Eaverstead, 2004A heavy downpour hammered the city all night, drumming against rooftops and soaking the cracked pavement. By morning, the rain had turned the broken road into a patchwork of muddy kes. It still fell steadily, but softer, as two boys, no older than thirteen, crouched beneath a fabric awning, skipping css. Neither spoke; they just listened to the gentle tapping of raindrops.

  Johan, with his usual dark hair and light brown eyes, spotted a half-smoked cigarette on the curb, its paper soggy but intact. He fished a match from his pocket, struck it against the rough awning pole, and lit the stub.

  Carl, the other boy, idly flicked a neckce into the air, letting it spin before catching it in his palm, and repeating the motion. A scar ran from his eye to the corner of his mouth; it had a zig-zag-like shape, a blessing he cimed—said it made him look tougher, cooler. Or at least, that’s what people were supposed to think.

  The air smelled of wet earth and rust, and when Johan’s smoke curled into the mix, Carl’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Huh?” Johan blinked.

  “Since when do you smoke?”

  “Last week. I coughed like crazy. Damn embarrassing,” Johan said, grinning at the memory.

  Carl’s gre sharpened, and he spped the cigarette from Johan’s hand.

  “Ow! What’s your problem?” Johan frowned, rubbing his stinging fingers as he lunged for the stub, but it nded in a small puddle. As he plucked it up, its soggy end dripped brown water. Clicking his tongue, he flicked it away. “Well, that’s ruined. Thanks a lot.”

  “You’re welcome,” Carl said curtly.

  Johan held his stare, the tension simmering between them. But after a moment, he sighed and looked away, turning to the uneven road. He rested his chin on his folded arms, leaning against his knees.

  Carl winced as he straightened, his legs creaking from the strain. “Crouching kills me.”

  Johan stayed silent, the patter of rain swallowing any reply.

  Carl stepped closer, patting Johan’s shoulder. “Smoking’s not cool, nor’s acting tough. Just makes you a loser.”

  Johan scoffed. “Yeah? And stealing doesn’t?”

  “Touché. But aren’t you one of us?” Carl smirked. “If you can afford an addiction, I’ll tell the boys you’re a mark, not a mate.”

  “Who do you...” Johan’s words faltered as he burst into ughter.

  “I’m your friend when you’re poor.”

  Laughter erupted again, echoing across the empty street of Zone G.

  “You’re good. I like you.”

  Johan shot him a look. “What?”

  Carl answered calmly, his gaze distant. “You and Aaron, you two don’t belong here. Sometimes I wonder if we’re a bad influence.”

  “Stop talking like you’re my dad. We’re the same age.”

  Carl grinned. “I could be your dad. Can’t you see these good looks? I’m irresistible.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Johan rolled his eyes. “You hear about what happened in Brimstone?”

  “The explosion?” Carl said. “The news wouldn’t shut up about how heroic that cop was.”

  “He deserved it, though,” Johan said. “Gotta respect him for not being corrupt, for actually getting out there instead of sitting in some office avoiding trouble.”

  The rain had finally stopped. Johan stood, stretching his stiff limbs with a groan, the damp fabric of his jacket clinging to his shoulders.

  Carl let out a quiet breath. “A captain on the front lines, huh?” His voice rose as he spun the neckce again. “Maybe, but he wasn’t the only victim. If the media isn’t giving credit to the snipers, how will the world ever give a fuck about us?” He raised his hands and posed to the sky. “When we are nothing but—Oops!” His words faded as the neckce slipped from his fingers.

  Johan crouched again, picking it up and turning it between his fingers. “Damn, this thing’s ugly.”

  Carl snatched it back swiftly. “Maybe to you. But to me, it’s the most beautiful thing in the world.”

  Johan raised an eyebrow. “You got a screw loose or something?”

  “It was a birthday gift from my sister,” Carl said, his fingers tracing the pque. “When she was five.”

  Back in the present, in the alley where Frankie y dead, Johan pressed Victor for an answer, his twitching eyes following the neckce. The same simple string with the small aluminum pque swaying slightly; now bearing a scrappy “F” engraved in the center.

  Frankie? Johan’s eyes widened.

  Victor recoiled slightly, lifting the neckce closer to his face. “You mean this?”

