Part IX - Shadows and Strength
The morning air was warm and dry, carrying the familiar hum of Los Angeles streets. Isaiah sat on the edge of his bed, sketchbook resting against his knees. Last night's exhaustion still clung to him, but so did the spark—the quiet pulse of creation he had protected, page by page.
He ran a finger along the edges of the stack, remembering every fold, every coin, every small victory. Outside, the neighborhood stirred: cars rattled past, voices called from doorways, and the faint smell of breakfast drifted from a corner stand. The world hadn't changed, but he had.
Pulling on his shoes, he hugged the sketchbook tight and stepped into the sunlight. The block looked ordinary, but his eyes went instinctively to the garage door—a place where paper, ink, and effort met reality. Inside, the copier hummed, the scent of ink and dust familiar and grounding.
But when he pushed the door open, the first thing that caught his eye was a stack of comics that weren't his. Thin, crooked, smudged—they leaned like shadows against the far wall. His chest tightened.
Just feet away, his own comics sat neatly stacked, each fold crisp, each page cared for. The contrast made his stomach knot.
Marcus noticed immediately. "Don't let those mess with you," he said, crouching and flipping one of the fakes slowly, jaw tightening. "Anybody can make copies. But copies don't breathe. What you're doing—that's the real thing."
Isaiah's fingers brushed the edge of one of his own pages. "They can't just take it," he whispered.
"Don't let those mess with you," he said, steady as always, a hand on Isaiah's shoulder. "Anybody can make copies. But copies don't breathe. What you're doing—that's the real thing."
Isaiah's fingers brushed the edge of one of his own pages. His chest tightened.
"They can't just take it," he whispered.
"We'll make sure people know the difference," Marcus said firmly. "That's how you fight back—not with fear, but with work."
The garage had its own pulse that day. The walls were half-covered in sketches and scraps, ideas pinned in tape and chalked in pencil. The copier clattered like a heartbeat, the smell of warm ink filling the small space.
Rico bent over a pile of pages, carefully aligning staples while the twins—Malik and Jahlil—bickered over whose folds were straighter.
"Mine's clean," Malik said, holding his copy up proudly.
Jahlil smirked, snatching it from him. "Man, this corner is crooked. Don't play."
Isaiah couldn't help smiling. The twins had a way of turning work into a game, their energy bouncing between teasing and encouragement. Rico rolled his eyes but kept close, showing them how to line up edges with quiet patience.
Isaiah sat down with them, and for the first time, he gave instructions without Marcus pushing him.
"Jahlil, hold it tighter when you crease. Malik, check the corner before you staple."
His voice was still soft, but it carried enough weight for the twins to listen.
Marcus watched from the side, arms crossed, a quiet pride in his expression.
"That's how you lead, Isaiah. Not by barking orders—by showing them the rhythm."
The room moved together after that. Paper folded in unison. Staples clicked in rhythm. Even the twins' jokes began to match the beat of the garage.
But the air shifted when Eddie appeared at the doorway.
He leaned against the frame, eyes scanning the room, and smiled in that way Isaiah had learned to fear—a smile that felt like a knife hidden in its curve. He walked in slowly, the sound of his shoes against the concrete heavier than the copier's hum.
"Look at this," Eddie drawled, picking up one of Isaiah's pages. "A whole little business, huh? You're really something, boy. Got kids following' you, makin' you feel important." His eyes slid down to Isaiah. "That's how it starts. But let me ask you—what happens when your mom can't pay rent next month? You think Marcus here is going to pull out his wallet? You think these kids will feed you when you're hungry?"
The words stabbed at the soft places Isaiah kept hidden. His mother's tired eyes after her shift. The rattling box fan in the apartment. Nights when dinner was just cereal. His lips trembled, but he said nothing.
Eddie crouched low, his voice dropping so it was only for Isaiah.
"Dreams don't fill stomachs, Isaiah. Talent's nice, but survival? That's what matters. Don't forget it."
Marcus stepped forward, breaking the tension.
"That's enough." His voice was calm, but steel-edged. He pulled the paper from Eddie's hand and set it back on the pile. "This isn't about survival—it's about building something. You don't get to tear that down."
Rico moved closer to Isaiah, whispering quickly, like a shield:
"Ignore him, Zay. He's just trying to get in your head."
Malik and Jahlil fell silent, their earlier laughter gone. Even they understood the shift.
Isaiah wanted to disappear, but something else stirred—a spark under the weight of Eddie's words. He picked up a blank page, pen trembling in his hand. Slowly, he began to draw. Lines formed into a figure: a small hero standing against something massive, a shadow looming over him. His chest tightened, but his hand kept moving.
When he finished, the twins leaned in.
"Yo…" Malik breathed. "That's us, huh?"
"It's him," Jahlil said, eyes wide. "That's you, Zay."
Eddie looked at the page, and for a moment, his smile faltered. He straightened, tossing one of the counterfeit booklets onto the floor.
"Cute," he muttered. "But cute doesn't keep the lights on."
Then he turned and left, his shadow lingering long after he was gone.
The garage exhaled together. The rhythm returned, shakier than before, but alive. Isaiah pressed the drawing to his chest, the paper warm in his hands. He whispered, almost to himself,
"We can do this."
By the time evening stretched across the neighborhood, the crew had found their rhythm again. Eighty comics stacked neatly, eighty dollars tucked in a small cash box. Proof.
When Isaiah finally walked back to the house, the streets hummed with their usual dangers—cars idling slowly at corners, voices rising from porches, the city's pulse thick with heat and risk. He pushed inside, Maria waiting on the couch, sketchbook still clutched tight in his arms.
"You're late," she teased softly, shifting to make room.
Isaiah sat beside her, his body sagging with exhaustion. "Long day," he murmured.
Her eyes flicked to the sketchbook. "You're always holding that thing. Like it's your whole world."
Isaiah hesitated, then admitted, "Feels like the only thing that's really mine. But… sometimes it feels like everybody wants it, too. Like if I mess up, and Mama won't make it."
Maria's face softened. She reached out, brushing her fingers over the cover.
"You're more than what you draw, Zay. Don't let anybody—anybody—make you think you're just pages and ink."
Isaiah leaned into her, voice small. "What if he's right? What if dreams don't mean nothin' if you can't eat?"
Her voice sharpened. "Don't you listen to Eddie. He doesn't care about you. He doesn't see you the way I do. You're stronger than he wants you to believe."
Silence filled the apartment, broken only by the hum of the box fan. Maria's hand rested steady on his arm, anchoring him.
"You're safe here," she whispered.
Isaiah's eyes closed slowly, sleep pulling him under. The last thing he felt was Maria's warmth beside him—real, grounding, unshaken. But somewhere in the shadows of his dreams, Eddie's voice lingered, slick and sharp: Dreams don't fill stomachs, Isaiah. Survival does.