shit," I whispered to the corpse. "Holy fucking shit."
The world snapped back into focus. The sound of the car alarm. A shout from a few blocks away. I was kneeling next to a dead body with a murder weapon in my hand.
I had to go. I had to move now.
I stood up, shoving the pistol into the waistband of my jeans at the small of my back. It was cold against my skin. I took one last look at the man on the ground. A strange sense of… gratitude?… washed over me. Thank you for the lesson.
I turned to run.
And that's when the world exploded into pain.
There was no warning. Just a sudden, shattering impact at the base of my skull. A white-hot flash behind my eyes. My legs turned to water, and the ground rushed up to meet my face.
The last thing I saw was the cracked pavement, swimming in and out of focus.
The last thing I heard was a deep, calm voice. "Well, what do we have here?"
Then, nothing.
---
Consciousness returned in fuzzy, disjointed pieces.
The smell of gasoline and old leather.
The vibration of an engine.
The feeling of cold metal against my cheek.
My head was pounding, a deep, rhythmic throb that made my vision pulse with each beat of my heart. I tried to move, but my hands were stuck behind my back. Zip ties. Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the fog in my brain. I kept my eyes shut, my breathing even. Play dead. Assess.
I was in the trunk of a car. It was moving, turning corners. I couldn't tell for how long I'd been out.
Who? Why? A rival crew? Did they see me with the gun? Did they think I was the one who smoked that guy? Or were they just cleaning up a witness?
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Mama's face flashed in my mind. Her worry. Her anger. Would I ever see her again? The thought sent a genuine bolt of fear through me, colder than the adrenaline from the shooting.
But underneath the fear, buried deep, was that same humming curiosity. This was a new scenario. A new variable. I was in the trunk of a car owned by someone who had just knocked out a thirteen-year-old kid. What did they want?
The car slowed, turned onto a rougher road—I could feel the tires bouncing over potholes—and then came to a complete stop. The engine cut off.
Silence.
A car door opened and closed. Heavy footsteps. Two sets.
Then a key rattled in the trunk lock.
I squeezed my eyes shut, going limp. The trunk lid swung open with a creak. A wave of cooler, fresher air washed over me. It still smelled industrial, like oil and concrete.
"Out," the same deep voice from the alley commanded. It wasn't loud. It wasn't angry. It was calm. Absolute. It brooked no argument.
A hand grabbed the back of my hoodie and hauled me out like a sack of potatoes. My legs, numb from being curled up, buckled, and I crumpled onto a cold, concrete floor.
I opened my eyes then, blinking against the glare of a single, bare bulb hanging from a wire overhead.
I was in a garage. A big one. It was clean, organized. Tools hung on a Peg-Board in neat lines. A classic car—a Chevy Impala from the 60s—was up on lifts, its undercarriage exposed. The air smelled of motor oil and disinfectant.
And standing over me were two men.
The one closest to me was huge. Six-five, easy, and built like a linebacker. He had a shaved head and a beard, and he looked like he could break me in half without breaking a sweat. He was the muscle.
The other man was older, maybe in his late fifties. He was of average height, with a lean, wiry frame. He wore clean, dark blue coveralls, like a mechanic. His hair was salt-and-pepper, neatly trimmed. His hands were clean, but I could see the dark stains of old grease embedded in the lines of his skin. He held a thick metal flashlight—the kind that had recently introduced itself to the back of my skull.
But it was his eyes that held me. They were a pale, icy blue. They weren't cruel. They weren't angry. They were… assessing. Calculating. He looked at me the same way I'd looked at the dead body in the alley. Like a fascinating problem.
"Sit up," the older man said.
I did, shuffling back to lean against the wheel of the Impala. My head swam. I wanted to be tough, to curse them out, to demand to know what the fuck they wanted. But the words died in my throat. Those eyes… they didn't look like the eyes of the gangsters and hustlers I knew. Those men had anger, desperation, ego flashing in their eyes. This man had nothing. Just a flat, calm void.
The big guy stepped forward, but the older man held up a hand, stopping him dead.
"What is your name?" the older man asked.
I hesitated. Giving your name felt like giving them a piece of you. A hook to hang your fate on.
The big guy took a half-step. I spoke quickly.
"Kairo."
"Kairo," the older man repeated, as if tasting the word. "Do you know why you are here, Kairo?"
I shook my head, then immediately regretted it as a fresh wave of pain crashed through my skull.
"You were witnessed tampering with a crime scene. You were seen looting the body of Marcus 'Crown' Jones. And you were seen handling and attempting to discharge the weapon used in his homicide."
