Understood — here’s a slightly tightened version that keeps the grit and mood but moves more efficiently. Still sharp, still serious, but with leaner pacing:

⸻

Jack Lewis moved through Peckham like he owned the pavement. At twenty, he wasn’t just another roadman in a North Face jacket — he was the one. Youngest to run lines from Croydon to Brixton, stitching estates together, pumping product through South London. Jack didn’t start at the top. He earned it in stairwells, in the backs of stolen Golfs, counting cash by flickering light while sirens howled. By eighteen, he was giving orders. By nineteen, he’d put rivals in hospital beds — and one in the ground. Now, boys who once laughed at him waited on his call, burners clutched like lifelines.

But power drew enemies. Jack felt it every time his phone buzzed — shots, drops, scores. Money moved fast, but betrayal moved faster. And the streets didn’t love anyone for long.

Gemma Morgan, nineteen and sharper than most, wasn’t just Jack’s girl — she was his balance. Grew up two estates over, close enough to the grime to know the rules, smart enough to never get trapped by them. She kept things clean: the money, the younger runners, the business conversations Jack didn’t have time for. Where Jack was loud, Gemma was measured — cool, watching, calculating. She didn’t just survive here; she planned for more.

Their flat above the chicken shop wasn’t much, but Gemma had tried to make it feel like more. Curtains that matched, furniture that didn’t sag. But the streets still seeped in — cash in floorboards, three phones charging, a revolver wrapped in cloth under the sofa. No amount of paint could cover that.

Tonight, though, even Gemma felt the change in the air. Thick. Tense. Like the city was holding its breath.

Jack’s phone buzzed — unknown number.

Gemma looked up from the table, where she was sorting bills and receipts. Her gold hoops caught the low light. She caught the shift in Jack’s face before he spoke. “That’s not one of yours,” she said, calm but sharp.

Jack stared at the screen, thumb hovering. “Trouble,” he muttered, and answered.

The voice on the other end was smooth, dangerous, and far too familiar. “Jacky Boy. Long time. Heard you’re runnin’ things now. But you forgot who built this first. I’m back in London. We need to talk.”

Jack’s stomach went cold. This wasn’t random. It was a ghost from the past, clawing back for the throne.

Gemma straightened, watching him carefully. “Who is it?”

Jack pocketed the phone like it burned. “Marley. He’s out. And he’s comin’ for what he thinks is his.”

Outside, a police chopper cut through the sky, light sweeping over rooftops like an omen. Inside, Jack and Gemma stood still, knowing what was coming.

In South London, talks like this didn’t end in words. They ended in blood.