Edgewater.
The name sounded nice on a map. It suggested river views, breezeways, and rising property values.
In reality, Edgewater was the opposite. It was a scar on the side of New Orelis.
A few minutes after leaving the main avenue, Evan and Jordan crossed the invisible line that separated the city from the slums.
It wasn't a wall. It was an atmospheric shift.
The air got heavier. It carried a distinct, permanent cocktail of wet garbage, fried onions, and diesel fumes that had soaked into the porous brickwork decades ago.
They entered the "residential zone."
It was a polite term for a warren of fading apartment blocks. The buildings stood shoulder-to-shoulder, choking out the sky. Their walls were permanently stained—streaks of rust running down from the gutters like old wounds.
Laundry lines crisscrossed between the rusting metal balconies like spiderwebs, heavy with shirts and bedsheets that were slowly turning grey in the smog.
Then, the noise hit.
It wasn't the roar of traffic anymore. It was the intimate, suffocating noise of too many people living in too little space.
The tinny sound of budget TVs blaring game shows. A baby crying with a rhythmic, exhausted wail. An argument about money floating out of a third-story window—the words indistinct, but the frequency of the rage crystal clear.
Evan didn't flinch. He didn't cover his nose.
He had lived here his whole life.
Edgewater had exactly one feature: it was cheap.
It was a storage unit for the people who kept the 'real' city running but couldn't afford to live in it. The cleaners, the line cooks, the security guards.
It showed in every dented railing and chipped tile.
It wasn't home. It was just where they slept between shifts.
Some people were ashamed of it. They walked with their heads down, eyes on the pavement, pretending they were just passing through.
Evan didn't care.
Shame was an emotion that cost energy he didn't have. To Evan, Edgewater wasn't a tragedy; it was a variable in an equation.
Rent here was $850. The city's cheapest was $2,000. The same size but slightly better.
Therefore, to many, this was home. It was the only number that balanced.
"Smells like rain and old soup," Jordan commented, hopping over a puddle that shimmered with oil.
"That's the local brand," Evan deadpanned, his eyes scanning the cracked pavement for loose change out of habit. "They should bottle it. Sell it to tourists."
"We should do it. Eau de Despair," Jordan grinned. "We could make millions."
They walked past the community park.
Calling it a 'park' was generous. It was a square of hard-packed dirt where grass had surrendered years ago. In the center sat a rusted swing set that screeched in the wind, and a futsal court with torn nets and a surface of cracked asphalt.
Evan's eyes lingered on the futsal court for a fraction of a second.
A memory spiked. The squeak of cheap sneakers. The burn in his lungs. The perfect geometry of a pass that split the defense.
He blinked it away. Delete.
I don't have time to play anymore, he told himself. Move on.
While he was deep in his thoughts, a scream cut the air.
It came from the alleyway next to the Laundromat.
Evan stopped. Jordan didn't.
Jordan was already moving before the scream faded, sprinting toward the shadows.
Evan sighed. He knew that the equation in his head shifted instantly from 'Groceries' to 'Conflict'.
"Variables," he muttered, breaking into a run. "Always variables."
Evan quickly caught up. They rounded the corner into a classic Edgewater scene.
Three men had a woman backed against an overflowing dumpster.
The Leader was heavy-set, flashing a butterfly knife that caught the dim streetlamp light.
The Second Man—pure muscle—blocked the exit.
The Third Man, a wiry guy in a dirty tracksuit, was already snatching a fake-leather handbag from the woman's grip.
"Got it!" the Third Man yelled. "Meet me at the usual spot."
He shoved the woman hard.
She hit the pavement with a sickening thud.
The thief didn't look back. He bolted, sprinting down the alleyway.
"Hey!" Jordan shouted as he arrived, his voice booming off the brick walls. "Let her go!"
The Leader spun around. He wasn't running; he was the rearguard. He grinned, revealing a row of yellow, rotting teeth.
"Look at this," the Leader sneered, flipping the butterfly knife open. The blade caught the dim light. "Think you're a hero, kid? You're just a stain on the pavement."
Jordan didn't back down. He struck a pose, chest out, hands on his hips.
"I'm not a hero," Jordan declared, his voice dropping an octave into a mock-Batman growl. "I'm just a concerned citizen dispensing justice. Now, surrender the bag, evildoer."
Evan resisted the urge to face-palm.
There he goes again.
That was Jordan. Every single time. He couldn't just resolve a conflict; he had to storyboard it first.
"What the hell are you talking?" The Leader blinked.
Then he snarled. "Die."
He lunged. The knife slashed through the gloom, aiming for the gut.