His voice was flat, monotone. He wasn't accusing me. He was reciting facts. It was scarier than any yelling could ever be.
"I didn't—" I started, my voice a dry croak.
"I saw you," he interrupted, his voice still calm. "I was in the vacant apartment overlooking that courtyard. I had a very clear view. You picked up the gun. You pointed it at the deceased's head. You pulled the trigger. You were… smiling."
He said it all without a hint of emotion. He was just stating what happened. My blood ran cold. He saw it all. The excitement. The glee.
"Now," he said, taking a single step closer. He crouched down so we were at eye level. The smell of soap and gasoline wafted off him. "I am going to ask you a question, and I would advise you to be exceptionally truthful. Your continued well-being depends on it."
He paused, those ice-chip eyes drilling into mine.
"Why?"
The question hung in the oily air of the garage.
Why?
The real answer was a tangled, ugly mess inside me. Because it was beautiful. Because I wanted to see what would happen. Because the line between life and death was the most interesting thing I'd ever seen and I wanted to poke it. Because the sound of that gurgle was a song I'd never heard before and I needed to know how the song ended.
I couldn't say that. He'd think I was a psycho. He'd put a bullet in my head right here and now.
But as I looked into his empty, patient eyes, I had a terrifying thought. Maybe he wouldn't.
So I told him a piece of the truth. The piece I thought he might understand.
"I… I wanted to know what it felt like," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "To… to have that power. To be the one who decides."
The older man was silent for a long, long time. He just stared at me. The big guy shifted his weight, but a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of the older man's head froze him again.
Finally, a flicker of something passed behind those blue eyes. It wasn't warmth. It wasn't empathy.
It was recognition.
He stood up, turning his back to me. He walked over to his workbench and picked up a rag, slowly wiping his already-clean hands.
"Most people," he said, his back still to me, "are sheep. They bleat, they flock together, they live in fear of the wolf. They see death, and they feel revulsion. Fear. It is a natural, healthy response."
He turned around, leaning against the bench.
"A very, very few are wolves. They see the sheep and feel only hunger. The urge to rend, to tear, to dominate. They are predators. They are, by the standards of the flock, monsters."
He tilted his head, looking at me.
"And then there is a third category. Rarer still. They are not sheep. They feel no fear. But they are not wolves either. They do not kill from hunger, or for territory, or for pride."
He took a step toward me.
"They are artists. Curators. They see the ugliness of the world—the true wolves, the parasites who prey on the flock—and they feel… a need for order. For balance. They remove the rot not for pleasure, but for purpose. They have a code."
A code.
The word landed in the center of my brain and stuck there, glowing like a ember. The fantasies in my head… they'd always been just that. Random. Chaotic. The idea of a code… it was like a key sliding into a lock I didn't even know existed.
The man saw the understanding dawning on my face. He gave a single, slow nod.
"The world is a filthy, disordered place, Kairo. It is overrun with weeds. Someone must be the gardener."
He gestured to the big man, who stepped forward and, with a terrifyingly quick motion, snipped the zip ties from my wrists with a pair of side cutters.
I rubbed my raw wrists, staring up at him, my mind racing.
"What… what are you going to do with me?" I asked.
The man almost smiled. It was the most chilling thing I'd seen all night.
"That, Kairo, is not up to me," he said. "It is up to you. You have a sickness. A hunger. You can let it consume you, until you are nothing but a rabid beast that must be put down. Or…"
He paused, letting the word hang in the air.
"…you can learn to control it. To direct it. To use it. You can learn the code."
He walked to the garage door and pressed a button. It began to rumble open, revealing the dark, familiar streets of the Cypress Homes. We were only a few blocks from where I'd been taken.
"You will go home now. You will tell your mother you were jumped for the food you were carrying. It will explain the bump on your head and your empty hands. You will say nothing of this to anyone. Ever."
I stood up, my legs shaky. I walked toward the open door, toward freedom, my mind reeling.
I stopped at the threshold, looking back at him. "Who are you?"
The man picked up a wrench and turned back to the Impala on the lifts.
"If you are smart," he said, not looking at me, "you will never see me again. Go live your life. Be a sheep. It is safer."
"And if I'm not?" The question was out of my mouth before I could stop it.
He paused, looking at me from under the car. Those blue eyes gleamed in the shadows.
"Then you will see me again. Now get out."
I stumbled out into the night. The garage door rumbled shut behind me, sealing away the man, the monster, the mechanic, and his message.
I started walking, the events of the night crashing down on me all at once. The body. The gun. The click. The trunk. The code.
The hunger.