Morning came soft in Fort Greene, the kind that didn't rush you unless you let it.
Jermaine woke up to the smell before the sound—bacon popping somewhere beyond his bedroom door, eggs hitting a hot pan, toast already burning just enough to matter. He stayed in bed an extra second, staring at the ceiling like it might give him a reason to get up that didn't feel like a countdown.
Four weeks left.
Not four weeks until summer.
Four weeks until everything familiar stopped being his excuse.
Outside, the neighborhood cleared its throat. A bus stopped at the corner. Somebody shouted at a delivery truck. Sirens stitched the distance together like a warning nobody read out loud.
Jermaine pushed himself up, feet finding the cold floor. The loft always felt different in the mornings—bigger, quieter, like it had space to hold things he didn't say.
In the kitchen, Melo moved like he owned the routine. Shirt sleeves pushed up, shoulders loose, the kind of calm that didn't come from peace so much as practice. He didn't turn when Jermaine walked in.
"You gonna eat or you just here for the aroma?" Melo asked.
Jermaine grabbed a piece of toast off the counter. "Morning to you, too."
"Morning," Melo said, finally glancing over. "You look like you slept in a fight."
"I'm good."
"That's what people say when theyare not." Melo slid eggs onto a plate, then bacon right after. "Sit down."
Jermaine leaned against the counter instead. He liked watching. The sounds. The small normal things. A spatula scraping. Grease cracking. Melo is humming under his breath.
Footsteps came from the hallway.
Nasir walked in, already finished with the day before it had a chance to test him. Suit pressed, tie clean, cufflinks catching the light like they'd been waiting for it. His phone buzzed in his palm. He checked it. Didn't answer.
"Morning," Nasir said.
Jermaine nodded. "You up earl?."
Nasir adjusted his watch. "Meeting."
Melo snorted. "He says that like it ain't every day."
Nasir didn't rise to it. "City's moving fast right now. A lot of hearings. A lot of eyes."
Jermaine watched him say it—smooth, controlled, like the words were part of a speech he'd practiced in a mirror.
"What kind of hearings?" Jermaine asked.
Nasir pausedfor the smallest amount. "Development stuff. Brooklyn is changing."
The TV murmured from the living area. A morning anchor with a bright smile spoke over footage of scaffolding, cranes, and glossy renderings.
Revitalization.
New investment.
Community impact.
A map flashed across the screen—blocks highlighted in soft colors that meant nothing until they meant everything.
Melo wiped his hands on a towel. "They're tearing up Myrtle again. Cones out there like they're growing."
Nasir took a bite standing up. "Temporary."
"Everything temporary," Melo replied.
Nasir didn't answer. His phone buzzed again. This time, he picked up.
"Yeah," he said, already moving. "I'm on my way."
He stopped at the door and looked back at Jermaine.
"You good?"
Jermaine nodded. "Yeah."
Nasir's smile camequicklyk but was real. "Four weeks."
Jermaine swallowed. "Four weeks."
Melo grabbed his jacket. "Let's go before traffic decides ithatese us."
They were gone just like that. Door closing. Lock clicking. The loft settling into the kind of quiet that made thoughts sound louder.
Jermaine stood there a moment longer than he needed to.
The TV kept talking about neighborhoods like they were ideas, not homes.
He turned it off.
In his room, he dressemore slowlyer.
Hoodie. Jacket. He opened the small box on his dresser and took out the chain—thin gold, warm the second it touched his skin. His mother had given it to him on his birthday, smiling like she knew something he didn't.
"Don't lose this," she'd said.
He never had.
In the mirror, the chain rested against his chest like a promise or a warning. He didn't know which.
Photos crowded the wall above his desk—him and his boys at the park, arms slung over shoulders; him and his mother, hand on his cheek, laughing at something the camera missed; him and Aaliyah on her building steps, sunlight turning everything softer than it really was.
Jermaine picked that one up, thumb brushing the corner.
He set it back.
