A humid, stifling silence settled over the city as Kentrell slipped through the shadows, his gaze darting across the street. At this hour, most people were either settling down for the night or already lost in sleep.
But for him, the night had always been an open canvas, waiting to be claimed. His footsteps were soft against the pavement, nearly silent as he approached the abandoned brick building.
He tugged his hood lower, the weight of his backpack reassuring against his shoulder. Inside were the tools of his escape—cans of spray paint in a dozen shades.
He'd been doing this for as long as he could remember, tagging forgotten corners of the city with his own personal signature, leaving pieces of himself in places where no one thought to look. To him, it was both a rebellion and a release.
Pulling out a can, he shook it, the rattle of the metal ball echoing in the stillness. With a deep breath, he pressed the nozzle, sending a stream of black paint across the brick. Stroke by stroke, he filled the wall with sweeping lines and jagged edges, the image forming under his hand a reflection of everything he couldn't say out loud.
Minutes turned to hours as he worked, his movements precise, each line and color deliberate. The mural took shape, an expression of all his frustrations, his hopes, his resentments—especially those tied to his past here, in a city that had never felt like home. As he stepped back to admire his work, a sense of satisfaction filled him.
Kentrell packed up, giving his work one last look before he melted back into the night. The hum of adrenaline that had kept him sharp, quickening his hands and movements, started to fade, replaced by the quiet solitude of the city. As he slipped into the shadows, he pulled his hoodie up, the fabric catching a hint of the fresh paint he'd left behind, a lingering reminder of the colors he'd splashed into the city's veins tonight.
The streets stretched out before him, deserted and drenched in the dim glow of streetlights that flickered occasionally, casting long shadows that danced along the cracked pavement. The scent of damp concrete and faint traces of smoke clung to the air, and the low hum of distant traffic was a steady heartbeat in the silence. Each step seemed to echo in the stillness, the emptiness wrapping around him like a blanket.
He moved quickly, choosing alleyways that wound through parts of the city most people avoided after dark. Graffiti clung to these hidden walls, layered in colors and words that told stories of past nights, other artists, and rivalries that ran as deep as his own motivations. It was like a secret language, and with each painted wall, he felt an odd sense of kinship—like he belonged to something vast and unseen.
