It was after nine when Joey woke, wrapped in warmth and the solid weight of Darius beside him. His cheek was pressed into the crook of Darius’s arm, their legs tangled under the fleece blanket on Zeke’s futon. A light breeze blew in through the cracked window, carrying the smell of ocean salt and last night’s weed smoke. Across the tiny room, Zeke lay facedown in his own bed, snoring quietly into a pillow.

The movie marathon had gone past two a.m.—slashers, mostly, bloody and campy and perfect for Halloween. Joey had laughed more than he screamed, but the dreams that followed had been...weird. Unsettling. Disjointed fragments that disappeared the second he tried to hold onto them. He blinked at the dark TV across the room, heart skipping when he heard muffled movement beyond the closed door. A microwave beeped in the office outside. Someone was up.

Darius stirred, his breath warming Joey’s collarbone. Then came a knock and the bedroom door cracked open as a tanned, freckled face popped in.

“Zeke,” Skylie called, holding a travel mug that steamed in the morning light. “You alive in here, or did you get murdered by Netflix?”

Zeke groaned and pulled the blanket over his head.

“Aw, c’mon,” she teased, stepping fully into the room now. She was beachy and adorable, her hair in a messy braid today, sandals slapping against the floor. “Stayed up too late with your cute little guests?”

“Skylie, for god’s sake…”

Joey ducked his head, but smiled. She was funny.

Skylie smirked, ignoring Zeke’s groan. “Just wanted to let you know I’m opening the shop. Need you later to help with that display bullshit, but not now or anything. Just before noon.”

Zeke grunted again. “Yeah, yeah. Okay. Bye, Skylie.”

“Bye, boys,” she said with a wink, then vanished, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Zeke sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. “I’m getting coffee. Either of you want some?”

“Y-yeah,” Joey said, voice thick with sleep.

“No,” Darius said flatly.

Joey glanced up. Darius was already propped on one elbow, eyes sharp and unfocused. Tense. Joey felt it in his bones.

While Zeke shuffled into the other room, Joey sat up. “Y-you okay?”

Darius didn’t answer right away. His hand found Joey’s knee under the blanket, squeezing gently.

“I’m going back to the house,” he said quietly. “Today.”

Joey blinked. “T-the safe house?”

Darius nodded. “I want that evidence if it’s still there. I can’t wait anymore.”

Joey’s stomach dropped. “Th-then I’m going too.”

“No,” Darius said immediately. “Joey—no. I want you to stay here. With Zeke.”

“Wh-why?”

“Because I think it’s a trap. I don’t need you walking into that.”

“That’s why I should come,” Joey said, his voice rising. “If it’s that d-dangerous, you shouldn’t go alone!”

“I’m not arguing about this,” Darius said shortly. “You’re staying.”

Joey clenched his jaw, fighting back the urge to shout. Instead, he looked down, stalling for time. “Wh-what about Nina? She called yesterday…”

Darius exhaled hard. “She’s fine. She made it to Pennsylvania. Staying with an old friend from college. She's safe. Probably still sniffing around, getting in touch with people who owe her favors.” He stood up and pulled a hoodie Zeke had lent him over his head. “For now, that’s good enough.”

The door opened again and Zeke returned, holding two mugs. “D, no coffee?”

Darius shook his head. “I gotta go. Watch him for me?”

Zeke looked startled but nodded slowly. “Yeah. Course.”

Darius crossed back to Joey, kissed his forehead, then paused in the door to squeeze Zeke’s shoulder. His eyes landed on Joey one last time—hot with emotion, something feral and deep.

“Zeke’s got my number. Call me if anything happens.”

Joey nodded weakly, and then Darius was gone.

Zeke handed Joey a mug and collapsed onto the futon beside him. “Okay, that was a vibe.”

Joey accepted the coffee with both hands, silent.

“He’s going to the trap house, isn’t he?” Zeke said after a beat. “God. This shit’s intense.”

Joey bit his lip. “I h-hate that he went alone.”

Zeke watched him for a second, then blew out a breath. “Fuck it.” He reached under the coffee table and pulled out his bong. “At this rate, I’m going through my stash twice as fast. Gonna have to hit up my guy next week.”

Joey gave him a feeble smile.

They smoked together in silence, the morning sun crawling in through the blinds, soft and yellow and warm. Joey tried his best to relax, but he couldn’t. He was worried. About everything.

