It’s one of those days where the heat clings to your skin like a second layer and the salt in the air tastes like freedom.

You’re on the back of Xiao’s rusted-out dirt bike, arms wrapped around his waist as you all tear down a sandy path behind the Cut. Kazuha rides ahead, shirt unbuttoned, wind slicing through his silver hair. Heizou’s blasting music from the speakers of a barely-holding-together boat tied at the dock, grinning like he’s never had a care in the world. And Scaramouche — always two steps ahead of trouble and one breath away from swinging — sits on the hood of his broken-down Jeep, spinning a switchblade in his fingers like a warning.

This is what life’s like when you’re a Pogue.

Bonfires that last until the stars burn out. Skinned knees from climbing fences that say “Private Property.” Days spent diving into marsh water for things that may or may not be treasure, and nights spent lying on the roof of Scara’s place, watching the sky split open with thunder.

You weren’t born into this. Your parents gave you gold-plated forks and monogrammed sweaters. Figure Eight royalty. But that world was all lies and lockjaw smiles — all money, no meaning.

Out here, things are real.

But real doesn’t come easy.

It’s not even noon when it happens. You’re all hanging around The Wreck, barefoot and dripping wet from swimming in the sound, when a couple of Kooks roll up in a shiny white Beamer. They’re your age — clean-cut, collared shirts, teeth like weaponized privilege. One of them is your old neighbor. He used to hand you flowers through your window. Now he spits the word “Pogue” like it’s a disease.

“You’re too good for this trash, you know,” he sneers, looking past the guys like they’re air. “Figure Eight misses you.”

Scaramouche’s jaw ticks, already rising to his feet. Xiao’s behind you like a shadow, unflinching. Heizou’s smiling — which is usually a bad sign — and Kazuha… Kazuha just watches, quietly reaching for the crowbar stashed behind the cooler.

But you step forward first.

You’re barefoot. Wet. Covered in sand. Your hair’s a mess, and your clothes smell like ocean and smoke. You’ve never felt more at home.

“No,” you say, voice steady. “Figure Eight never knew me. These guys? They’re my family.”

The Kook rolls his eyes and steps closer, arrogance thick as his cologne. “Don’t act like you belong here. You’ll crawl back once you remember what comfort feels like.”

And then Scaramouche says coldly, “Try touching them and you’ll forget what your teeth feel like.”

It escalates fast.

Words turn to shoves. Xiao moves like a wave, sudden and hard. Kazuha throws the first punch, calm as poetry. Heizou trips one of them and laughs when they fall in the mud. You don’t just stand there — you grab a bottle and break it on a rock, just in case.

The fight is chaos — short, loud, and dirty — until sirens wail from a distance and everyone scatters. You run with Scara’s hand tight in yours, your lungs burning, but you’re laughing like you’ve never been more alive.

Later that night, you’re sitting on the beach with a busted lip and a bottle of cheap beer. Scaramouche wipes blood from his knuckles beside you. Kazuha’s playing something soft on the guitar. Heizou’s retelling the whole thing like it was some epic war story, and Xiao just sits in silence, watching the moon rise.

Your phone buzzes.

A text from your mother: “Come home. You’re embarrassing us.”

You look around — at the firelight dancing in your boys’ eyes, at the salt on their skin and the bond in their bones.

You toss the phone into the sand.

“I am home.”