The scene opens up to a classroom in the afternoon. A sea of tired faces. The bell rang, and the whole place exploded: bags zipped, chairs scraped, voices overlapped. Everyone wanted out.
Me? I took my time.
I'm Jakari Carter, nineteen years old. Black-Hispanic—pops Jamaican, mom Spanish. My hair's always a little messy, my hoodie smells like last night's food run, and I'm usually just one more all-nighter away from collapsing. But hey, I was alive. And in my neighborhood, that counted for something.
I shoved my notebook into my bag and strolled into the hallway, shoulders slouched from a two-hour lecture that could've been summed up in two sentences. My phone buzzed.
I pulled it out, and my eyes lit up.
There it was. The notification I'd been waiting for all week.Limited Edition My Hero Academia Volume 39 – signed copy – available now.
My heart skipped a beat. My fingers twitched. You don't understand—I'd been refreshing that store page for days. This was the crown jewel of my shelf, the one volume that would make me king of the collection. Deku, Bakugo, Shigaraki—immortalized in fresh ink.
I was seconds from hitting purchase when another notification popped up.Boss man."Yo, Jakari. We slammed. Customers non-stop. I need you here ASAP. Don't make me call twice."
I stared at it, grinding my teeth.Really? Now? Out of all times, NOW?
I groaned and typed back:"Bet. On my way. 10 minutes."
The signed volume slipped from my grasp like sand through my fingers. My destiny as "Shelf King" would have to wait.
I shoved the phone in my pocket, walked out the exit, and scanned the lot for my baby—my Mustang. The one thing in my life I could flex. Glossy black, smooth as butter, loud enough to make the block jealous. I hopped in, tossed my bag in the back, and turned the key. The engine roared like it shared my frustration.
Traffic was hell, but nothing new. I weaved through lanes, Lil Tjay blasting through the speakers. The beat wrapped around me, a bubble that drowned out the noise of the city. For a minute, I could breathe.
Red light ahead. I slowed, leaned back, and let the music sink in. My head bobbed, my lips moved with the words. I was locked in—just me, the rhythm, and that moment of peace.
Then my thoughts started wandering.
I thought about home. About the neighborhood I grew up in. The crime, the violence, the nights where sirens replaced lullabies. I thought about the bodies that dropped before they ever saw twenty. About how easy it would've been for me to end up the same way.
But I didn't.
By the grace of God, I'd made it out. Not rich. Not safe, not fully—but better. My part of town was quieter. I had college. A job. A Mustang. A chance. That alone was a blessing.
BANG! BANG!
Gunshots echoed in the distance. My jaw tightened. I glanced that way, then turned my eyes back to the light. Business as usual. The city never changed.
Timeskip
By the time I pulled into the restaurant lot, the smell of grease and fried batter hit me like a memory. "Home," my boss always said. "This is where the real hustle is."
The place was packed, line out the door, phones ringing, kids screaming in the corner like it was a theme park. I shut off the engine, grabbed my apron from the backseat, and walked in like it was another day at the frontlines.
Luis, my boss, a Cuban-ish guy with a voice that could cut glass, slapped a hand on my shoulder the second I stepped through the door. "Jak! Bro, you're on time finally. We need you at the register and drive-thru. Don't kill me."
"Bet," I said, throwing the apron on. I shoved my phone into my pocket, the little buzz from earlier still fresh in my head. The manga. The signed volume.
I'd put the thought in the back of my head like an order ticket I couldn't fill right now. Priority was priority: serve the customers, survive the rush, get paid.
There's a rhythm to working a place like that. Move fast. Smile. Lie about how good the fries are. Make sure the manager doesn't explode. I hustled, taking orders, juggling trays, sliding through the kitchen like I was part ninja. At one point, a toddler tried to steal a mozzarella stick, and I had to do a full sprint to save someone else's dinner. Everyday heroics, you feel me?
Luis kept barking orders, and I kept answering. "Two large combos, window two! Double pepperoni, no onions! You, with the hoodie, you got the extra sauce?" I moved like muscle memory. Somewhere near the end of the second hour, I caught a glimpse of myself in the stainless steel and almost laughed, eyes rimmed with tiredness, hair a mess, lip stained with grease. Living the dream.
Shift flew by, then finally the slow exhale, after the last order, after we washed down the counters and stacked the trays. Luis came up with an envelope and a disgusted grin. "Here you go, Jak. For the week. Keep it up."
I counted fast. Enough to cover a couple of bills and maybe a deposit toward that damn My Hero Academia volume. I tucked the cash into my pocket, cursed Luis under my breath for making me miss the drop, and told myself I'd buy it on the walk home. I pictured the spine on my shelf, the glossy cover, the signature at the corner. I could already hear my shelf flexing to the group chat.
It was late by the time I left. Night had folded over the city, neon signs dripping color over the pavement. I hopped in the Mustang, felt the engine purr like we were conspirators, and told myself this was it, now or never. I plugged the store back up, fingers trembling as I hit refresh. My stupid phone finally loaded. The page. The image. The price. My fingers hovered—
OUT OF STOCK.
I don't think I've ever sworn that loud in public. I slammed the steering wheel with a fist and let the bile of disappointment sour my mouth. "Of course." Of course, it sold out while I was flipping patties and saving mozzarella sticks. I glanced over at Luis, who was already rolling up the curb and giving me a thumbs-up like he was proud of me or something. In my head, I went off.
You owe me, Luis. If you didn't make me work the late shift, I'd be holding that signed volume and flexing on the 'gram. This is your fault. You owe me at least that signature. Maybe a refund. I muttered a string of curses so creative I impressed myself.
