Silvestor stood inside his room with the curtain drawn almost shut. Only a narrow slit of streetlight slipped through the fabric, just enough for him to see outside without being seen.
Gilbert was still there.
He watched as Gilbert crouched near the tree, phone held low and angled carefully. He saw him hesitate before taking the first picture. Then another. Then one more, closer this time, focused on the dents in the bark. Gilbert straightened, glanced around the street once, and got back on his bike. The engine started. The bike rolled away.
Silvestor didn't move until the sound was gone.
Only then did he turn back into the room.
The table beside his bed was covered with short slips of paper. Dozens of them. Micro-notes. Neatly stacked, separated into small piles. Formulas. Definitions. Shortcuts. Patterns. Every piece of information compressed into the smallest usable form.
He stood there for a moment, looking at them.
His face still hurt. One cheek was swollen. A cut near his lip had dried into a thin dark line. His knuckles were bruised and scabbed from the fight earlier.
He smiled.
It wasn't wide. It wasn't warm. It was just a small, controlled curve of his mouth.
He slid the glass window open and climbed out onto the roof the same way he always did. The night air hit his face and cooled the heat still trapped under his skin. He walked to the edge and sat down, his legs hanging over the concrete.
Above him, the moon was half-hidden behind thin clouds.
He watched it for a long moment.
Then closed his eyes.
–
Gilbert didn't know where he was going.
He just rode.
The road stretched forward and kept stretching. His speed crept up without him noticing. His grip tightened on the handle. His breathing stayed shallow and uneven.
His mind wouldn't stop replaying the same things.
The policeman's voice.
Silvestor's mother getting into the luxury car.
Silvestor punching the tree.
The look on his face when he did it.
The thoughts fed on each other and kept growing heavier, until it felt like something was pressing down on his chest.
At a four-way junction, the road was almost empty.
A woman stepped off the left footpath, pushing a baby stroller. She wasn't looking at the road. She was looking across it, at her husband standing on the opposite side.
They didn't see Gilbert.
He came out of the turn too fast.
The bike shot straight toward them.
The woman screamed.
The sound snapped Gilbert back into his body. He slammed the brakes. The bike skidded sideways, tires screaming as the whole frame tilted. He fought the balance and barely kept it upright. The bike slid past the stroller and stopped a few feet away.
Gilbert's leg scraped hard against the road. Skin tore. Blood came fast.
The husband ran toward him and kicked him off the bike from behind. Gilbert hit the ground. He didn't block it. He didn't fight back. He didn't even raise his hands.
The man punched him.
Once.
Twice.
Shouted something Gilbert didn't hear.
Gilbert stayed still. His eyes weren't on the man.
They were on the woman.
She had pulled the stroller back and was checking the baby, touching its face, whispering to it. The man raised his fist again.
"Stop!" the woman shouted. She grabbed his arm and shoved the baby into his hands. "Stop it!"
She rushed to Gilbert and knelt beside him.
"Son," she said urgently, gripping his arm. "Are you alright? You're bleeding. We'll take you to a hospital."
The word hit him harder than the punch.
Son.
His ears rang. The street blurred. His mother's face flashed in his mind. The way she used to say it. The way she used to look at him.
Tears spilled out before he could stop them.
He didn't hear anything else she said.
He pushed himself up. Put his helmet back on with shaking hands. Got on the bike.
"Son–wait–" the woman called.
He didn't look back.
He didn't slow down.
He rode.
He shoved one AirPod into his ear under the helmet, fumbled, missed, tried again until it stuck. Then he took out his phone and called Jazz.
His thumb shook over the screen.
"Pick up," Gilbert muttered through clenched teeth.
"Damn you… pick it up, idiot."
Jazz's house was loud.
Music pounded through the walls, bass vibrating through the floor and into the private bar setup near the corner of the room. Colored lights washed over bodies packed too close together. Girls danced barefoot or in heels, laughing too loudly, spilling drinks, brushing into one another without caring.
Jazz's phone lay on the bar table, half-buried under a scarf.
It rang.
The vibration went unnoticed at first, swallowed by the music.
It rang again.
A girl dancing nearby glanced down at it. She hesitated for half a second, then ignored it and kept moving to the rhythm.
It rang a third time.
