The suburbs, with their manicured lawns and hushed streets, were a world away from the gritty rhythm of Kenji's old neighborhood. The Anderson home hummed with an almost unsettling calm, a stark contrast to the constant, low-level thrum of the orphanage. It was a good calm, a secure calm, but one that sometimes made Kenji feel an unfamiliar stretch in his spirit, like a muscle unaccustomed to relaxed stillness.
It had been weeks since Kenji moved in, weeks of adjusting to the rhythms of family life. James was a patient, attentive mentor, not just in basketball, but in life. Sarah, the maid, was ever-present, her quiet kindness a balm. Jason, however, remained an enigma. He spent most of his time in his room, submerged in books or tinkering with strange contraptions. Yet, Kenji felt his eyes on him, a silent, almost scientific observation. Jason's questions were infrequent but piercing, often about Kenji's past at the orphanage, about the "streets" Kenji knew.
Kenji felt the pull of the old neighborhood. It wasn't a desire to return to the hardship, but an unshakeable loyalty to his friends—Marcus, Jerome, and Tariq. They were still there, still navigating the harsh currents of the orphanage. Kenji remembered their faces, their resigned stares, and a deep-seated need to see them, to ensure they were okay, grew within him. He had extracted a promise from James that he would be allowed to visit.
"It's important to remember where you came from, son," James had said, a thoughtful expression on his face. "But also to remember where you're going. The streets… they have a way of holding onto you."
The first Saturday, Kenji took the long bus ride into the city, the urban landscape growing harsher, the buildings taller and more forbidding with each block. The air thickened with the scent of exhaust fumes, stale garbage, and something else—a palpable tension, a vigilance that was a part of the city's breath. This was his old reality, sharper, louder, more alive than the quiet suburbia.
He found Marcus, Jerome, and Tariq in their usual spot, hunched over a battered chessboard near the cracked wall of the orphanage—the very spot where Kenji had practiced his shot. Their eyes widened when they saw him, a flash of genuine surprise and then a slow, hesitant grin spreading across their faces.
"K-Kenji?" Marcus stammered, dropping a pawn.
"Look at you," Jerome said, a rare smile touching his lips. "Clean clothes. You look… big."
Tariq just nodded, a silent acknowledgment that spoke volumes.
Hours passed in a blur of shared stories. Kenji told them about the Anderson home, about James's tireless training, about the softness of a real bed and the taste of home-cooked meals. He held back on the true overwhelmingness of it, the lingering strangeness, the complexities of Jason. He wanted them to see hope, not his own continued adaptation.
They, in turn, recounted the familiar miseries of the orphanage. Liam and Reggie were still "gone." Another smaller boy, caught stealing a leftover sandwich, had been locked in a supply closet for hours. The drug drops continued, slick and silent.
"Mr. Davies even tries to get some of the older boys to help," Marcus whispered, glancing around. "Says it's a way to earn a little extra… independence."
Kenji's stomach clenched. "Don't let him."
He took out his basketball, the new, perfectly inflated one James had given him. He bounced it, the solid thud echoing off the grimy walls, a sharp contrast to the worn out whisper of his old ball. He showed them a new dribble sequence James had taught him, a rapid-fire crossover that left Marcus gawking. For a few stolen moments, they were just kids, caught in the rhythm of the game, a temporary reprieve from the constant pressure of their environment.
As the sun began to dip, casting long shadows, Kenji stood at the bus stop, waiting. He gave his friends some of the money James occasionally gave him, carefully explaining it was for food, for anything they needed. He promised to visit again soon. Their gratitude, silent and profound, weighed on him.
Back at the bus station, a figure stepped out from behind a pillar.
Jason.
Kenji blinked, stunned. "Jason? What are you doing here?!"
Jason, dressed in his perfectly clean, suburban clothes, surveyed the bustling, grimy bus station with an intensely curious look. His eyes darted to the dark corners, the hurried movements of strangers, the veiled exchanges he'd been told about.
"I followed you," Jason said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, as if stating a scientific fact. "You left your phone. Dad was busy. I wanted to see the 'streets.'" He glanced at a faded, graffitied wall. "This isn't what I expected. The house is… quiet. This place is… loud. Full of noise."
Kenji felt a prickle of alarm. Jason was always precise. His curiosity was not idle.
"Jason, the streets are not for a joyride," Kenji said, his voice hard, firm. "They're not a game. And they're certainly not a playground." He pulled Jason behind a bus shelter, away from the flow of people. "You don't come out here without me. You hear me? Ever. Streets ain't for everybody. Not for you. Get your grades up. Stay focused. Stay sharp. That's how you beat this place, not by walking into it like a lamb to slaughter." Kenji's mind flashed to Morris's words about the orphanage, about how they tried to keep you down, to keep you in your place.
Jason simply returned Kenji's gaze, unblinking. There was no defiance, no argument. Just that unnerving analytical curiosity. He wasn't convinced, Kenji realized. He was observing. Absorbing. And somewhere in his young mind, he was already dissecting Kenji's warning, breaking it down into components, figuring out how to bypass it.
On the bus ride home, Kenji sat beside Jason, a tense silence between them. He explained to Jason, again, the dangers, the hidden threats, the people who exploited. He spoke of the importance of staying clear of negative influences, of focusing on his education, of the opportunities James Anderson was providing. Jason listened, head tilted, eyes scanning the passing urban landscape. He nodded occasionally, offered small, noncommittal hums.
Later that evening, back in the quiet, spacious Anderson home, Kenji spoke to James. He recounted Jason's unexpected appearance at the bus station, careful to downplay the severity, but emphasizing the inherent danger.
James listened, his expression grave. "Jason has always been… curious. A seeker. But these streets are too much, even for a seeker like him. I trust your judgment on this, Kenji. You understand the temptations and pitfalls of that world. You're his older brother now. Keep him focused. Keep him safe. I confess, I've been so consumed with training you, with my own work, that perhaps I've let him wander too freely in his mind."
There was a subtle tension in the house now. Sarah, though ever kind, sometimes cast worried glances Kenji's way, particularly when Jason would disappear into his room for hours, only to emerge with that same detached, knowing look in his eyes. She didn't voice her concerns, but Kenji felt them, adding another layer to his responsibility.
Kenji knew Jason wasn't going to stop. His brother's fascination with the "streets"—not for their thrills, but as a living laboratory of human behavior, of constructs and controls—was too deeply ingrained. Kenji had glimpsed the world through Jason's eyes for a terrifying moment, and it was a world where human nature was a thing to be dissected, tested, and manipulated.
That night, Kenji lay in his soft bed, staring at the moonlit trees outside his window. He had made a promise to his dead mother, a promise to himself. He would not just get out, he would get through. And now, with Jason, that promise extended. He would not just break the constructs around himself, he would make sure his little brother didn't become one of their engineers. A new battle had just begun.