The Los Angeles sun hung low over Southside High, painting the cracked asphalt parking lot in a sickly orange glow. Marcus Chen gripped the strap of his frayed backpack, the fabric digging into his shoulder—still stiff from the 12-hour bus ride from Seattle three days prior. His new uniform shirt, too big at the sleeves, flapped as he walked, and he kept his eyes down, avoiding the stares. Kids here didn't look at him like a new student; they looked at him like a target—yellow skin, accented English, the faint smell of his mom's egg rolls clinging to his clothes.
He'd made it three steps past the gym when a shadow blocked the sun. Carlos, a senior with a tattoo of a crown peeking out from his hoodie, leaned against a dented trash can, four guys flanking him. "Hey, chino," Carlos said, popping a piece of gum. His voice was slow, dangerous—like he was savoring the moment. "Heard you're new. Around here, we got rules. Two hundred bucks. Protection fee."
Marcus froze. His mom had given him $40 that morning for lunch and bus fare. "I… I don't have that," he said, his voice cracking. He hated how small he sounded—hated that even after moving across the country to escape the gang stuff in Seattle, it was following him here.
Carlos laughed, loud and sharp. "Bullshit. Your mom runs that Chinese place on 5th, right? Don't play dumb." One of his guys, a kid with a shaved head, stepped forward and shoved Marcus's shoulder. Marcus stumbled back, his backpack falling open—his math notebook, a half-eaten mooncake, and a crumpled photo of his grandma spilled out.
"Pick it up," Carlos said, kicking the notebook. "And get the money by tomorrow. Or we'll pay your mom a visit. See how she likes her wok thrown through the window."
Marcus knelt to grab his things, his throat tight. He was about to stand when a car horn blared. A beat-up 2008 Ford Mustang, its paint peeling around the fenders, skidded to a stop. The window rolled down, and Raymond—his mom's younger brother, the one who'd "found work" as a "card consultant" in Chinatown—leaned out. He was wearing a too-tight white button-down, the sleeves rolled up to show a faint scar on his wrist, and his hair was gelled back in a way that tried too hard to look cool.
"Carlos, right?" Raymond said, tossing a crumpled deck of Texas Hold'em cards onto the hood of the car. "Heard you're good at 21. Wanna make a bet? If I win, you leave my nephew alone. If you win… I'll double that protection fee."
Carlos's smirk faded. He glanced at his guys, then at the cards. "You're on. But if you cheat—"
"Cheating's for amateurs," Raymond said, already shuffling. The cards moved so fast they blurred, a practiced rhythm that made Marcus's jaw drop—he'd never seen his uncle do more than play Go Fish at family dinners. They sat on the curb, the Mustang idling beside them. Carlos dealt, his hands shaking slightly when Raymond called a $300 raise without even looking at his cards.
"Show 'em," Carlos grumbled.
Raymond flipped his cards—ace and king of spades. Carlos's face went pale; he'd only had a pair of 6s. Raymond swept the $300 Carlos had pulled from his pocket into his palm, then stood, clapping Carlos's shoulder a little too hard. "Next time you mess with my family? I won't be so nice."
Carlos and his guys scattered. Marcus stood, still holding his notebook. "Uncle Ray… how did you—"
Raymond cut him off, sliding the $300 into Marcus's pocket. "Los Angeles doesn't care if you're nice. It eats nice people. You wanna survive? You learn to play the game." He tossed Marcus a crumpled slip of paper—an address in Chinatown, scrawled in his messy handwriting. "If you need me, I'm there. But don't tell your mom. She'd have a heart attack."
That night, Marcus walked into the tiny apartment above his mom's restaurant. The air smelled like soy sauce and ginger, and his mom was folding dumplings at the kitchen table. "How was school?" she asked, her English soft, accented.
Marcus hesitated, then pulled the $300 out. "Uncle Ray gave me this. Said it's… a gift."
His mom's smile faded. She set down the dumpling wrapper, her hands trembling. "Marcus. Where did he get this?" Before he could answer, there was a knock at the door. His mom froze, then whispered, "Hide. Now."
Marcus ducked into the closet. Through the crack, he saw two men in black jackets step in. One had a tattoo of a wolf on his neck—Wolf, the name Raymond had mumbled about once, when he'd had too much beer. "Your brother owes us fifty grand," the wolf-tattooed man said. "Tell him we want it back. Or we take the restaurant."
When they left, his mom sat on the floor and cried. Marcus came out, and she hugged him tight. "We have to leave, Marcus. This place is too dangerous."
Marcus thought of Raymond's cards, of the way Carlos had backed down. He thought of the address in Chinatown. "No," he said, surprising himself. "I'll fix this. I'll talk to Uncle Ray."
His mom looked at him like he was crazy. But Marcus knew—if he wanted to keep his family safe, he didn't have a choice. He had to learn how to play the game.