The streetlight buzzed above us, throwing Derrick's face in half-shadows. He flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his shoe without looking away.
"You think you know me," he muttered. "But you don't know a damn thing."
My chest tightened. "Then tell me. What's real and what's rumor?"
For a moment, I thought he'd shut me out. Then his jaw flexed, and words began to slip like broken glass.
"They were right about my dad," he said, voice hoarse. "But it wasn't just prison. He ran with people… people who don't forgive. People who don't forget. When he went down, they didn't just lose a soldier—they lost money. Power. And now they think it's on me to pay it back."
The weight of his confession slammed into me. Suddenly, the hooded men by the school fence weren't just watchers. They were hunters.
"But why drag the school into it?" I whispered.
Derrick gave a bitter laugh, sharp and empty. "Because Roosevelt's the one place I can't disappear. I'm a target, and anyone close enough gets burned."
He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked away, the silence between us heavy with things unsaid. That's when I heard it—the low growl of an engine rolling slow down the street.
Headlights cut through the dark, blinding us. A black car crawled to a stop just yards away.
Derrick stiffened. His eyes snapped to mine, hard and urgent.
"Go. Now."
The passenger window rolled down, and for a split second, I saw the gleam of something metallic inside. Not a phone. Not a camera. Something colder.
The night wasn't holding its breath anymore—it was ready to strike.
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