The night after the chase, Layla couldn't sleep. Every time she shut her eyes, she saw the flashing lights, the blur of Marcy's grin, the blade of fear twisting inside her chest.
She told herself she wasn't scared. But she was.
---
The Distance
Marcy was different the next day. Jittery. Talking faster, laughing louder, like she could drown out her own heartbeat. She'd always been bold, but now her boldness felt brittle—like glass pretending to be steel.
When they met behind the old bus depot, Marcy tossed Layla a stolen soda, her grin too sharp. "We're getting good, L. Real good. You keep this up, and we won't need that dump of a home anymore."
Layla popped the can but didn't drink. "You mean we'll be sleeping on benches instead?"
Marcy rolled her eyes. "You think small, girl. I'm talking about getting out. Really out. There's a crew downtown—older kids, real money. They need runners. I could get us in."
Layla's stomach twisted. "Crews like that don't let you leave once you're in."
Marcy's grin faltered. "Yeah, well, neither does the system. Take your pick."
---
A Line Crossed
Two nights later, Marcy took her to meet them. A half-lit parking lot near the docks, shadows leaning against cars, smoke curling through the cold. They were older, harder. One of them—tall, scar down his neck—looked Layla over like she was inventory.
"This her?" he asked.
Marcy nodded. "She's quick. Smart. Doesn't spook easy."
Layla's heart pounded, but she didn't show it. She just met his eyes, cold for cold.
He smiled, all teeth. "We'll see."
They gave her a test. Not stealing candy this time. Not wallets. A delivery. A small bag, wrapped tight, no questions. "Drop it at the red door on 9th. Don't open it. Don't look back."
Layla didn't ask what was inside. She didn't have to.
The bag felt heavier than it should have.
---
The Test
She made the run. Quick, quiet, clean. But the moment she handed it off, something in her chest cracked. She wasn't a thief tonight—she was a mule. A part of something she couldn't control.
When she got back, Marcy was waiting under the streetlight, smile wide. "See? Told you. You're a natural."
Layla shoved the cash back at her. "That's not me."
"Then who is you, L?" Marcy shot back. "The scared kid in the bleach box? The one waiting for someone to save her?"
Layla froze.
"News flash," Marcy said softly. "Nobody's coming. Not for me. Not for you."
The words hit harder than she wanted to admit.
---
The Sketch
Back at the group home, Layla sat on her bed, shaking. She opened her notebook, but her hands wouldn't stay steady. Still, she drew—Marcy under a streetlight, shadow long, flame flickering wild.
On the other page, she drew herself walking away, smaller, but flame steady in her chest.
Underneath, she wrote: You can burn without burning out.
---
Layla didn't know it yet, but this was the night the fire in her changed shape.
It wasn't about danger anymore. It was about control.
And control, she was learning, was the hardest thing to hold.