  Johan stared him in the eye, waiting.

  “Why?” Victor asked.

  But Johan didn’t reply; he chose not to.

  Instead, he thought, ignoring the detective in front of him. If Frankie is involved, does that mean they are too? Or is the neckce just a coincidence? I mean, I still have mine. His hand brushed the lump in his pocket where his own neckce rested, its familiar weight a spiritual anchor.

  “…Hey?” Victor barked, suddenly gripping Johan’s shoulder.

  As Johan gnced up, Victor met his gaze. “Why are you asking about this neckce?”

  “Nothing. I was just curious, being a PI and all. Have a nice day, detective,” Johan said curtly, gently tapping Victor’s hand.

  But Victor didn’t let go. Lurking around the crime scene, and now this neckce... odd. Really odd.

  That trash wasn’t alone. Someone else drove Eric into the alley. Could this neckce be connected?

  Victor tightened his grip. “You’re not going anywhere. Not when you know something.”

  Johan’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching. “I know my rights. Remove your hand.”

  “Not until you stop being a suspect.”

  Johan smirked, a dry huff escaping his lips. “How brilliant. No wonder you’re bald; your brain must stink.”

  “Oh, you’re a funny man now?”

  “If you think a suspect would ask you, you’re in the wrong profession. Now, remove your hand. You’re getting on my nerves.”

  Victor’s jaw tightened. “Cooperate, and I’m willing to—”

  “Fuck off,” Johan cut in, spping his hand away.

  Victor let out a broken chuckle, not out of amusement but disbelief. “Name and ID. Now.”

  Johan clicked his tongue, reached into his coat, and pulled out a worn leather wallet.

  He flipped it open and held it out just long enough for Victor to read.

  “Happy now?” he said.

  Victor studied it in silence, then said nothing.

  Johan tucked the wallet back in and walked off without looking back. But his thoughts didn’t move on. Nathan. Does he know something?

  Meanwhile, Nathan and Evelyn drove back toward Amber Heights, heading for the nearest hospital.Silence hung between them, broken only by the hum of the engine and the steady thrum of tires against asphalt.If you strained your ears, you might even catch the faint hammering of Nathan’s heart.Nathan couldn’t stop smiling; his pulse raced, and his hands, slick with sweat, trembled over the steering wheel. His eyes darted between the road and Evelyn, as if his heart were urging him to veer right.As Evelyn noticed his behavior, a giggle slipped out. But the moment passed as quickly as it came, and her expression changed.Her lips pressed into a thin line as if her own mind had yanked her back, disgusted that she’d let herself ugh given the circumstances.

  “Music?” Nathan asked, his voice unexpectedly high-pitched.“No,” Evelyn said, then she softened. “But if you want…”

  “No, it’s cool,” Nathan cut in, ending the futile attempt at conversation.

  They drove on through the evening streets of Amber Heights, and minutes ter, they pulled up to the hospital entrance.Through the window, Evelyn glimpsed Jasmine sitting on a curb near a mppost, its yellow light pooling around her like a halo. One hand covered her face; the other rested on her stomach.“I think this is the pce,” Evelyn said quietly.“You want me to come with you?” Nathan asked.“No,” Evelyn said, shaking her head. “It wouldn’t feel right ruining your evening. Besides, I just saw his wife out there.” Her voice wavered as tears welled in her eyes.“Okay,” Nathan said softly. “We’ll keep in touch. Good luck.”

  Evelyn nodded, offering an appreciative smile before stepping out of the car. She shuffled toward Jasmine; her steps heavy, dreading what she might hear.

  Evelyn settled onto the curb beside Jasmine, the concrete chilling through her jeans, but her gaze drifted to the hospital’s glowing windows. It took Jasmine a moment to notice her, and when she did, she crumpled; tears bursting forth as she leaned heavily against Evelyn’s shoulder. “It’s all my fault,” she muttered, again and again.“What happened?” Evelyn asked.“The surgery’s still underway,” Jasmine choked out between sobs.

  “It’s not your fault,” Evelyn said, exhaling deeply as she pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her own heartbeat stutter beneath her palm. “We need to have faith.” Yet tears soon streamed down her cheeks, betraying her words.