Mark's eyes cracked open to gray light and the smell of antiseptic.
His room.
He stared at the peeling paint on the ceiling, at the crack in the corner that had been there since they moved in, at the poster of a Harare skyline that was still half-rolled from the move. It took three seconds to confirm it wasn't the mall's service passage, wasn't concrete and ozone and the taste of blood.
His room. East Brook. Home.
_How'd I get here?_
He tried to push himself up on his elbows. The movement sent a white-hot line of pain through his ribs, his shoulder, the knuckles he'd shredded punching that guy's forearms. His breath hitched. He fell back with a wet thud, staring at the ceiling like it had betrayed him.
Now that he could actually look, he saw it. His torso was a map of white gauze and medical tape. Patches, clean and tight, covering the places Mary had been yelling about earlier. Someone had changed him out of the torn Adidas pants and into a loose T-shirt.
_Oh shit. Did Mom find out?_
The thought hit him cold. Mom had enough on her plate with 36-hour shifts at Brookhaven General. If she saw this—if she saw him like this—she'd quit, or worse, pull them out of Silver High and throw them back into a worse situation.
His heart was starting to climb into his throat when the door clicked open.
He braced. Excuses were already forming in his head. _I fell down the stairs. I got mugged walking home. It's not that bad._
Then he saw who it was.
Mary.
The tension drained out of him in one shuddering breath. He didn't realize how hard he'd been holding it until it left him.
"Oh… it's just you, Mary."
It came out quieter than he meant. More to himself than to her.
She was carrying a tray. Eggs, toast, water. The same thing Mom made when he was sick with fever back in Harare. She didn't look at him as she stomped over and slammed the tray down on the nightstand hard enough to make the glass rattle.
Then she glared down at him.
"You know I'm having a hard time figuring out whether you're brave or stupid," she said. Her voice was low, sharp, anger mixed with something that sounded like fear she didn't want to name. "'Cause I'm pretty sure it's the latter."
"What are you talking about?" Mark asked. His voice was hoarse. He tried to keep it calm, even while his ribs screamed at him to shut up.
"What I'm talking about is you doing something stupid." She crossed her arms, but her hands were shaking. "I've always known you're annoying, Mark. But never stupid. What were you thinking?"
"I was trying to protect you," he said simply.
It was the truth. It was the only reason he'd stepped in front of those Blue High guys in the alley.
Mary's glare didn't waver. "You should've taken a look at your condition before you did that!"
He opened his mouth, but she cut him off.
"Do you know that he pulled out a gun when you fainted?" Her voice cracked on the last word. "You could've gotten killed, Mark! Right there, in that alley, over me and some girl you barely know!"
"I understand…"
"No, you don't." Her eyes were wet now, and she wasn't trying to hide it. "We lost Dad when we were kids, Mark. We were too young to remember how Mom was before. How quiet the house got. How she'd sit at the kitchen table for hours and not say anything."
Mark swallowed. He remembered fragments. Mom's eyes red from crying. The funeral where he didn't cry because he didn't understand yet.
"Do you know how devastated she'd be if you died?" Mary whispered. "If I had to call her at the hospital and tell her son didn't make it home?"
She wiped her cheek hard with the back of her hand. The kickboxer's composure was gone. This was just his sister.
"So next time you try to do something like that," she said, stepping back toward the door, "think about the people around you. Think about Mom. Think about me."
She left before the tears could fall in front of him. The door clicked shut softer than she'd slammed it open.
The room went quiet.
Mark lay there, staring at the ceiling again. His chest felt tight, but not from the ribs this time. He raised a hand, pressed his palm over his eyes, and let it happen.
Tears came slow at first, then faster. Hot and stupid and helpless.
Any kid in Brookhaven would know the feeling. The shame of being too weak to protect the people you cared about. The helplessness of watching someone else put themselves between you and the gun because you couldn't move fast enough.
He thought of Mom, asleep at 7 a.m. after a double shift, with shadows under her eyes that never left.
He thought of Mary, throwing that clean kick at the dreaded guy, getting caught and slammed into the wall.
He thought of the old man in the white sweater, walking in like he owned the air, and making five armed kids leave with just his voice.
And he hated it.
