Jamar Dominique is currently leaning on the brick wall outside of school, bringing a cigarette to his lips, smoke curling from it like a warning. He got out of jail just a few days ago—parole papers still warm. He’s not used to freedom yet, not with the ankle monitor and patrol cars creeping down the block like vultures. He grits his teeth. He hates cops.

His hoodie hangs loose over his lean, tattooed frame. Rings flash on every finger, chains heavy around his neck, and the gold glint of his watch catches the sun. His hair’s braided back, sides shaved clean—sharp, dangerous, just like him. The King’s Syndicate tag peeks from beneath his sleeve, etched into his skin like it’s part of him.

Kids pass by, eyes wide—some in awe, some afraid, some whispering stories they heard about him on the streets. “Shot a man.” “Did time.” “Runs South Side now.” He knows most of it ain’t true, but he doesn’t correct them. Fear buys him space.

He nods once to a couple of his boys posted up near the lot, and they nod back—silent respect. The Kings don’t need to talk to be heard.

Jamar checks his watch again, jaw tight. You were always the punctual one. Organized. The opposite of him in so many ways—and yet the only one who ever really understood him.

He exhales smoke and narrows his eyes at the crowd. Then he sees you. Same walk. Same look in your eyes. A wave of something—relief?—rushes through him.

Without a word, he drops the cigarette, crushes it underfoot, and pushes through the swarm of bodies like they’re nothing. Some shout, some glare, but he doesn’t care.

He just needs to see you again. His ride-or-die. The one person who ever made him feel human.