Jaylen hated the sound of police helicopters.
They circled the block like vultures after sundown, casting searchlights over rooftops, alleys, and dreams. You'd think the neighborhood was a war zone. Maybe it was.
He walked home with his hoodie up, backpack slung low, eyes sharp. The streetlights blinked on—some flickered like they were afraid of the dark too.
At the front stoop of their building, he found Tyrell. Older now, seventeen and already with eyes too tired for his age. Ty wore a puffer jacket that looked expensive, and his sneakers were too clean to be just "street money."
"You skip again?" Tyrell asked without looking up from his phone.
Jaylen shrugged. "Didn't skip. Just… watched."
Ty gave a short laugh, not judging, just recognizing. He knew that stage. The in-between.
"You tryna be like me?" he asked.
Jaylen shook his head. "Nah. I'm tryna be better."
Tyrell nodded slowly. "Good answer."
But even he didn't believe it. In the hood, being better wasn't always a choice—it was a fight. And not everyone survived the rounds.
That night, Mama came home past midnight. Jaylen heard her keys before he saw her. She looked exhausted—eyes sunken, hands dry, name tag still pinned to her shirt.
He helped her with her shoes, sat beside her in silence.
"How was work?" he asked.
She gave a tired smile. "Still there. That's enough."
They didn't talk about Ty. They didn't talk about bills. But the silence held all the weight. Jaylen wished he could do more than write rhymes. He wanted to *change* things. For real.
But change came slow here. Like trains that never stopped at their station.