The river swallowed the car.
Headlights vanished beneath the black water. Ripples spread once. Twice. Then nothing.
Rain kept falling.
Arron stood there, soaked to the bone, hands trembling at his sides. His chest rose and fell too fast. Too loud. His ears rang.
"It's done," Jack said calmly.
The scarred man grinned, cigarette glowing between his lips. "Kid didn't mess it up."
Arron flinched.
Jack stepped closer and studied him for a moment. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out folded bills. He pressed them into Arron's palm.
"Two hundred bucks," Jack said. "Good job."
Arron stared at the money.
His fingers shook. His stomach twisted.
"I—I—" His throat tightened.
Then his mother's face surfaced in his mind. Pale. Tired. Coughing quietly at night when she thought he couldn't hear. The unpaid clinic bills stacked in a drawer.
Arron closed his fingers around the cash.
"…Thank you," he whispered.
The scarred man laughed. "Look at that. First payday."
Jack turned away. "Go home. Keep your mouth shut."
Arron didn't argue. He walked away, footsteps heavy, heart heavier.
Two hundred dollars.
Blood money.
The apartment was dark when he got home.
Arron slipped inside quietly, kicking off his wet sneakers. The smell of old detergent and cheap food greeted him. Familiar. Safe.
"Arron?" his mother's voice came softly from the couch.
He froze.
"I'm here," he said quickly.
Maria stood up slowly, wrapped in an old sweater. Her face softened when she saw him. "You're late."
"I went… out," Arron said.
She stepped closer and hugged him.
Arron stiffened.
Her arms were warm. Gentle. He swallowed hard and hugged her back, burying his face against her shoulder.
"I'm okay," she said quietly. "You don't have to worry so much."
His chest tightened. Guilt stabbed deep.
"I brought something," Arron said, pulling back. He reached into his pocket and handed her folded bills. "For the clinic."
Maria stared at the money. "Arron… where did you get this?"
"Work," he said quickly. Too quickly.
She hesitated, then sighed. "Be careful," she said. "I don't want you mixed up with bad people. This neighborhood… it eats boys alive."
"I know," Arron replied softly.
She kissed his forehead. "Stay safe. Promise me."
"I promise," he said.
The lie burned.
That night, Arron lay awake on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The springs beneath him screeched softly as he shifted. He reached under the mattress and slid the remaining hundred dollars beneath the frame, hiding it deep where no one looked.
This won't be the last time.
Jack would call again. He knew it.
And if things ever went wrong—if police got close—Arron needed a Plan B.
Routes. Alibis. Escape options.
He closed his eyes, forcing his mind to work.
Morning came too fast.
The TV flickered in the corner of the room as Maria prepared tea. Arron sat on the edge of the couch, hands clenched.
"Breaking news," the reporter said.
Arron froze.
"Authorities report a fatal car accident on the bridge late last night. Investigators believe the driver was intoxicated. Early signs point to drunk driving."
Images flashed on the screen.
Police lights. The bridge. Dark water.
Arron's stomach twisted.
Maria shook her head. "So many people dying these days," she said softly. "That's why you must stay away from gangs, Arron. Promise me you won't ever join those groups."
Arron nodded slowly. "I won't."
His hands trembled.
The reporter continued talking. Arron didn't hear the rest.
The cover had worked.
But the guilt hadn't faded.
It clung to him. Heavy. Cold.
Arron lowered his head, eyes dark.
This was only the beginning.
And he knew it.