The engine hummed like a beast on a leash, steady, patient, alive. The headlights pinned us against the pavement, two shadows frozen under their glare.
Derrick didn't move. He just stared, shoulders tense, jaw locked, every muscle coiled like a spring. His silence was louder than shouting.
The window stayed down. No words, no faces—just the gleam of metal resting inside, catching slivers of light. A warning. A promise.
Seconds stretched into minutes. My pulse thudded in my ears, each beat screaming: Run. Run. Run. But my legs were locked.
Finally, the driver gave a low rev of the engine. The car rolled forward, inch by inch, then glided past us without a word. Tires whispered against the road until the taillights melted into the dark.
I exhaled like I'd been underwater too long.
"They're not ready," Derrick muttered, eyes still fixed on the disappearing red glow. "Not yet. They want me scared. Cornered. They want the whole school to rot before they make their move."
I swallowed hard. "So… what now?"
Derrick looked at me then—really looked at me—and for the first time, I saw something I hadn't before. Not anger. Not arrogance. Fear.
"Now?" he said. His voice cracked just enough to sound human. "Now we wait. And waiting's worse than the hit."
That night, I couldn't sleep. Every car that passed my window felt like the one. Every shadow stretched too long. Roosevelt's chaos wasn't just inside the gates anymore—it was circling the streets, creeping closer, hunting in silence.
And I knew, deep down, the next time those headlights returned… they wouldn't just drive away.
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