Outside, Fort Greene woke up in layers—coffee shops lifting gates, kids cutting across the street, someone arguing on a phone like the city couldn't hear them back. Jermaine walked with his bag slung low, head up, moving as he belonged.
Which he did.
For now.
A campaign flyer was taped to a light pole near the corner. Nasir's face smiled back at him—confident, clean, untouchable.
Jermaine looked away and headed toward the station.
Brooklyn Tech didn't care that it was almost over.
The building still swallowed students the same way it always had—security doors hissing, hallways buzzing, lockers slamming, the air smelling like floor cleaner and perfume and somebody's breakfast sandwich.
Senior year had its own sound—louder than it needed to be, quieter than it would ever be again.
"Look who finally decided to show up."
Jermaine didn't have to turn.
Rome came at him sideways, already smiling, backpack slung low, energy turned up as the day owed him something. He pulled Jermaine into a quick half-hug, half-headlock and let go like it was a handshake.
"Don't start," Jermaine said.
"Bell about to ring," Rome replied. "You're late already."
"I'm not even late."
Niq stood just behind Rome, calm as always, arms folded, eyes reading Jermaine like she was scanning for damage. She gave him a small smile.
"Morning," she said. "You look tired."
"I'm not."
"You are."
Rome laughed. "She does that. Don't fight it."
They fell into step together, like the hallway had room for them the moment they linked up. Same routes. Same corners. Same faces.
"Four weeks," Rome announced, loud for no reason. "Four weeks and I'm free."
"Free to do what?" Niq asked.
"Whatever I want," Rome said. "Which I ain't figured out yet."
Jermaine smirked. "That sounds about right."
Niq adjusted her strap. "I'm applying to two schools. Still waiting."
"You getting in?" Rome said immediately.
Niq glanced at him. "You don't know that."
"I do."
Jermaine clocked that—not the words, but how steady Rome sounded. Rome talked like the world was a joke until it came to Niq.
"What about you?" Niq asked Jermaine. "You leaving?"
Jermaine opened his mouth.
Then stopped.
The hallway shifted.
Aaliyah walked past them, braids pulled back neatly, confidence settling into her stride like she owned the building. She was laughing at something Deion said, head tilted just enough to let him think he was the reason.
Deion Thompkins moved like he wanted to be seen doing it. Fresh jacket, chains catching light, smile a little too practiced. He leaned in close and said something low; Aaliyah rolled her eyes but didn't step away.
Jermaine stopped walking.
Rome followed his gaze and sucked his teeth. "Damn."
Niq didn't say anything. She just watched Jermaine.
Deion glanced over and caught Jermaine staring. His smile widened—not friendly. Competitive. As a point had just been scored in a game Jermaine didn't know existed.
Jermaine looked away first.
"Yo," Rome said, quieter. "You good?"
Jermaine nodded. "Yeah."
Rome didn't look convinced. Niq didn't push.
The bell rang sharply. The building swallowed them again.
Jermaine made it through the day on autopilot—teachers talking like he was already gone, friends arguing over parties and caps and gowns, people asking questions like the answers mattered.
He laughed when Rome said something reckless. He nodded when Niq corrected him. He kept his eyes off the hallway where Aaliyah had disappeared.
Not jealous.
Just aware.
The final bell hit like a release.
Students poured out like the building had been holding them hostage. The air outside felt lighter, like the day belonged to them again.
Bodega was routine.
Same corner. Same fluorescent hum. Same bell above the door.
Rome held it open with his foot. "Don't take all day. I'm starving."
Jermaine walked in first. He went straight to the counter and nodded at the guy behind it, who already knew what he wanted. Jermaine grabbed a bottle of Gatorade from the cooler and held it against his neck for a second, letting the cold settle.
Rome loaded up on snacks—chips, honey buns, something he definitely didn't need. Niq grabbed a drink and shook her head.
"You're not even hungry," she said.
"I'm always hungry," Rome replied. "That's my brand."
