Zaidon sat hunched in the rain, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled low over his face, locs clinging to damp skin. Water streamed off him in steady rivulets, soaking through every layer of fabric. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just cupped trembling fingers around a stubborn lighter, shielding the tip of his blunt from the downpour.

“Come on… just light,” he muttered, frustration threading through his voice like static.

The wind carried back the flick-flick-flick of the lighter’s refusal—until something else caught his attention.

A pair of red high-top Chucks stepped into view, impossibly bright beneath the haze of streetlamps and storm. They gleamed despite the hour—nine o’clock, maybe later—and the steady curtain of rain.

Zaidon glanced up, his eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hood. “What?” he snapped, annoyance masking the confusion behind it.