The mural wall was brighter than ever. But for every splash of color, there was a shadow trying to dim it. For Jamal and the others, the challenge wasn't just about keeping the center standing — it was about *holding the hood together*.
And that wasn't easy when the streets were burning.
News broke on a Monday morning.
*TJ*, a kid from the neighborhood — seventeen, quiet, into photography — had been killed in a police raid. Wrong house. Wrong intel. No apology.
Jamal found out through a text.
_"Did you hear about TJ?"_
And just like that, everything that had been building — hope, momentum, belief — felt like it cracked in his chest.
By 9 a.m., the neighborhood was outside.
Not rioting. Not yet.
But *boiling*.
Tyrik stood outside the youth center, fists clenched, tears running down his face.
"That could've been me," he whispered. "That *was* me. They just didn't pull the trigger."
Keisha didn't speak. She held a candle and lit another for every year TJ lived.
Devon tried to calm things down, but it was hard when even the OGs were furious.
This wasn't a moment.
It was a *wound*.
Jamal met with the city council that evening. They asked for peace. For calm. For "understanding."
He didn't yell.
He didn't cry.
He *explained*.
"You want peace? Then bring *justice*. You want calm? Then stop feeding us chaos. TJ wasn't a statistic. He was a student, an artist, a *son*."
They looked uncomfortable. But Jamal didn't care.
He wasn't there to *comfort power*.
He was there to *anchor pain*.
That weekend, they held a community vigil. But Jamal changed one thing.
They didn't mourn in silence.
They *marched*.
Hundreds showed up. Young and old. Black, brown, white, tired, determined. They walked TJ's block. Past the busted door. Past the caution tape. Past the silence the news left behind.
And when they reached the center, Jamal stepped up on the front step and spoke:
"From these ashes, we rise. From this anger, we build. This ain't just about one kid. It's about *all* of us. And we're done begging to be seen."
Two days later, TJ's mother showed up with his camera bag.
She handed it to Jamal.
"He believed in this place. Maybe someone else can use it now."
Inside the bag was TJ's last roll of film.
They developed it together. Shots of the mural. The kids. The neighborhood smiling.
Proof that even in the middle of struggle, *beauty fought to survive*.
And now, it was Jamal's job to protect it.
No matter what.