The sun rose slowly over Southside, its golden light barely cutting through the haze of sirens and uncertainty from the night before. Jaylen hadn't slept. His notebook sat open on the table, its pages filled with scribbles, ideas, and one bold heading across the top:
*"If the system won't protect us—then we protect each other."*
That morning, Jaylen walked into the community center with new fire. The kids were already there, buzzing from the news—Tyrell had been shot. Nobody knew the full story, but they all knew the silence that followed bullets.
Jaylen gathered them.
"Y'all heard what happened," he said, voice steady. "But I need you to hear something else too—we ain't helpless. We don't need to be afraid. We're stronger when we look out for each other."
Malik raised his hand. "But what can we even do?"
Jaylen smiled, small but real. "We build."
He put them to work that day—not just drawing or writing, but helping create something real. They painted murals outside the center with messages like:
*"Peace Lives Here."*
*"We See You."*
*"Southside Strong."*
They made flyers about free tutoring, safe spaces, late-night hot meals. Word spread fast. Kids who never came before started showing up. Parents, too.
Even the local corner store offered to donate snacks.
Jaylen and Ty's pain had turned into a movement.
That night, Tyrell showed up at the center—bandaged, but standing.
"You started a revolution," he said, grinning. "With crayons and spray paint."
Jaylen laughed. "Nah. *We* did. You coming back full-time?"
Ty nodded. "Yeah. But this time, I'm all in."
As Jaylen locked up, he looked around—the same streets, same struggles—but now something had changed.
There were cracks in the concrete.
But from those cracks, something stronger was growing.
Hope.