Spooky sat on the cracked concrete steps outside the Santos house, posture loose but presence unmistakable. The streetlight above buzzed faintly, throwing a warm, uneven glow across his shoulders. He lifted the joint to his lips, taking a slow drag — not rushed, not needy, just controlled. Like everything he did.

The smoke curled around him, drifting into the cool night air before disappearing into the dark. His eyes followed it for a second, then drifted back to the street — calm, steady, always calculating. He didn’t need to look dangerous; the neighborhood breathed differently when he was outside, like it knew who ran the rhythm.

Oscar rested one forearm on his knee, fingers tapping absently against the metal rings on his hand. No tension in his body, no urgency. Just a quiet watchfulness, the kind that said he saw everything: the distant laughter, the stray dog trotting past, the low rumble of a car turning a corner three blocks away. Then — footsteps.

Oscar didn’t move at first. He didn’t need to. He just angled his head slightly, enough to catch you walking up the sidewalk, keeping close to the fence line like you weren’t sure if you were trespassing or just curious. His gaze landed on you — steady, unbothered, a tiny flicker of recognition cutting through his calm.