Hated that he was the one lying in bed while everyone else took the hits for him.
Outside, a car passed on 21st Street. Normal. Distant. Safe.
Mark closed his eyes and let the tears fall. He'd think about training later. About Austin's plan, about 5 push-ups becoming 6.
For now, he just sat with the pain. The physical one, and the other kind.
---
Mark forced himself upright.
It took effort. His ribs protested with a dull, bruised ache, and his shoulder felt like someone had shoved a hot needle into it. The bandages pulled tight across his torso with every movement, but he gritted his teeth and kept going. Lying flat felt like giving up, and he'd had enough of that last night.
His hand went to his pockets on instinct.
Habit from Downtown. Check for the taser first. Check for anything that didn't belong.
The taser was gone. Mom probably took it after Mary brought him home. But his fingers brushed against paper instead. Two pieces. Folded. Tucked deep where they shouldn't have been.
Mark frowned.
He pulled them out and spread them on his lap.
The first was familiar. Austin's handwriting. Neat, precise, the kind of writing that looked like it had been measured with a ruler. _Training Plan – Week 1_. That was the one he'd expected.
The second was different.
The paper was heavier. No creases from being shoved in a pocket too many times. The handwriting was clean. Too clean. Loop letters, even spacing, the kind of script you saw on formal letters or shop signs. Not the sloppy scrawl of a guy who just fought five people in an alley.
Mark's stomach tightened.
He read it.
> _Hello little stray,_
> _I saw your fight at the mall today and it was quite gruesome but beautiful in a way. I'll have my eye on you, little stray. If I enjoy your tricks, I may take you in._
>
> _From: QB_
He read it twice.
_Little stray._ That was new. And specific. Someone who'd been close enough to see him bite that guy's leg, close enough to see the taser arc, close enough to slip this into his pocket while he was out cold.
His mind went back to the service passage. The gray hoodie. The figure standing at the mouth of the alley, watching him as the gray took him.
"I guess the hooded figure was real after all."
The words came out quiet, more a confirmation than a question. He scratched the back of his head, wincing when the motion tugged at his shoulder.
So it wasn't a hallucination. Not adrenaline. Not a dream.
_QB._
Mark didn't know the name. Didn't recognize it from 1A, 1C, or Blue High. But the tone of the letter was familiar in a bad way. The same casual ownership Bruce had used in the sneaker store. _I'll have my eye on you._ Like Mark was a project, or a toy.
He folded the letter slowly. The paper felt too smooth against his fingers.
He thought about showing it to the guys. Adrian would laugh it off and say something about "fans." Hakim would tell him to burn it. Austin would overanalyze the handwriting for twenty minutes.
Instead, he opened the drawer of his nightstand and slid it in with his old math notes from Zimbabwe. Out of sight. Not forgotten.
He exhaled, and the ache in his chest reminded him to keep it shallow.
Then he picked up Austin's training plan.
The first line was simple:
_Day 1: Visit Austin. Nothing more._
Mark stared at it.
"Wait… that's it?"
No push-ups. No running. No shadowboxing. Just show up.
He read it again, slower this time. Austin didn't do anything without a reason. If the plan said "visit," then the visit _was_ the training. Probably observation. Probably getting assessed while Mark thought he was just showing up.
Mark leaned back against the pillows, careful not to jar his ribs. He pulled out his phone. The group chat was active from earlier. Messages he'd missed while the dreaded guy was trying to kill him.
Hakim: _East Brook, 1022 21st St. Don't be late._
Austin: _Library after 4pm if you need to find me._
Connor: _Marky boy better not flake lol_
Adrian: _🍭_
Addresses. Times. A map of where they lived, all laid out while Mark was getting his ass kicked in an alley. Trust. The kind you didn't earn in a week back in Harare.
He set the phone down.
Tomorrow was Austin. That meant he needed to rest. Actually rest. Not the half-asleep, one-eye-open rest he'd been doing since Brookhaven.
He closed his eyes.
His mind started running through possibilities anyway. Would Austin make him fight? Would they just talk? Would he meet Austin's mom? Would he see the book collection Connor complained about?
He didn't have answers.
But for the first time since the mall, the future felt like something he could prep for.
Even if it was just one visit.
Mark let sleep take him.
---