The Southside had a way of welcoming you back, just before reminding you where you stood.
Two weeks into the workshop's success, a quiet tension slipped back into the air—like a storm humming beneath the pavement. Jaylen felt it in the way people nodded less, or in how the music on the block stayed low, almost cautious.
Tyrell hadn't been around.
Jaylen asked Mama.
"Haven't seen him," she said, her eyes betraying worry. "But he's out there somewhere. He always comes back."
Friday night, Jaylen was locking up the center when he spotted two unfamiliar cars parked across the street. Windows tinted, engines humming.
Something about it screamed *wrong*.
He walked fast, not scared—just aware. The hood had rules. And when they started breaking, people bled.
The next morning, Jaylen found out why.
Tyrell had gotten mixed in with Rico, a local dealer who ran a fast crew and didn't believe in second chances. Word on the block was Ty owed him money—serious money—and Rico was done being patient.
Jaylen tracked him down behind the old skate park, sitting on a busted bench, hood over his head, bags under his eyes.
"You running?" Jaylen asked.
"I'm thinking," Ty said.
"You promised you were done with that life."
"I was," Ty snapped. "But college don't pay rent. Moms needed help. I got pulled back in, man. It ain't easy like you think."
Jaylen sat beside him. "I never thought it was easy. I just thought we could build different."
Ty laughed bitterly. "You building with words. I'm drowning in debt."
That night, Jaylen couldn't sleep. He thought about how close everything was to falling apart. The center. His dream. His friend. The balance was delicate.
And then, it happened.
Gunshots.
Three, maybe four. Close.
Then silence.
Jaylen's heart froze.