Chapter 1 – Scars and Silence
The first time Kairo saw her, he was leaning against a graffiti-stained wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips and the ghost of his parents haunting his eyes.
It had been fifteen years, but some memories never faded. The flashing police lights. The somber voices of adults who didn't know what to do with a six-year-old boy covered in his mother's blood. The system that shuffled him from home to home until the streets finally claimed him.
Now, at twenty-one, Kairo's body was a canvas of ink and scars—tattoos that told stories of loss, loyalty, and survival. A crowned skull on his forearm for his father. A wilting rose over his heart for his mother. Gang markings across his knuckles that whispered Vipers to those who knew how to look.
He was known in the Eastwood community—not for kindness, but for trouble. Fights. Theft. A reputation wrapped in leather and defiance.
But today, his attention wasn't on the usual chaos. It was on the silver sedan that had just pulled onto his street, glossy and out of place like a swan in a swamp.
The driver's door opened, and she stepped out.
Kairo's breath hitched.
She was sunlight in a shadowed world. Dressed in a simple white dress that swayed around her knees, hair the colour of dark honey falling in soft waves. Her eyes—even from across the street—looked like they'd never seen cruelty.
Alina.
He'd heard the rumours. The mayor's niece. Sent to live with her aunt in Eastwood after some scandal back in her privileged life. Rich girl slumming it, the Vipers sneered. Fresh meat, others whispered.
Kairo just watched.
For days, he watched. He saw how she smiled at old Mrs. Gable next door. How she helped carry groceries for the widow down the street. How she moved through Eastwood not with fear or disgust, but with a gentle curiosity that made something ache in his chest.
He tried to approach her once outside the corner store. She'd glanced at his tattoos, his hardened eyes, and walked right past, head held high. The second time, near the park, she'd crossed the street before he could even speak.
He didn't blame her. He was a warning sign. A red flag in human form.
But then came the rain.
It was a Thursday afternoon when the skies opened up—a cold, relentless downpour that turned the streets into rivers. Kairo was taking shelter under the awning of a closed laundromat when he saw her car sputter to a stop halfway down the block.
Steam hissed from under the hood.
Alina got out, clutching a thin jacket over her head, her dress already soaked. She stared at the engine as if it were a wild animal she didn't know how to tame.
Kairo didn't think. He just moved.
He was beside her before he realized it, rain soaking through his leather jacket. Up close, she was even more beautiful—and younger than he'd thought. Maybe nineteen. Eyes wide, not with fear this time, but with frustration.
"Need help?" His voice came out rougher than he intended.
She jumped, turning to face him. Her gaze flickered over his face, the tattoos on his neck, the gang ink on his hands. He saw the recognition—and the caution.
"It just… stopped," she said, her voice softer than he'd imagined. "I think it's overheating."
"Pop the hood."
She hesitated, then reached inside and pulled the lever. Kairo lifted the hood, steam billowing out. He leaned in, ignoring the rain dripping down his back. Loose belt. Cracked hose. An easy fix for someone who'd learned mechanics out of necessity.
"I can patch it temporarily," he said, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Enough to get you home. But you'll need a new hose."
She blinked rain from her lashes. "You know cars?"
"I know survival." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Their eyes met. For a moment, the rain faded, the street faded, and it was just them—two strangers from different worlds, standing in a storm.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "I'm Alina."
"Kairo."
He worked quickly, using a strip of rubber from his pocket and a clamp he always carried. His hands, usually clenched into fists, were careful, precise. When he finished, he closed the hood.
"Try it now."
She got in, turned the key. The engine coughed, then rumbled to life. The smile that spread across her face was like the sun breaking through clouds.
She rolled down the window. "You saved me."
He shrugged. "Just a patch."
"Still." She bit her lip. "Can I… give you a lift? As thanks?"
Kairo glanced down the street. He could see Rico and Mateo from the Vipers watching from under a storefront, smirking. Taking a ride from the mayor's niece wouldn't do his reputation any favours.
But her eyes were sincere. And he was tired—so tired—of always choosing the street over the chance at something softer.
"Just to the end of the block," he said.
He got in the passenger side. The car smelled like vanilla and clean rain. He felt huge and out of place, his damp clothes against the pristine seats.
Alina drove slowly, her hands tight on the wheel. "You live around here?"
"All my life."
"I just moved here. With my aunt."
"I know."
She glanced at him. "You do?"
"Eastwood notices everything," he said. "Especially newcomers."
They reached the end of the block. She pulled over, but didn't stop the engine. "Thank you again, Kairo."
He nodded, reaching for the door.
"Wait." She reached into her purse, pulled out a pen, and scribbled something on a napkin. Her number. "If you ever need anything. Or just… want to talk."
He stared at the napkin like it was a foreign object. No one in Eastwood gave out numbers like this. Not to people like him.
He took it, their fingers brushing. A spark, small but undeniable. "I'm not good company."
"I'll be the judge of that," she said softly.
Kairo stepped back into the rain, watching her drive away until her taillights disappeared around the corner. The napkin was already damp in his hand, but the numbers were still clear.
Across the street, Rico whistled low. "Look at you, player. Moving up in the world."
Kairo ignored him, tucking the napkin safely into his pocket.
That night, in the cramped room he rented above a garage, Kairo stared at the number. He thought of his parents—their laughter, their dreams for him. He thought of the gang, of the life he'd built on broken foundations. And he thought of her—Alina, with her gentle eyes and brave smile.
For the first time in years, Kairo allowed himself to hope.
And hope, he knew, was the most dangerous thing of all.
End of Chapter 1.