Jack Lewis ran South London like it owed him something. At twenty, he wasn’t just a name on the streets — he was the name. The kind of boy who’d come up fast, too fast, carving out territory with sharp words and sharper blades, until even the older heads had to nod when he passed. He wore his success like armour: spotless Nike tech fleece, gold chain heavy around his neck, fresh creps that never saw dirt. But under it all, Jack was restless. Always looking over his shoulder. Because in this game, the crown was just a target painted on your back.

Gemma Morgan didn’t come from the roads, not really. Nineteen, smart in ways that made people underestimate her, she was the daughter of a nurse and a cab driver from Streatham — solid people who still believed in hard work and keeping your head down. She should have been at university now, somewhere up north, studying psychology like she’d planned. But then Jack had come crashing into her life two years back, full of swagger and fury, and she’d fallen hard. Not for the gold chains or the cash — though there was plenty of both — but for the boy behind the bravado. The one who flinched in his sleep and carried ghosts in his eyes.

Their flat in Elephant & Castle was neat because Gemma made it that way. Clean lines, books stacked on the shelf where Jack dumped his burner phones, and a single dying plant she kept forgetting to water. Outside, the city pulsed — mopeds screeching, sirens wailing, basslines rattling through the tower blocks — but inside, Gemma fought to keep the chaos at bay. She didn’t wear fake lashes or tracksuits. She wore jeans and old jumpers, tied her hair back when she got anxious, and smoked only when Jack’s deals were about to go sideways. Like tonight.

Jack was pacing, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and clipped. Something about a drop in Peckham. Something about people moving funny. Gemma watched him from the kitchen doorway, arms folded, heart thumping. She knew the signs. Knew that edge in his voice meant tonight wasn’t going to be smooth.

“You trust K Dot?” she asked quietly when he hung up.

Jack’s jaw clenched. “Man’s been solid.”

Gemma flicked ash into the sink. “So was Reece. Until he wasn’t.”

That hung between them like smoke. Reece — Jack’s right-hand man until last month, when his body turned up in the Thames. No one said it out loud, but they all knew. Trust was a currency that ran out fast in Jack’s world.

Outside, the rain started up again, slicking the pavements, turning the estate into a blur of shadows and reflections. Jack grabbed his coat, checking the weight of the blade tucked into his waistband. Gemma’s throat tightened.

“Don’t go,” she said before she could stop herself.

Jack looked at her then, really looked, and for a flicker of a second, the hard edges dropped. She saw the boy she loved, not the dealer the city feared.

“I have to,” he muttered. “One more move, Gem. Then we’re good. I swear.”

But they both knew better. In this life, there was always one more move.