That evening, the five met again in Rashid's apartment.Canvas leaned against every wall; one showed five boys running beneath a burnt-orange sky, a sixth space left blank.
Jabari laid the note on the table. "This is all we have."
"The Arena?" Tariq repeated. "That's trouble."
Malik folded his arms. "You think he's there? That's where people go when they've got nothing left."
"Then maybe that's why he's there," Jabari said. "Because we left him with nothing."
Rashid's voice was quiet. "We didn't mean to."
"But we did," Kwame said. "And if he's still alive, we owe him more than memories."
Tariq hesitated. "I heard a name at work. The Magician. Plays there."
The room froze.
"That was his nickname," Jabari whispered.
Rashid frowned. "We all had nicknames."
Tariq shook his head. "Not like that. He gave himself that one. Said it made him real."
The memory hit them all—Enzo grinning, arms wide after a lucky trick.The Magician never fails, he'd said.And they'd laughed.
If he still used that name, he hadn't let go.Maybe he'd never stopped playing.
Jabari stood. "Then we find him."
Kwame rose beside him. "You won't go alone."
One by one, they agreed—until only Malik stayed seated, phone glowing in his hand.His father's name flashed on the screen.He silenced it.
"You don't get it," he said softly. "Life doesn't wait."
"Maybe," Jabari answered, "but regret doesn't either."
Malik looked at the note again.Arena.He sighed, stood, and pocketed the phone.
No one spoke.They didn't have to.
Outside, the Zambezi glimmered under a bruised moon.Five men stepped into the night, shadows stretching long behind them.
They weren't just searching for Enzo.They were searching for themselves.