Then the rational part of me choked it down and took a breath. Cash in pocket. No manga. Life is pain, but life goes on.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. My Mom, Lucia Sanchez-Carter. "Jakari, mijo, how was school? Did you eat? How was work?" Her voice always had that soft pull that made me want to tell her everything and nothing at the same time.
"Yo, Ma school was ass, but I'm good. Work was hectic. I got paid." I glanced up at the light and started threading the Mustang through lanes.
Traffic was thick, like a vein clogged with commuters. I could hear the hum of the radio, the hiss of tires. "I'm boutta head home now."
On the other line, I could hear Dad's chuckle. "Yuh gud, son? Nuh badda be driving crazy, yuh nuh how mi cyan get worried."
"Yeah, yeah, I'm straight," I said. Marlon Carter—my pops—always had that calm voice, tempered by thirty-something years of surviving the hood and a hundred prayers. "I'll call when I'm home."
I tucked the phone between my shoulder and ear because I'm a legend and started pulling out into traffic. The city at night has this way of making you small and big at once. I told them the story the way you do, short, clipped, no dramatic details, because parents worry.
"Everything was fine. I'm on my way. Love y'all." They said they loved me back, and I smiled because they always did that, and I felt like a fraud and also lucky at the same time.
Then, somewhere between the exit and the main road, the world did that weird hold-your-breath thing. A car zipped past way too fast, and I cut my eyes. An SUV drifted out of the lane. My hands tightened on the wheel. I swear I saw a shadow move where there shouldn't be one.
A semi came screaming out of nowhere, too close, engine growling like it had a goddamn vendetta. I slammed the brakes, felt the tires protest, and my heart did this stupid little flip. For a second, I froze—phone wedged against my ear, my mom still talking, then my gut knew. The look in my rearview told me everything I needed to know.
No driver.
No driver in the truck.
I don't know how I saw it so fast—maybe some part of me lived in anime notation now, cataloging tropes like muscles. Truck-kun? Convoy? The whole ridiculous checklist. I hung up on my parents mid-sentence, told them I'd call later (which I said like it was a promise and I already knew I'd break it), and threw the car into gear.
The first truck clipped my bumper on purpose, a cold metallic kiss. I cursed and ducked. The convoy circled, boxing me in like predators. The headlights were eyes. I gripped my Glock 19, yeah, I had it, like it belonged to me and not to the bad decisions that raised me. I slid the magazine out with practiced hands, felt the weight of the bullets like tiny promises, and popped the slide.
"You singled me out? YOU PICKED THE WRONG GUY, BITCHES!" I muttered. My trigger finger twitched.
I sped up the car for a second and did a drive-by on the trucks. Adrenaline makes you do dumb things, and let off a couple rounds. I aimed for tires, not people; this was downtown chaos, not a movie. Sparks showered when metal met lead.
Tires went hissing and wobbling. I got three trucks to slow, one to fishtail into a lamppost, and for a moment, I felt like I might actually make it out of this alive.
Then the hullabaloo got louder. More trucks, like they were spawning. One honked like a foghorn. My magazine clicked empty because life hates me, and timing hates me more. I frantically slapped another in the well, no dice.
My hands shook so badly that I dropped it. I swore, loud enough to make a mother two blocks away cluck. "Fuck!" I screamed into the air. It felt good. Felt useless and good.
I tore the glove box open, looking for anything, another mag, a pocket of hope. While I was fumbling, an engine revved behind me like the voice of destiny. I heard the metal approach and the world narrowed to the sound of rubber on asphalt.
I yanked my head up—
—and Truck-kun was there.
He came out of nowhere, the big boss, the chrome king. I yanked the wheel, muscle memory flipping the Mustang like a reflex. The truck's grill missed my door by inches, the wind from it hitting me so hard it felt like being slapped by winter. I saw the shadow pass over me. Heard the world snap.
It was the last notch of luck I would get.
My chest burned, the adrenaline rollercoaster vomited itself through my veins, and my heart… it couldn't handle the crash of everything. I felt my breath get shallow. My vision tunneled, edges bleeding out into white noise. My lungs packed up like the party was over.
I thought of my parents, Marlon and Lucia, faces tacked into the back of my mind. I thought of the signed volume I missed. I thought of Luis being the reason my book was gone, and then I thought nothing at all because the muscles in my chest refused to do their job.
Panic is selfish and ridiculous: you try to fight an organism that's failing you, and in the end, the body just stops.
I had one coherent moment left, a stupid, honest one. I grabbed the phone, dialed their numbers on a breathless lurch, like a kid who wants to make sure the people he loves know something before he goes.
The call connected. Mom's voice, muffled, asking again, "Jakari mijo, what's wrong?"
I couldn't do the long confession. I couldn't tell them about self-driving trucks or Deus Ex honks. Instead, the words came out of me in two languages I'd been raised on, ragged and heavy.
In Patois, because Dad needed to hear his language: "Mi sorry, Pop. Mi couldn't move us outta di 'hood. Mi tried."
Then in Spanish, for Ma, soft and brutal: "Lo siente, no pude sacarlos del barrio." ("I'm sorry, I couldn't get you out of the neighborhood.")
My chest went cold as the sound of my voice echoed and then faded. The trucks' headlights swallowed everything. I fumbled for breath and for strength, and both just slipped away like sand through a broken fist.
I managed a laugh that was half prayer, half apology.
"Sorry, y'all," I whispered, and the world shuttered.
The last thing I saw was the streetlight splitting like a crack in a screen and a bright, stupid, beautiful light pouring down—
—and then nothing.
When I opened my eyes again, I wasn't me.
I was Donny.