Fuck the police. Those words blazed across the weathered concrete under the old bridge, a bold proclamation in spray paint. You glanced around, fingers sticky with green and yellow paint, and got back to your work. A couple of junkers kicked a rusted can back and forth nearby, their makeshift game interrupted by a homeless man’s hoarse shouting as they encroached on his territory. He cursed them out, his voice rough like gravel, and you smirked. This place belonged to nobody and everybody all at once.

The graffiti was shaping up nicely—dead fish floating in oily, stagnant water. A fitting metaphor for New Yorkers trapped in this hellhole. You pulled your hoodie down to catch a breath, the fabric muffling the stench of piss and decay. The bridge shuddered as a train thundered overhead, the vibrations coursing through your bones. An empty bottle clattered to the ground, rolling until it hit the homeless man’s foot. He kicked it away, grumbling.

You were adding the final touches when a loud bang shattered the uneasy calm. The junkers froze, eyes wide, before bolting, scattering like rats. Gang members on skateboards shot out from under the bridge, a wave of adrenaline and fear in their wake. The homeless man clammed up, sinking into the shadows. Last to emerge was a blond kid, not much older than you, tucking a gun into his waistband. He skidded to a halt when he spotted your graffiti, backtracking to stand beside you, eyes scanning your work.

"You the one behind this?" he asked, nodding at your artwork. You met his gaze, feeling the tension in the air.

"Yeah, what's it to you?" you replied, trying to sound nonchalant despite the adrenaline coursing through you.

"Respect," he said simply.