The city had a way of listening when you least expected it.
I realized that as I walked through the morning crowd, head down, hoodie pulled low. Every laugh sounded louder, every argument sharper. Even the normal things — vendors shouting prices, buses honking, music blaring from cracked speakers — felt like background noise to something bigger.
Like the streets were paying attention.
Kemi walked beside me, unusually quiet for once. He kept glancing over his shoulder, then at me, like he wanted to say something but didn't know how.
"Spit it out," I said finally.
He exhaled. "You ever get the feeling someone's counting your steps?"
I stopped walking.
Slowly, I nodded. "Yeah."
That was all it took for his joke-armor to crack.
"Jay," he said seriously, "this thing you're in… it's growing. I don't want to wake up one day and hear you crossed a line you can't erase."
I looked at my friend — really looked. Kemi wasn't weak. He just understood something I was only beginning to learn.
"I won't drag you into it," I said. "If it gets worse, I'll handle it alone."
He scoffed. "That's the dumbest brave thing you've ever said."
But he smiled anyway.
---
Zara was waiting where the street narrowed, near an abandoned shop with faded posters on the wall. She didn't greet me right away. Instead, she watched the crowd like she was reading invisible patterns.
"They moved last night," she said quietly.
My chest tightened. "Moved how?"
"Positions. Routes. Eyes." She glanced at me. "You weren't imagining that shadow at your window."
I felt a chill. "So they're serious."
"They always were," she replied. "You're just important enough now."
That word hit harder than it should have.
Important.
I didn't know whether to feel proud or afraid.
---
We walked deeper into the neighborhood, away from the noise. Zara explained things slowly, carefully, like she was deciding how much truth I could handle.
"There are groups in this city that don't fight loud," she said. "They don't rush. They observe. When they move, it's already too late."
"And you know this because…?" I asked.
She stopped.
For a second, I thought she wouldn't answer.
"Because I've been on both sides of that attention," she said finally.
That was the most she'd ever revealed.
I didn't push.
---
That afternoon, I went home again. Not because I had to — but because I wanted to. My father sat outside, fixing an old radio with more patience than skill.
"You're around more lately," he said without looking up.
"I'm trying to be," I replied.
He nodded. "Good. The city doesn't raise boys gently. Families are supposed to."
I didn't know what to say to that, so I just sat beside him, listening to the static crackle into music.
For a moment, the world felt… normal.
---
It didn't last.
That evening, Zara found me again, urgency written all over her face.
"They sent a message," she said.
My pulse jumped. "What kind?"
"Not violence. Not yet." She hesitated. "They talked to someone close to you."
My mind raced. Kemi. My parents.
"Who?" I asked sharply.
She met my eyes. "Kemi."
My heart dropped.
---
I found Kemi at his usual spot, pretending nothing was wrong. But I could see it — the stiffness, the forced smile.
"They asked questions," he admitted quietly. "About you. About who you move with."
"Did you answer?" I asked.
He shook his head. "I joked my way out. But Jay… they weren't joking."
Guilt twisted in my chest.
"This is on me," I said.
Kemi grabbed my shoulder. "No. This is on the streets. But you need to decide something."
"What?"
"How far you're willing to go to protect people."
That night, I walked alone. No Zara. No Kemi. Just me and the city.
I realized something terrifying and empowering at the same time:
The streets weren't just watching anymore.
They were waiting for my answer.
And whatever I chose next… would change everything.