❝𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐃𝐄❞

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐞

Third POV

He stared at his reflection, the bruise under his eye standing out a reminder of that evenings' events. It wasn't swelling too bad but it didn't make it any less humiliating. His stomach turned at the memory of earlier, grabbing the icepack, Kali's eyes narrowing at him. She'd asked about his eye, and he knew right then that she'd either already snitched to his mom, or worse, told her gossip-hungry friends. Jelani would hear about it sooner or later.

He let out a hard breath, yanking his hair into a rubber band. Guilt twisted in his chest. Was he really about to ditch Naomi's performance for some guy he barely knew? His eyes flicked back to the mirror, fingers mindlessly picking at his dreads. His phone buzzed, but before he could check it, a hard knock rattled his door. "Dee, some nigga out front for you!" Kali's voice cracked through the hallway.

Without a second thought, Devon threw on his hoodie, ignored the message, and rushed out of his room. His mom called out, but he barely heard her as he bolted out the door, heart racing. He jumped into Travis' car, his pulse hammering louder than the knock had been.

"Woah, what's the rush?" Travis started, his voice casual but trailing off when he caught sight of Devon's eye—swollen and bruised—and the fleeting look of raw pain that washed over his face. His words simmered down, his tongue pressing hard against the inside of his cheek. He turned away, facing the road, fingers gripping the wheel tighter than necessary. Without another word, he started the car and pulled off, the tires rolling over the asphalt with a sense of urgency that wasn't quite explained.

The only sound filling the car was the low hum of the engine and the artificial rush of the AC, both of which seemed to speak louder than they should. This was that kind of silence, so suffocating that it pressed hard on Devon's chest, forcing air out of his lung. God, why did he agree to this, he should be out with Naomi and Ashely, having fun. He had no damn reason to be driving to God's knows where with a nigga he shouldn't be having relations with.

His eyes stayed glued to the blur outside the window, watching the dark streets of Norwood Grove slip past. They were heading toward BriarWood, the slums—where hope had long since packed up and left. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach, but he kept his lips shut, teeth clenched against the question he really wanted to ask. BriarWood was a wasteland, a graveyard for broken dreams. The houses were hollowed out, shells of what they once were, now turned into crack dens and squatters' havens. The streets shuffled with shadows—junkies, the homeless, the forgotten. People who had given up, or who had nothing left to give. You didn't come to BriarWood to live; you came here to disappear.

Travis pulled over, parking recklessly along the side of the road near a rusted, forgotten playground. Without a word, he climbed out, leaving Devon confused. For a moment, he just sat there, staring after him, before dragging in a deep breath and following, pulling the hood of his jacket over his head as if it could protect him from the weight of this place.

Leading him to the old swings, the chains rusted and the whole thing swaying with a displaced creak that made it seem like it might collapse at any second. But he didn't care. He plopped down into one of the seats as if done a million times before, pushing off the ground just enough to drag his feet through the gravel.

Reluctantly, Devon joined him, gripping the cold, rusted chains as he tried to balance himself. He grimaced, yuck, the dirt and grime that probably clung to his hand. He wiped his hands together cringing; as so, a small fleeting memory sprung his thoughts, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been on a swing. A small, smile tugged at his lips—him and his pops at the park when he was younger. No matter how sick or upset Devon had been, his pops would always bring him to the swings, as if that was the answer for everything.