Jaylen bolted upright, heart hammering. The echoes of the gunshots still rang in his ears as he rushed to the window. Red and blue lights danced in the distance, painting the cracked pavement with chaos.
He didn't wait.
Throwing on his hoodie, he sprinted out into the night.
The crowd had already gathered by the time he reached the corner store. Yellow tape. Officers. A body beneath a bloodstained sheet.
Jaylen's stomach dropped.
"Please, no…" he whispered.
Then he saw Tyrell.
Alive.
Leaning against a wall, bleeding from his shoulder, his face twisted in pain and fury. Rico's car was gone. But the message was clear: this wasn't over.
Jaylen pushed past the bystanders, grabbing Ty. "We gotta get you to a hospital."
Ty shook his head. "No cops. No hospitals. They'll ask questions."
"You're shot, Ty!"
"Just get me to Miss Janine's."
Jaylen nodded. Miss Janine, a retired nurse and a neighborhood legend, had patched up more wounds than the local ER.
As they walked, Jaylen felt the pressure build. The line between who he wanted to be and who the streets demanded he become was blurring fast.
Later that night, after Ty had been stitched and sedated, Jaylen sat in the dark, staring at his bloodstained hands.
He had choices.
Call the cops and risk losing Ty to the system.
Stay quiet and risk losing him to the streets.
Neither felt like a win.
He thought of his students. Of Malik. Of the community he was trying to build. And then he thought of Ty's pain—how deep it ran, how familiar it felt.
This wasn't just about saving one life anymore.
It was about changing what survival even *meant* in the Southside.
Jaylen pulled out his notebook. A blank page stared back.
He picked up a pen.
And began writing a new plan.