The train screeched to a halt at the intersection. Dave stepped out, breathing in a different kind of air. Not fresher just different. He had his gun tucked into his jeans, fingers brushing its grip for reassurance. His bag slung over his shoulder, he left the station like a man with no shadow.
Vincent's crew didn't waste time. A new leader had been installed fast Vic. If Vincent was gone, Vic would step in. They wanted blood. They wanted their Blue Black Block back. Word was spreading: the Red City Jumpers were coming for Dave.
He didn't stand a chance.
His crew had scattered. Cowards. Each one lying low, waiting for what happened after. But it wasn't Vincent they feared it was the Jumpers. Vincent was feared for who he was. The Red City Jumpers were feared for what they did.
And when an organized crew wants your head, there's only one strategy: run. Then pray they forget your face.
Southampton. Better than Batsaville. Less crime, better air. Maybe even a chance at home.
Dave arrived at a 25-acre compound packed with thousands of flats. Government program. Immigrant aid. Free housing for 30 days. After that? No job, no stay eviction and deportation.
Finding a job was the least of his worries.
"It's one of them again," Stephen muttered. Another local watching their city rot into charity.
"Hey..." Dave said, playing it timid. He knew men like this. They loved to dominate. Fine. Let them. He could play mouse all day.
"Is there space... or a form I can fill?" he asked, painting confusion on his face. Chess. Ego against survival.
Stephen grunted and ushered him into a cramped office. The air reeked of stale tobacco sharp but familiar.
"What're you staring at? Fill the form," Stephen barked, masking his moment of confusion with authority.
Dave picked up the pen.
Name: Dave Mikaleson.
Age: 23. A lie? Prove it.
He filled it fast. His only listed skill? Driving. He chuckled to himself as he wrote it. Long-term planning.
Room 226A. Big enough for him and maybe a dog. Dirt, cobwebs, roaches it all greeted him like he was the intruder. Provided by the state: a bed and a roof. The toilet reeked of piss, shit, despair fluid remnants of defeated men. No doors. Just trust. Or apathy.
Curfew: 11:30 PM. Gates opened at 5:00 AM.
Not ideal. But maybe peace wasn't a mansion. Maybe peace was just enough.
CRCCCH.
Glass. No bottle. Dave knew the sound.
Outside, a tall man Eric was screaming.
"I'll kill you if you don't cook!" he roared.
"Do it then! You drink, you fuck, and you suck at both!" the woman shot back. Her voice, iron under fire.
"Hold me, I'm gonna kill her!" Eric screamed. Pleading for restraint. For help. For an excuse?
Dave kept his head down. He remembered the form: violence equals expulsion. Later, he heard grunts. Someone was beating Eric down. Security maybe. Dave didn't care.
The cafeteria food was a punch to the gut. Childhood orphanage memories resurfaced. He ate little.
It was 11:35. Bells signaled curfew.
He dreamed.
Of Shan.
Back at the orphanage, Dave had been cornered by Roy the loud bully. Shan stepped in. Beat Roy senseless. Then shook Dave down herself. But at least with Shan, you saw the knife coming.
He drifted between sleep and awareness.
Morning came.
Time to job hunt.
He stole a bucket of water. Bathed. Wore his least-threatening clothes. Hit the streets.
By 9:15 AM, the hunt was over. Half the stores turned him away. The rest wanted experience.
Back at the center. 29 days left.
He lifted his bed. His stash intact. $30,000. Enough for a better life. But not without paperwork. And paperwork gets you noticed.
He dropped the bed. Instinct kicked in. Knock on the door. One hand on the knob. One on the gun.
It was Eric's wife.
"Hi… Name's Debbie," she said, eyes locking on his. Dave relaxed slightly.
"Heard you were new. If you need anything, I can help. It's rough for newcomers."
Dave noticed her dimples. A flash of something maybe seduction.
"So I've heard," he said flatly.
"Well… I'm at 222A," she said, half-pouting. Her go-to trick.
A week passed.
Dave was $10,000 lighter. But that wasn't on his mind.
Earlier, on a late-night leak, he saw a girl helping a limping guy. Time check: 2:00 AM. Way past curfew.
He started watching them. Routine. Pattern.
Garage workers. Girl Cassey. Guy Romeo.
Dave had grown up among liars. He'd studied under Shan. These two were hiding something. He could smell it.
Every night, he scanned the corridors. The question repeating in his mind:
What are you hiding?