They moved slow once the houses turned rough and the streetlights got fewer. The air felt thicker here — not a storm, just the kind of quiet that sits before trouble. Buildings hunched close, windows barred, and graffiti crawled up the walls like old scars. They kept walking until the main block of the West High Crew's area sat ahead of them, lights dull, shadows deeper.
When they were about two hundred meters out, Maya held up one hand without a word. The others stopped like they'd been hit with an invisible brake.
"Guys, wait," she said, voice low and steady. She looked at each of them in turn. "From here on, we split. We go to our own spots. Be careful and stick to the plan."
Her words landed with a soft weight. There was no yelling. No last-minute speeches. Only the kind of silence that says everyone understands what must be done.