Longer this time.
Annoying.
She reached over, picked it up, and answered.
"Hello?" she said in a sweet tone. "Who is it?"
Gilbert heard her voice and immediately knew.
"Daisy," he said flatly. "Give the phone to Jazz."
She blinked at the screen, confused for a moment, then smiled faintly and started walking through the crowd, weaving between bodies. Daisy was a foreigner. She couldn't read much of the local language and didn't recognize most names. She had been staying in the house next to Jazz's for two months now and treated his place like an extension of her own.
She found Jazz near the back room and handed him the phone.
Jazz stepped outside into the corridor and shut the door behind him. The music dropped instantly to a dull thump.
"Hello, Gilbert," he said. "What is it?"
"Come out," Gilbert said. "I want to see you right now. I'll be there in thirty minutes. No–fifteen."
Jazz frowned slightly.
"What happened, man? Chill, bro. Drive safe," he said. "I'll wait for you."
The call ended.
Jazz stared at the phone for a second longer.
"This one," he muttered to himself. "Always serious."
He went back into the party.
Daisy noticed the door open and close and walked over to him. She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head, silently asking what had happened.
Jazz closed one eye at her.
She laughed softly.
He glanced at the time on his phone, then slipped it into his pocket and took her hands. They danced together for a minute, his body loose, his movements lazy, his mind clearly somewhere else.
Then he pulled the phone out again and handed it to her.
"Hold this," he said. "If anyone calls."
She nodded.
Jazz closed one eye again at her, turned away, and walked toward the kitchen. He opened the fridge, took out two glass bottles of beer, and twisted the caps off.
Then he walked out of the house and sat down on the steps outside.
He waited.
Gilbert reached Jazz's house in ten minutes.
He didn't park properly.
He skidded the bike to a stop near the gate, jumped off, and flung the keys at Jazz without looking. Jazz caught them easily with one hand.
Gilbert rushed straight toward him.
Jazz tossed one of the beer bottles toward him in a lazy arc.
Gilbert didn't even look at it. The bottle hit the low wall beside them and stood upright.
Gilbert grabbed Jazz by the collar and yanked him forward.
"What the fuck are you planning?" he snapped. "I don't know what's in your head, but you must not feed that dog."
He shoved Jazz back a step.
Jazz didn't resist.
He smiled.
He stepped past Gilbert instead, calm, unbothered, and picked up the beer bottle Gilbert had ignored.
Behind them, the party noise thudded faintly through the walls.
Daisy came out to the balcony and leaned against the railing, watching them quietly.
Jazz lifted the bottle and held it out.
"Drink," he said.
Gilbert hesitated.
Then grabbed it and took a long gulp.
The alcohol burned down his throat.
It slowed his breathing.
His hands stopped shaking as badly.
"Jazz, I'm serious," he said. "Do not feed that scoundrel. That coward can't even be called a stray dog."
He turned away and leaned forward against the low wall, elbows planted on the concrete, staring out into the street.
Jazz moved beside him and mirrored the posture.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Gilbert straightened suddenly.
He grabbed Jazz's shoulder and spun him around to face him.
"Look at me," he said. "We've done a lot together. Just us. But adding him? I won't agree."
His grip tightened.
"If you insist on this, I'm leaving. And this is my warning–if you make him your dog, he will bite you. I'm one hundred percent sure."
Jazz didn't pull away.
He smiled again, softer this time.
He placed his free hand on Gilbert's shoulder.
"I understand you," he said quietly.
Then he turned back toward the wall and leaned on it with one hand.
"How long have we been together?" Jazz asked.
"Eight years," Gilbert replied.
"In these eight years," Jazz continued, "do you remember how I became the decision-maker of our gang?"
Gilbert exhaled sharply.
"I know," he said. "But–"
He stopped.
Took a breath.
Then forced the words out.
"Jazz… this time you're wrong."
Jazz nodded once.
"I know," he said. "And that's exactly why I told you to go and watch him."
Gilbert frowned.
"What do you mean?"
Jazz glanced at Gilbert's leg.
"First," he said, "get a small first-aid on that wound. Come inside."
He turned and walked back toward the house.
Gilbert stood there for a second longer, jaw tight, bottle still in his hand.
Then he followed.