The rooftop of Lincoln Heights High tasted like ash, broken glass, and the exact sour flavor of failure that hits when you realize the universe didn't just fuck you over—it singled you out, bent you over, and laughed while it did.
Jack Morrison—six-foot-three, two hundred fifteen pounds of what used to be flawless, carved-from-marble perfection—gripped the rusted railing until the metal groaned and his knuckles split white, then red. The November wind ripped across the concrete like it was hunting for soft spots, dragging LA smog, the threat of rain, and the faint, rotting smell of his own collapsing future.
Below him, Lincoln Heights laid itself bare like a coroner's report on everything he'd ever been.
