It started with a stolen bag of chips.
Zayden Cole stood under the cracked roof of the corner store awning, hoodie soaked from the rain, pocket heavy with a half-eaten bag of Flamin' Reds he didn't pay for. The shopkeeper inside had been yelling in three languages, but Zay didn't even run. What was the point?
He had bigger problems than snacks.
Eastbridge was a city where kids didn't dream—just survived. Every block wore bruises like war wounds: boarded-up shops, flashing sirens, bloodstains that got hosed down before school started. There were no kings here, only wolves, rats, and the concrete jungle they fought over.
Zay slipped through an alley and climbed the rusted fire escape of the project complex, three blocks from his high school. His room was on the fourth floor—no bed, no lights, just a mattress, a cracked phone, and an old Bluetooth speaker someone threw out.
He flopped onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling. Rain tapped the windows like fingers asking to be let in. His stomach growled, louder than his music. He closed his eyes.
"You ever get tired of being a nobody?"
That voice lived in his head these days. Sounded like his own, just meaner. Louder. Sharper.
He wasn't angry at the world. Not really. He was angry at the rules.
Why did some kids get cars, clean shoes, and safe homes—while others got evicted, jumped, and ignored?
He didn't want pity. He didn't want fame.
He wanted control.
---
The next morning, school greeted him like it always did—with metal detectors and disinterest.
Southside High was a factory for future convicts and corpses. Teachers didn't teach. Students didn't listen. The halls smelled like mold and regret. Zay walked in with his hood up, headphones in, and eyes half-dead.
Then he saw him.
At the back gate, a fight was breaking out. A skinny kid with braids was getting stomped by two older dudes in varsity jackets. Zay slowed down. He recognized the kid—Malik, they called him "Keys." Always mouthing off, always skating just past trouble.
This time he didn't make it.
"Where's my speaker, you broke-ass thief?" one of the guys yelled, kicking Keys in the ribs.
Zay could've kept walking.
He didn't.
With quiet precision, he slipped behind the taller one and slammed his metal water bottle into the back of the dude's head. The guy dropped like a sack of bricks.
Keys gasped for air. The other attacker turned—but Zay was already swinging.
The fight lasted less than twenty seconds. When it ended, Keys was coughing blood, Zay's knuckles were split, and both varsity guys were on the pavement moaning.
Zay didn't say anything.
Keys sat up, holding his ribs. "You... you jumped in for me? Man, that was some Batman s**t."
Zay just stared at him. "You owe me lunch."
Keys grinned through bloody teeth. "Bet. But it's gotta be stolen."
---
They sat on the school roof during second period, eating dollar burgers they'd swiped from a delivery cart. Zay hadn't smiled in weeks. But he almost did.
"Why'd you do it?" Keys asked between bites.
Zay looked at the skyline—gray, cracked, bleeding rust.
"Because I'm tired of this city acting like we're already dead."
Keys nodded, then offered his fist.
"You got hands. I got wheels. You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"
Zay bumped fists.
"No more running. We build something."
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