Markus moved through Cedarwood like a shadow some recognized but few understood. Though many saw him daily, few could claim they'd spoken to him directly - just glimpses at windows, figures on stoops turning quiet when he passed. Instead of running with the boys after school, he walked alone, hands in pockets, gaze ahead. The pickup games near the courts? He never joined, even when space opened up under the hoop. Still, people watched. Not loudly, not all at once - but in glances held too long, in hushed words traded across fences. His name slipped out in tones low and careful, as if saying it wrong might change something. Some believed he carried an edge - not strength, not money, just something else. In a place where small chances shaped big outcomes, that subtle tilt felt real: one moment safe, the next not, depending on unseen turns.
Out came the weak sun, touching the broken sidewalk just as Markus left his building. Winter's grip loosened, replaced by wet air heavy with thawing ice. Fumes mixed with grease hung thick - Cedarwood's usual breath - and he drew it deep, familiar as an old voice. No bag on his shoulders today, just what rolled through his head, hands buried in a hoodie too long for him, fabric brushing his knuckles. Watchful again - he'd learned that slow way of walking, eyes lifting to edges: fire escapes, gaps between stores, steps shadowed where quiet figures stayed still.
A sharp ring cut through the air as he moved past the corner shop. From behind the dumpster, figures emerged - older kids, quiet but heavy in the space they filled. Words weren't needed. Markus looked away. His steps shifted, slight but sure. The fabric of his hood pulled snug around his face. Forward he went, without pause. A shadow moved behind him - tall, lean, one mark slicing across skin. Eyes tightened, tracking each step. That stare landed on Markus like something heavy, real enough to slow breath. Turning was pointless. Something deeper than thought said so. The ending had formed itself earlier, wordless, certain.
Stories about his father reached Markus in pieces - faded memories, hushed words from elders who watched their steps. Big Seth - that name slipped out like something heavy, even when spoken low. Meeting him? Never happened. Not once. Still, those tales bent the air around Markus, like smoke clinging to clothes. People claimed the man inspired fear but also nods of approval, sharp-minded and quick to fight if needed. He vanished, leaving holes filled only with guesses tied together by loose threads. Late at night, when streetlights flickered and footsteps faded, Markus sensed it - the tug of unproven truths lingering just behind silence.
Down the tight passage beside the laundry room, damp walls caught the thin light slicing between rooftops. Not far ahead, a rodent darted - Markus adjusted without thinking, muscles moving faster than thoughts. Lately, edges felt clearer, sounds richer, like silence itself carried messages meant just for him. Shadows spoke too, though he couldn't say how or why, only that something stirred when corners turned. No label fit what rose inside when doors stayed shut, no words for knowing things unseen. It pulsed low in his bones, whatever gift - or weight - he'd somehow been left with.
Out past the curb, there it was again - kids bunched by the wire fence, chucking a scuffed-up ball around. Laughter jumped through the air, sharp like glass cracking under light pressure. That old pull crept in, a quiet ache for what slipped through his fingers long ago. Back then, wild and unthinking, he'd run headfirst into anything. Now, standing still at the edge, eyes fixed, everything shifted without him meaning to. Survival didn't come from speed or force. It came from noticing shadows where others saw only sun.
Out of nowhere, a yell sliced through his thoughts. Toward him sprinting came Joey - the kid from yesterday's clash behind the dumpsters - stumbling on cracked pavement. Drenched in sweat, his hood clung to his head, cheeks smeared with grime plus a smear of red leaking from split skin. Markus stayed still at first. Watching. Weighing things up. A vibration deep inside his ribs told him trouble wasn't far off. Not far behind Joey came a pair of older children, closing fast, faces sharp with purpose. Into motion went Markus, already stepping forward even as the idea barely reached him - hands tensing, weight rolling between his feet.
Into the tight space between brick walls he walked, pausing there without sound. When the bigger kid rushed forward at Joey, Markus shifted - just once - and shoved hard, clean, precise, knocking him sideways into rusted metal. Hesitation flickered across the younger one's face; their gazes locked, steady, silent, and stillness won. Up rose Joey on unsteady legs, then both began moving, following steps already known, guided by pulse beneath pavement, breath inside stone.
Breathing hard, Joey came to a halt once the path was clear. "Where'd you learn - " he started. Markus gave no answer, just a slow shake of the head. Speech couldn't carry what living had carved into him. Ahead, the corner led to a hushed stretch of road - he gestured forward without sound. Behind him, he moved like someone reading silence: eyes flicking back, ears tuned to steps that maybe weren't there, sensing things most never notice.
Only when shelter was certain did the sun stretch fully above buildings, pouring brightness onto pavement that soaked up heat. A slow exhale slipped out of Markus - his first real one since everything broke apart - and with it came awareness: stiff shoulders, tired limbs, energy draining into quietness he didn't expect. Victory sat close, though it arrived stained by loss. The fabric of his hoodie stuck to skin cooled by drying sweat, fingers marked by thin red lines, proof of effort. Still, the streets hadn't swallowed him whole. At least not today.
Back on his way to the building, thoughts swirled inside Markus - about daylight fading between tight streets, shapes moving just out of sight. Secrets pulsed under Cedarwood's surface, mixed with risk, possibility too; all humming beneath his skin. Something wild within him pulled him through that moment with Joey, even if its roots remained unclear. A vibration deep in his ribs acted like a whisper from somewhere unknown, guiding without words. Familiar somehow, despite never being named.
That night, Markus came back slow, eyes down. Around him, the city sank into a hush, sounds muffled like cloth over glass. At the street's edge, he stopped - stared at the narrow space between buildings where fists met stone. A tug ran through his gut, something calling from the dark corners. Maybe there was more left unsaid in that cramped gap, clues folded into cracks. It made his pulse jump even while his skin crawled.
In the quiet of his tiny home, Mom moved without noise, fixing the evening meal, speaking soft and close. Not a word came from Markus about what happened earlier, just a nod when questioned on classes and chores done. The clash stayed with him, a steady throb under his ribs like something waking up. Food gone fast, he stepped outside onto the ledge, eyes dropping to the roads underneath. Lights blinked, shadows shifted, sounds floated - everything stitched into a rhythm that suddenly made sense in a new way.
Darkness came. Markus paced the block again, eyes sharp, ears tuned, skin prickling at each noise, shift, breath of air. Past vacant plots he went, past creaking swings coated in rust, shards of glass winking under yellow light. A dog snapped awake far off. From another direction, melody seeped through a cracked windowpane. He took it in - the hum, the pulse - and realized something cold curled inside: not just any kid, never really safe here, how these sidewalks were slowly changing his bones.
When Markus walked back into his apartment, a quiet exhaustion settled over him - wanting answers as much as sleep. Tomorrow waits differently now: it holds risk, moments to face what he's made of. The city breathes on its own time; its beat runs through sidewalks, corners, unspoken laws. Staying alive is merely step one. Sharp gut feelings, eyes open, nerve - those will carry him ahead. And inside his ribs something stirs: the tale of Cedarwood, dark threads pulling loose at last.