Five years is more than a milestone; it is a total transformation. The scars on the pavement of the 5th Street Bridge have been paved over with smooth, dark asphalt, and the "Silence Strike" has transitioned from a terrifying news headline into a local legend told by old-timers at the social clubs—the night the King and the Sergeant broke the Viper's back.
The bridge over the canal had been repainted a deep, forest green, illuminated by solar-powered lamps that cast a steady, peaceful glow over the water. Sarah Miller-Moretti stepped out of her SUV, the door closing with a solid thud. She wasn't wearing a suit or the tan uniform of a Sergeant today; she wore a simple sundress and sunglasses, looking like the professional she had become. As the Director of Community Reintegration, she was still called "The Warden" by the locals, but now it was a title of endearment, not fear.
She walked toward the center of the bridge, her heels clicking rhythmically. Standing at the railing was Donny. He didn't need a walker or a staff anymore. Aside from a slight, rugged stiffness in his stride—a lingering gift from the sepsis—he stood tall and powerful.
"You're late," Donny said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"The board meeting ran over," Sarah said, leaning into him as he wrapped an arm around her. "Lou is demanding more funding for the gym. He says the new crop of middle-schoolers is 'too fast for the old equipment.' He's already got Johnny drafting a formal petition."
Donny chuckled. It was a rich, healthy sound. Even with the fragmented memories of his past, the present was vivid. He spent his days running Moretti Logistics, a successful freight and supply business that served as the neighborhood's backbone. But the business had a "silent partner"—the South Block. A significant portion of every contract Donny signed went directly into a community trust that funded vocational training and legal aid for the men still coming home.
"Lou and Johnny are coming over for the barbecue, right?" Sarah asked.
"Always," Donny said. "They're at the shop now, arguing over the new manifests. Those two are closer than they ever were on the inside. Johnny's officially 'The Ghost of the Bar Association' now that his record is clean, and Lou... Lou just likes having someone to boss around."
The ultimate victory had come in a cream-colored envelope six months prior: The Erasure. Because Donny, Lou, and Johnny had maintained three years of perfect conduct within the neighborhood, the court had granted their expungements. The "Gold" wars were legally deleted.
"Daddy!"
The car door in the background popped open, and a whirlwind of energy sprinted toward them. Ella Moretti, four years old with her mother's iron-willed eyes and her father's defiant smile, barreled into Donny's legs.
Donny scooped her up, hoisting her high above the railing. Ella giggled, pointing at the canal. This was the legacy they had fought for on that dark, glass bridge. Not just survival, but a life where a child named Moretti could stand in the sun without the shadow of a prison tower looming over her.
"Look, Ella," Donny whispered, pointing toward the horizon where the distant, gutted remains of the North Block were visible—now being converted into a community college. "That's where Mommy and Daddy met."
"In the big castle?" Ella asked.
"Something like that," Sarah smiled, reaching out to ruffle her daughter's hair.
A black sedan pulled up—a "Clean Team" patrol. The officers inside didn't reach for their belts. They gave a respectful nod to Sarah and a silent, fist-to-chest salute to Donny. They were the new guard, the ones Sarah had trained to lead with empathy instead of the "Viper's" venom.
Donny reached out and took Sarah's hand, his fingers interlacing with hers. The amnesia still left small gaps—he couldn't remember his old cell number or the lyrics to the songs they used to thump out on the doors—but he remembered the way Sarah had held him up when his knees gave out.
"Ready to go?" Sarah asked. "Sal's firing up the grill, and he's already complaining that the King is late for Sunday dinner."
"I'm ready," Donny said, setting Ella down and taking a final look at the bridge.
He wasn't 4492 anymore. He wasn't a witness, a victim, or a King. He was a husband, a father, and a neighbor. As they walked toward the car together, the "No-Badge" rule was a dead language. They were moving into a future that was finally, truly, stay-gold.