It happened outside a liquor store at midnight.
Zay and Keys were waiting for a drop—small-time stuff, reselling custom phone cases with boosted chips inside. Not glamorous, but enough for their name to start floating. Enough for whispers to crawl through Eastbridge like steam through broken vents.
That's when Rico walked up.
No intro. No warning.
He stepped out of the fog with a black hoodie, gold tooth glinting in the neon, and a smirk like he already owned the night³.
"You the Cinder Crew?"
Zay stared. "Who's asking?"
"Someone who just broke a dealer's nose for selling my sister laced pills. Someone looking for people who don't fold. Word says y'all don't."
Keys raised a brow. "You roll up solo and expect to join?"
"I roll up real," Rico shot back. "You want shooters, or statues?"
Zay liked the fire. But he didn't smile.
"Why should I trust you?"
Rico reached into his jacket.
Zay tensed—but all Rico pulled out was a cracked wallet with blood on it.
"Ask around," he said. "The guy who owned this? Runs with the Blackhorns."
That name hit heavy.
The Blackhorns weren't kids. They were street-grown wolves—armed, organized, ruthless. They ran half the blocks west of Eastbridge High.
"You hit a Blackhorn?" Keys asked, eyes wide.
"Did more than hit him," Rico said. "Now I need protection, backup… and revenge. You boys got fire. I got aim."
Zay didn't flinch. He just stepped forward and bumped fists.
"Welcome to the war."
---
The next week was loud.
Rico wasn't like Zay or Keys. He didn't think in silence or smile with sarcasm.
He hit fast and made noise doing it.
They started tagging over Blackhorn turf—small flame sigils in alley corners, bus stops, and brick walls. Subtle but visible. They weren't declaring war. Not yet.
Just introducing themselves.
That's when it happened.
One night, as they rolled back from a scout run near Dawson Street, a car rolled up slow. Dark windows. No headlights.
Zay's gut dropped.
"Get down—!"
Too late.
Crack. Crack. CRACK.
Gunshots tore the silence open. Bullets punched the concrete beside them as the crew dove behind dumpsters. Rico fired back with a .38 from his bag, barking curses, but the car peeled out before he could land a hit.
Keys clutched his shoulder. "Shit! I'm hit!"
Zay grabbed him. Blood soaked his sleeve, but it was shallow—a graze.
Still… it was real.
Too real.
---
They patched Keys up in their hideout. Silence hung in the air like smoke.
"They know our name now," Rico said, loading fresh rounds.
Zay stood by the window, jaw clenched.
"No. They know our signal. They still don't know us."
Keys hissed through pain, then laughed bitterly. "So what now, boss?"
Zay turned around, eyes hard.
"We shoot back."
---