They were halfway through some dumb cartoon on mute when Zeke’s phone buzzed.

He looked down for a second, then laughed. “No fucking way. You wanna guess who just slid into my DMs?”

Joey blinked. “Wh-who?”

Zeke turned the phone to show him: a Facebook message from Josh Balas. His profile pic was new—and annoyingly hot. Shirtless in somebody’s cracked bathroom mirror, skinny but toned, with a beanie pulled low over his messy dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and heartbreaking blue eyes that practically glowed even in the shitty florescent lighting. The stupid crown tattoo sat proudly on his smooth chest, and that smirk—the one Joey knew all too well—curled at his lips like he knew exactly what he was doing.

He looked hot. In that sweaty, dangerous, Warren-famous kind of way.

And worse, Josh knew it.

“I c-can’t read it,” Joey muttered, already regretting asking.

Zeke grinned and read it out loud:

"Just keeping tabs on gay boy for mom. Don’t talk to me about no homo shit."

Joey groaned. “Oh my god.”

Zeke leaned back, delighted. “He’s thinking about it.”

“N-no he’s not. He’s just—he’s being a jerk.”

Zeke was already typing. “Maybe. But he messaged me. Let’s see how far I can push him.”

“Zeke—n-no. Don’t.”

But Zeke was smiling wickedly as he sent off his reply:

"Good news, I only talk homo shit. ‘Sides, you look like someone who’d cry if I said ‘please’ the right way."

Joey let out a low whimper. “P-please s-stop.”

Zeke’s phone pinged. A new message from Josh:

"LMAO you’re fucked. You wish you could hit this. You’d fall in love and I’d ruin your life."

Zeke read it aloud, grinning. “He thinks he’s the final boss of heartbreak.” He typed again:

"Ruin me, then. Just don’t ghost me before I get your pants off, tiger king."

Josh took a little longer this time. Joey leaned away, eyes wide with horror. When Josh’s reply finally appeared, Zeke read it off with a laugh:

"Bro. You really want this? Like you actually wanna fuck me? Like for real?"

Joey hissed through his teeth. “Why is he even entertaining this?”

Zeke chuckled. “Because he likes attention. And the idea turns him on more than he wants to admit.”

Another message appeared:

"I mean... I ain’t never done nothin with a dude. But chicks been disappointing lately."

Zeke whispered under his breath, “He’s so close to the cliff.” He typed:

"Guess you need a new ride. You ever had your toes curl so hard you forgot your own name?"

Josh replied in a flash:

"Bet you talk mad shit but can't back it up."

Zeke raised an eyebrow and looked at Joey, smirking. “You wanna answer that for me, or should I just send him a video?”

Joey looked like he was about to combust. “Z-Zeke—seriously. Wh-what are you doing? He’s my brother!”

Zeke grinned but held up his hands. “Hey, I’m just seeing where it goes. If your brother wants to play with fire, who am I to stop him?”

Joey stood up, flustered, desperate to escape. “I-I have to pee. I c-can’t listen to this anymore.”

He stormed off toward the little half-bath off the office, heart pounding, head spinning.

His last glimpse of Zeke was the man leaning back on the futon, typing one-handed with a smirk on his lips and mischief in his eyes, texting back Joey’s actual brother.

What the hell was happening?!

Joey used the facilities, flushed, washed his hands, and was just reaching for the door when he heard Skylie’s voice drifting down the hallway from the front of the shop.

Light, casual, muffled by distance. She was talking to someone—probably a customer.

But then—

Silence.

Abrupt. Total.

No goodbye. No footsteps. No laughter. No bell over the door.

Just dead, eerie quiet.

Joey froze, fingers hovering over the doorknob. His stomach dropped. Something was wrong.

He pressed his ear to the door, holding his breath. Nothing. Not even the clack of the register or the buzz of the overhead lights. The whole shop had gone too still, like the moment before a jump scare in a horror movie. Only this wasn't a movie.

Very slowly, he cracked open the bathroom door and stepped into the office. Muted sunlight slanted through the blinds, cutting across the old desk and scattered paperwork. Joey stepped into the hallway, quiet as a crypt. His bare feet made no sound on the linoleum as he crept forward and the hair on the back of his neck rose as he entered the silent shop.

