The city was quiet, almost too quiet. The type of silence that usually came before a storm—or after a betrayal. Jalen sat at his desk, staring at the notebook that had started it all. The ink was smeared, not from carelessness, but from tears and fingerprints… and somewhere deep in the folds of the pages, pain had soaked through like blood.
The manuscript was done, but it had taken a toll on everyone involved.
Maya hadn't spoken to him in days. Not since the night he chose the truth over their peace. Not since he revealed her brother's role in what went down at Crestline. Jalen didn't write fiction. He never had. His words were brutal, raw, and real. And that night, his truth became the blade that cut ties.
But he had no regrets.
He'd exposed a system. Unearthed a past. Freed himself from the weight of silence.
The city was responding.
Newspapers had picked up the story. Protests were growing—not in rage, but in purpose. And for the first time, Jalen realized that his voice had never just been his own. It belonged to the streets that raised him, the mother who prayed for him, the brother he lost, and the kids who still walked the block with dreams in their eyes and danger at their heels.
As he opened his phone, a text from Maya blinked on screen.
> "Meet me at Mom's. We need to talk."
His pulse quickened, but he stood tall.
Because even if there was blood in the ink, it had carved a path toward healing.