Jermaine paid for a pack of True Wrap Backwoods without thinking. The motion felt too easy.
They stepped back outside.
Jermaine pushed the door open—and collided with someone coming in.
"Yo—my bad—"
"Sorry—"
They both stopped.
It wasn't dramatic. Just the half-second where time hesitated.
Jermaine looked up.
She looked up.
A double take passed between them like a shared secret neither of them asked for.
"Damn," Rome muttered behind Jermaine like he forgot where he was.
The girl shifted her bag higher on her shoulder. Her eyes flicked to Jermaine's chain, then back to his face.
"Oh," she said.
Jermaine blinked. "Oh."
A pause.
She gave him a small, almost-smile. "You good?"
"Yeah," Jermaine said. "You?"
"Yeah."
Her phone buzzed. She glanced down, then back up.
"Alright," she said. "Have a good one."
"You too."
She stepped past him. The bell above the door rang again as she disappeared inside.
Jermaine stood there a beat too long.
Rome leaned in. "You know her?"
Jermaine shook his head. "Nah."
"Looked like you did."
Niq smirked. "You forgot how to walk."
Jermaine scoffed. "I did not."
Rome laughed. "You absolutely did."
Jermaine glanced back at the bodega door once more.
Then he turned away.
"Come on," he said.
They cut through the neighborhood the long way, past stoops where old heads sat like fixtures, past the corner where somebody always had music too loud for the time of day. Fort Greene opened up gradually—trees swallowing the noise, air shifting just enough to feel earned.
The basketball courts sat tucked into the park like they always had—cracked pavement, crooked lines, rims that had seen better decades. Sunlight filtered through leaves, dappling the court in patches of shade and glare.
The sound of the ball hitting concrete echoed sharply and familiarly.
Jermaine felt his shoulders drop the second he stepped on the blacktop.
"This is where you come alive," Rome said, already pulling his hoodie off.
Jermaine rolled his neck. "Nah. This is where my head is quiet."
Niq claimed her bench spot near the sideline, legs tucked under her, phone in her hand the way it always was—half for scrolling, half for catching memories she didn't tell anybody she kept.
Teams formed fast.
No arguing. No posturing.
Just rhythm.
The first run was smooth—Rome loud and fearless, calling shots, talking trash, laughing even when he missed; Jermaine quiet, letting the ball move through him, letting timing do the talking.
A pull-up off one dribble.
Net.
A backdoor cut when someone blinked.
Layup.
A defensive slide that shut down a drive before it started.
Jermaine didn't celebrate. He just played.
That's why people respected him.
Not because he asked for it.
Because he never needed to.
Kash showed up halfway through the argument about who had next.
He didn't announce himself—he never had to. You felt him before you saw him. Heavy steps. Loud laugh. Ball tucked under his arm like he owned the court just because he wanted to.
"Aight, aight," Kash said, clapping once. "Let me get in this. Y'all running like it's church."
Rome rolled his eyes. "Here we go."
Kash grinned. "You miss me."
"Never," Rome replied.
Kash stepped onto the court like he was doing everyone a favor. That was his whole thing—annoying without being illegal. Leaning a little too much. Hands are a little too busy. Talking through every shot like commentary made it count.
He bumped Jermaine on a cut.
Jermaine didn't react.
Kash reached for his handle.
Jermaine kept dribbling.
Kash smiled like he'd won something anyway.
"C'mon, lil bro," Kash said. You'reu quiet today. You scared?"
Jermaine checked the ball back to him. "Score."
The game tightened.
Not because Kash was that good.
Because Kash wanted it to feel like war.
Rome argued with him once.
Jermaine never did.
He guarded Kash closely—present, not aggressive. Every move Kash tried felt crowded. Drives turned sideways. Pull-ups rushed.
Kash's smile started to slip.
Game point came faster than anyone admitted.
Next bucket wins.
The sideline quieted the way it always did when the last possession mattered.
Kash checked it up at the top. Jab step. Shoulder lean. He tried to bully downhill.