Jordan didn't slow down. He slid to a stop, ducking the clumsy slash.
Evan hung back. He didn't engage. He processed.
He didn't see three thugs. He saw angles, velocity, and bad form.
Jordan noticed Evan's expression changed. He smiled as he asked, "Going to help me now, Coach?"
"Right shoulder drops before he strikes," Evan called out, his voice flat and calm amidst the noise. "He's overextending. Punishing range."
"Nice." Jordan didn't question the data. He waited.
The Leader lunged again. The shoulder dropped—exactly as predicted.
Jordan side-stepped, creating a perfect angle.
Crack.
Jordan's fist connected with the Leader's ribs. A precision strike. The man wheezed, the air leaving his lungs in a rush. He folded like a lawn chair.
The Second Man roared. He charged, swinging a heavy rusted chain like a flail.
"Sidestep left," Evan advised, not even blinking. "He's swinging too hard to turn."
"Noted, Coach." Jordan shifted left.
Whoosh.
The chain slashed harmlessly through the air where his head had been a second ago. The momentum carried the Second Man forward, off-balance.
Jordan used the opening. He swept the guy's legs.
Two hundred pounds of meat crashed into the wet trash.
But the Third Man was getting away.
He was fifteen meters down the alley, sprinting hard. Jordan was boxed in by the two groaning men. He couldn't chase. The thief was seconds away from the turn. Once he hit the maze of backstreets, he was a ghost.
Jordan looked around frantically. His eyes landed on a pile of construction debris near the wall.
A half-brick. Red clay. Rough edges.
Jordan scooped it up. He looked at Evan, a wild, desperate grin flashing in the gloom.
"Hey, Coach!" Jordan shouted, winding up. "How about one last volley?"
The word 'volley' triggered a file Evan had tried to delete years ago.
Jordan tossed the brick.
It wasn't a throw at the enemy. It was a pass. A perfect, high-arcing lob toward Evan.
Time didn't stop, but for Evan, it dilated.
The world stripped away its textures, revealing the grid underneath.
He saw the brick's mass. He saw the rotation. He saw the target moving at 6.5 meters per second.
His mind started to calculate.
If I kick it full force, the brick shatters. If I kick it too soft, the trajectory drops short.
He needed the kinetic sweet spot.
Evan planted his left foot.
He watched the brick spin in the air, waiting for the flat side to align.
Three. Two. One.
He didn't swing his leg like a brawler. He snapped it like a whip, his technique perfect, unchanged by years of not playing.
Thwack.
His sneaker connected.
The brick didn't shatter. It launched.
It tore through the air, flying low and fast, a red blur cutting through the shadows. It didn't arc like a ball; it traveled on a flat, brutal line.
The Third Man was just reaching the corner.
Thud.
The brick struck the back of the thief's head. Not the skull—too dangerous—but the nerve cluster right behind the ear.
The lights went out.
The thief's legs kept moving for a fraction of a second, but his brain had already logged off. He face-planted into a pile of wet cardboard, sliding to a halt.
The handbag skidded across the pavement.
Silence returned to the alley.
Evan lowered his leg, exhaling a breath he didn't know he was holding.
Jordan whistled low, stepping over the groaning Leader.
"You still got it," Jordan laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. "That was beautiful. Remind me never to piss you off."
Evan walked over to the thief. He checked the man's pulse. Strong, but slow.
"He'll have a severe migraine for three days," Evan stated clinically, standing up. "Possible mild concussion. The other two likely have bruised ribs and a hairline fracture on the tibia."
He looked at Jordan, pointing to his knuckles. "And you must ice that hand. The swelling will get worse."
"Don't worry. This is nothing. I'll live," Jordan said, grinning as he picked up the handbag.
He walked over to the woman. She was trembling, pressing herself against the brick wall, eyes wide with terror.
"Here you go," Jordan said gently, holding out the bag. "Safe and sound."
The woman looked at the bag. Then she looked at Jordan's bruised knuckles.
Finally, her eyes landed on Evan, who was staring at the unconscious man with the cold detachment of a coroner.
She didn't see heroes. She saw violence.
She snatched the bag from Jordan's hand.
No "Thank you." No "You saved me."
She turned and sprinted out of the alley, her heels clicking frantically against the pavement, running as if Evan and Jordan were the monsters.
Jordan watched her go, his hand still half-raised in a friendly wave. He lowered it slowly, a wry smile touching his lips.
"You're welcome!" he called out to the empty street.
Evan didn't watch her leave. He was never interested in helping.
"Expected outcome," Evan said, turning back toward the main road then to the darkened sky. "Gratitude is a variable we can't afford to wait for. Let's get the groceries."