The nights stretched longer now. Layla barely slept anymore, not because of fear—but because of the rush.
She and Marcy had turned their rooftop adventures into something else. A rhythm. A game. Every night was another move on the board: lift, run, vanish. Small things at first—purses, phones, whatever could fit in a jacket pocket. Enough to keep the adrenaline alive.
The city had rules, and Marcy knew every one of them.
---
The First Score
It happened outside a bar near 12th and Monroe. Men stumbled out, drunk, loud, careless. Marcy nudged Layla with her elbow. "Watch and learn."
Layla followed her eyes—a man leaning against a wall, wallet half-out, head tilted back, talking too loud.
Marcy walked by, casual, brushing close. The wallet disappeared like smoke. She tossed it to Layla mid-turn, a grin splitting her face. "Your turn next time."
They ran down the alley, laughter echoing off the bricks.
For the first time, Layla laughed too. Not the soft laugh she used to give when staff asked stupid questions like "How are you feeling?"—but a real one. Raw. Uncontrolled. It was the sound of feeling alive.
---
The Game Grows
The rush became routine. Every night a new target, every morning a new excuse for the staff when curfew checks failed. Marcy handled the smooth jobs; Layla handled the messy ones—distractions, diversions, the small chaos that made it work.
She was good at it. Too good.
The more she moved, the easier it got. Her fear turned into focus. Her guilt into precision. And beneath it all, the same fire burned brighter.
---
The Night of the Chase
It all cracked the night they pushed too far. Marcy spotted a car idling by a convenience store, window cracked, phone glowing inside. "Easy grab," she whispered.
Layla hesitated. Something felt off. But Marcy was already moving.
The second she reached in, an alarm shrieked. Lights exploded across the lot. The driver burst out shouting, "Hey!"
They ran. Sneakers slapping against wet pavement. Tires screeched behind them. Marcy laughed as they darted down an alley.
Layla didn't. Her chest was on fire, breath ragged, but not from running—from the realization that this was spiraling fast.
They ducked behind a dumpster, hearts pounding.
Marcy grinned, wild-eyed. "Tell me that ain't a rush."
Layla stared at her, half exhilarated, half terrified. "You're gonna get us killed."
"Maybe," Marcy said, still smiling. "But better that than dying slow in that bleach box."
---
The Reflection
Back at the group home, Layla slipped through the window as the sky turned gray. Her hands still shook. Her breath wouldn't slow down.
She looked at her reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror. Eyes wide. Lips trembling. A spark behind them she barely recognized.
She wasn't just surviving anymore. She was changing.
---
The Sketch
She pulled her notebook from under her mattress and drew two flames side by side—hers and Marcy's. One was tall, sharp, chaotic. The other smaller but steadier.
Underneath she wrote: One burns bright. The other learns control.
She didn't know which one she was yet.