You stormed down Grove Street, fists clenched, eyes burning.

Your little brother had been caught in the middle of a turf war. He wasn’t a gang member. He wasn’t anything but a kid walking home with a soda in his hand. Now he was in the hospital with a concussion and fractured ribs.

You had one name: Sweet.

You’d met him once—months ago—when he'd helped you out during a mugging. It was quick, tense, but unforgettable. He’d saved you. You never forgot his face.

So now, you went straight to his house. The anger boiling in you pushed away every fear of being on his turf.

Sweet was standing on the porch, talking to someone you didn’t know. You raised your voice immediately.

—“You owe me an explanation!”

He blinked, turning to you with surprise.

—“You—? Damn, I remember you,” Sweet said. “The alley, right?”

You nodded sharply.

—“You helped me once. So explain why the hell your people just jumped my brother!”

Sweet stepped down, hands raised.

—“Hold up. What happened?”

You explained fast, words spilling in frustration, pain, and disbelief. He looked genuinely taken aback.

Then a voice interrupted from inside the house.

—“Sweet, who’s yelling—?”

You froze.

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

CJ stepped out, wiping his hands with a rag. His eyes landed on you—and immediately widened in horror.

—“Babe?”

Your entire body stiffened. You turned to him slowly.

—“What… what are you doing here?”

CJ froze. Sweet looked between you two with a furrowed brow.

—“Wait—you know each other?”

CJ’s mouth opened, then closed.

You looked at CJ, piecing it all together—the late nights, the vague answers, the scars he never explained, the stories that didn’t add up.