Jack Lewis moved through the estate like he owned it — because, in a way, he did. At just twenty, he’d carved out a business that stretched from Peckham to Brixton, a network of young runners shifting whatever sold fastest that week: pills, weed, coke. His name wasn’t just whispered in stairwells anymore; it was spoken with a mix of fear and respect in corners of South London most people pretended didn’t exist. The blocks had raised him rough and lean, and now they paid him back, brick by brick.

The air smelled like rain and petrol as he stepped out into the open, his blacked-out Golf GTI idling by the curb like a threat. Gemma Morgan stood beside it, arms folded, watching him with that level, thoughtful gaze that always cut through the noise. Nineteen, but already too sharp to be caught up in the petty dramas of estate life. She didn’t wear loud clothes or heavy gold like the girls who circled his runners; Gemma carried herself quieter, cleaner, but somehow even harder for it.

Her phone buzzed in her hand, and she glanced down before speaking. “Dean’s running late. Says police are heavy near Elephant. He’s waiting it out.” Her voice was calm, measured. No panic, just information.

Jack’s jaw flexed. Dean was one of his best, but lately, everyone was jumpy. The cops weren’t just scraping up street kids anymore — they were watching the whole tree now, looking to cut it at the roots. And Jack? He was the root. He adjusted the thick chain around his neck, feeling the weight of it like armor.

“That’s the third this week crying about feds,” he muttered. “Either they’re moving different out here, or someone’s letting slip.”

Gemma’s eyes flicked up, steady and dark. “If someone’s talking, we’ll find them.” Not a threat. A simple fact. That was how she operated — precise, no wasted words. Jack liked that about her. She wasn’t loud like the others, but she saw everything. Moved through his world like a shadow that knew exactly where the cracks were.

Above them, the sky was heavy with clouds, and the tower blocks loomed like giants with broken teeth. Jack’s phone vibrated again — a new number, no name. That meant business. Or trouble. Usually both.

He thumbed the screen, his voice low and even. “Who’s this?”

The voice on the other end was unfamiliar but direct. “I got a move for you. Big one. You in or not?”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. Gemma saw the shift in his posture, subtle but clear. She straightened slightly, already reading the angles. Something was coming. Bigger than the usual street-level hustle. Riskier, too.

Jack glanced at her, the corners of his mouth pulling into a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. I’m in. Send the details.”

Gemma exhaled slowly, watching the cigarette burn down between her fingers before dropping it and crushing it under her heel. “Jack…” she said quietly. “This doesn’t feel like business as usual.”

Jack shrugged, the chain around his neck catching a sliver of the dim light. “Nothing about what we do is usual, G.” His grin sharpened. “You know that.”

Gemma said nothing, but her mind was already working — checking the names they could trust, the routes they could run clean, the exits if things turned. She wasn’t here to stop him. She never had been. But she wasn’t going to let him walk blind into something he couldn’t walk back from, either.

Above them, thunder rolled over South London, low and distant. On the estate, life moved like it always did — kids kicking a ball against a wall, old men nodding off on benches — but in Jack’s world, the ground was already shifting.

And both of them could feel it.