Chapter 2: Past Lives

The glow of the streetlights cut through the slats of the blinds, casting faint, golden stripes across the walls of the safe house. D sat on the worn-out couch, rolling the tension out of his shoulders while Tone paced the room, muttering curses under his breath. Malik leaned against the wall, quiet as always, his hoodie pulled low over his eyes. The only sound was the faint hum of a nearby train rattling through the city.

"Alright, kid," Tone barked, breaking the silence. "Start talking. Who the hell was that back there?"

Malik glanced up, his face unreadable. "A setup. What's it look like?"

"You think I don't know it was a setup?" Tone shot back, taking a step toward him. "I'm asking how they knew we'd be there. And why the hell you didn't say you knew one of them."

D held up a hand, silencing Tone before turning his gaze on Malik. "He's got a point. You recognize that guy, didn't you? The one with the scar?"

Malik's jaw tightened. For a moment, he didn't answer, his eyes flicking to the floor. "His name's Jordan. Used to run with my brother."

"Your brother?" D's voice softened, but the edge of suspicion was still there.

"Yeah," Malik said, his voice clipped. "He's dead now. Been dead for three years. Jordan...he was part of the crew that got him killed."

The room went quiet again, but this time the silence was heavier. Tone crossed his arms, his gaze skeptical. "And you didn't think to mention that before? What else you hiding, kid?"

Malik pushed off the wall, his calm facade cracking just enough for the anger beneath to show. "What the hell was I supposed to say, huh? 'Oh, by the way, the guy who probably hates my guts might show up and try to kill us?'" He shook his head. "Y'all brought me in for a reason. I did what I had to do."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Tone snapped, stepping closer.

"It means," Malik said, his voice steady despite the tension, "that I've got more reasons to want him dead than you do. So get off my back."

D stood up, placing himself between the two before the argument could escalate further. He looked Malik dead in the eyes, searching for any sign of a lie. All he saw was frustration and something deeper—pain, buried under layers of anger and indifference.

"Alright," D said finally. "I believe you. For now."

Tone scoffed. "You're making a mistake, D."

"Maybe," D admitted. "But that's my call, not yours. Let it go."

Tone muttered something under his breath but backed off, retreating to the other side of the room.

D turned back to Malik, his voice quieter now. "Why'd you really come to me? Don't give me that 'business opportunity' sh**. What's your angle?"

Malik hesitated, his gaze darting away for the first time. "You're one of the only ones who hasn't sold out to the cops or the bigger crews. Figured you were the closest thing to honest I'd find."

D raised an eyebrow. "You call this honest?"

Malik smirked faintly. "More honest than most."

---

Later that night, the tension still hung heavy in the air. Malik stepped out onto the fire escape, the cool night air a welcome break from the stifling heat of the safe house. He pulled a notebook from his pocket, flipping it open to a half-finished sketch. The lines were rough but precise, a mixture of abstract shapes and sharp edges that somehow felt like the city itself.

"You draw?"

Malik startled, slamming the notebook shut as D stepped onto the fire escape behind him.

"It's nothing," Malik said quickly, tucking the notebook into his pocket.

"Didn't look like nothing," D said, leaning against the railing. He lit a cigarette, the faint orange glow illuminating his face in the dark.

Malik didn't respond, his gaze fixed on the distant city lights.

"Your brother," D said after a moment. "What happened to him?"

Malik's shoulders tensed. He didn't answer right away, and D thought he wasn't going to. But then Malik sighed, the sound heavy and tired.

"He got caught up in some bad sh**. Jordan's crew wanted him to do a job—robbing one of their own suppliers. He said no." Malik's voice was quiet but steady, like he'd told the story to himself a thousand times. "They didn't take it well. Set him up, made it look like he was the one who snitched. Then they killed him."

D exhaled slowly, the cigarette smoke curling around him. "And you?"

"What about me?"

"You didn't try to get out after that?"

Malik snorted. "You don't just 'get out.' You know that."

D nodded. He did know. The streets didn't let you go—they just swallowed you whole.

"Why do you stay?" Malik asked suddenly, turning to look at him. "You could've gone legit by now. Gotten out clean. So why stick around?"

D hesitated, caught off guard by the question. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe I'm too deep in it. Or maybe...I don't know what else I'd do."

Malik studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

The two of them stood in silence, the city stretching out beneath them. For the first time, the walls between them didn't feel so high.

---

The chapter ends with D watching Malik as he disappears back into the safe house, his mind racing. Malik was a wildcard—dangerous, unpredictable, but also the only person who seemed to see through D's armor. And that scared D more than he cared to admit.