Jermaine slid with him. Feet quiet. Chest solid.
Kash spun.
Jermaine stayed.
Pump fake.
Jermaine didn't bite.
Kash forced the shot.
Clang.
Jermaine took the rebound and pushed.
No rush.
Just control.
He crossed half court and stopped.
Kash stepped up, clapping, talking louder like volume could tilt physics.
"That's all you got?" Kash said.
Jermaine dribbled once. Low.
Kash leaned forward.
That was the mistake.
The ball snapped between Kash's legs—clean, sharp, disrespectful.
A collective inhale.
Jermaine slid left, snatched the ball back into his shooting pocket, and rose.
Kash lunged late.
Body hit body.
Jermaine came down hard—flat on his back, the wind knocked clean out of him.
No whistle.
Pickup.
From the ground, he watched the ball finish its arc.
Nothing but net.
"OOOOHHHH!"
Niq's phone was up, already recording, hands steady like she'd been waiting for that exact moment.
"And one!" somebody yelled, even though everyone knew there was no such thing.
Rome was already pulling Jermaine up, laughing, hyped, slapping his chest. Their handshake came easy—automatic.
Kash stood there frozen for half a heartbeat.
Then he tried to laugh it off.
Couldn't.
His pride bled out in front of everyone.
"That's cute," Kash said, voice sharp. "Real cute."
Jermaine dusted his palms. Still didn't say anything.
Kash leaned in, desperate for a bruise he could leave.
"Whole city hype you for what?" Kash said. "A project. A experiment. You ain't really that."
Jermaine didn't move.
Kash's smile turned ugly.
"And your moms—" he said.
The court dipped.
Just a little.
"—all that power your pops got, all them names… still couldn't save her."
Something snapped.
Not loud.
Just gone.
Jermaine stepped forward and swung.
Short. Compact. No wind-up.
Fist met jaw.
Kash went down hard.
Gasps tore through the sideline.
Niq's phone dipped, then came back up on instinct.
Rome froze for one beat.
Then moved.
Kash's boys stepped in like they'd been waiting for a reason.
Hands up. Bodies tight.
Somebody shoved Jermaine.
Jermaine shoved back.
Then it was a fight.
It spilled off the court, sneakers scraping asphalt, bodies colliding. Rome was there immediately, shoulder-checking a dude off Jermaine, fists flying like the decision had been made the second Jermaine's punch landed.
"BACK UP!" Rome yelled.
Niq screamed his name.
Jermaine caught a punch to the ribs and stayed upright. Rome grabbed one dude by the hoodie and slammed him into the fence, metal rattling.
That's when everything slowed.
Someone yelled, "YO!"
Jermaine saw the flash too late.
A hand.
A gun.
Black metal catching sunlight.
Time stretched.
Rome saw it first.
He didn't think.
He just moved.
He shoved Jermaine hard—hard enough that Jermaine stumbled back, nearly falling.
Rome stepped into the space Jermaine had been.
Arms out, like he could block sound itself.
The shot cracked the air.
Not a pop.
A bang—sharp, violent, final.
Rome's body jerked.
For a second, he stood there like he didn't understand.
Then his knees buckled.
He went down.
Jermaine dropped beside him, hands shaking as he grabbed Rome's shoulder—then froze.
Blood.
Dark and spreading fast through the back of Rome's hoodie.
Niq hit the ground beside them, crying, pressing her hands down like she could hold the wound closed by force.
"ROME!" she screamed.
Jermaine's breath disappeared.
He pressed his palm against Rome's back.
"Stay with me," Jermaine said, voice cracking. "Rome—stay with me. Please."
Rome sucked in a breath, sharp and broken.
"Maine…" he whispered.
His eyes fluttered.
Jermaine didn't hear anything else.
Not the shouting.
Not the scrambling.
Not the footsteps running.
Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance—too far, not fast enough.
Jermaine screamed Rome's name into the noise of the city.
And somewhere deep inside him—right where something had already cracked—
something broke completely.