“Skylie?” he whispered.

No answer.

He reached the end of the hallway, passed a display of surfboards—heart hammering in his chest—and peered across the open shop toward the front counter.

No movement. Just a sunlit haze, warm and golden and wrong.

He stepped forward, barely breathing.

Please just be a customer. Please just be nothing. Please just—

And then he saw it.

A streak of something dark. A shadow behind the counter. A shoe—Skylie’s.

Joey stumbled back from the register, hands trembling, bile climbing his throat.

Skylie was crumpled behind the front desk, twisted awkwardly on the tile, her long braid curled around her like a halo, her eyes open and glassy. A faint smear of blood streaked from her temple. She wasn’t breathing.

Joey made a horrible, strangled noise in his throat—and ran.

He bolted back down the hall, heart pounding so hard it echoed in his ears. He threw himself into the back room and staggered for Zeke’s door.

Zeke looked up from his phone, grinning. “Okay, I sent your brother a dick pic like two minutes ago, and he still hasn’t replied. He keeps typing and deleting, typing and deleting. Poor thing’s in shock. He doesn’t know if he wants to fight me or fuck me.”

“Zeke!” Joey’s voice cracked. “Skylie’s d-dead!”

The smile vanished from Zeke’s face. He lowered his phone like it weighed a thousand pounds. “What?”

“Someone’s here.” Joey grabbed his arm. “We gotta hide!”

Without waiting, Joey yanked him across the narrow hall and into the storage closet. It smelled like detergent and damp cardboard. The little washer/dryer unit was humming quietly beside a mountain of beach towels and old supplies.

They eased the door shut and crouched in the dark, chests heaving. Zeke still had his phone clutched in his hand.

“C-call Darius,” Joey whispered, reaching for it with shaking fingers. “Now.”

Zeke fumbled with it for a second, then hit dial, handing it off. Joey clutched it tight, waiting… praying…

“Joey?” came Darius’s voice, low and urgent.

Joey tried to steady his voice. “S-someone’s here. I just found Skylie’s b-body in the shop. Zeke and I are hiding. In the closet.”

There was a short pause, then Darius cursed. “Don’t move. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t. Move. Joey.”

Joey hung up, chest aching with dread. He turned to say something—anything—

But Zeke pressed a finger to his lips.

Footsteps.

Close.

They held their breath as someone moved past the closet door. Slow, deliberate steps creaking across the old floorboards.

The sound shifted—someone entering the office.

Zeke’s eyes locked on a mop handle in the corner. He moved silently, grabbed it like a spear, and stepped toward the door. Joey grabbed his arm in fear.

“Don’t—” he mouthed.

But Zeke gave him a look. Stay. Then he eased the closet door open, soundless, barely a breath of air.

Through the crack, they saw a man—not a local. Definitely not a surfer. He was Hispanic, broad shoulders, casual beach clothes layered with a dark windbreaker. A gun with a silencer gleamed in his hand.

Joey clamped both hands over his mouth as the man pushed open the bedroom door with his foot and stepped inside, back turned.

Zeke moved like a shadow—silent, swift.

The second the guy started to turn—

CRACK.

Zeke slammed the mop handle into the side of the guy’s head and the man collapsed with a grunt, gun skidding across the floor.

“Run!” Zeke barked, grabbing Joey by the wrist.

They tore down the hallway, bursting into the shop, panting, fear closing around Joey’s throat. Zeke veered toward the front exit—but the doors exploded open.

Two more men surged inside.

Dressed like the other guy, casual—but they were far from it. Their movements were too precise, too rehearsed. Guns drawn. Silencers affixed. Eyes sweeping.

Professionals.

Zeke didn’t even blink. He spun around, dragging Joey down and shoving him behind the long surfboard display. They dropped into the narrow shadowed gap, crouching low, their breaths coming in ragged, shallow pants.

Then silence.

More footsteps. Slow, careful. Stalking.

A man muttered something sharp and low in Spanish.

They were inside now. Hunting. The silenced guns glinted in the sunlight as the men moved through the shop.

Joey pressed his back to Zeke’s, hands clamped over his mouth. The boards smelled of salt and wax and every breath felt like it echoed in the tight space.

They were trapped.

Crouched low and trembling, Joey fought to stay still. His chest heaved with every breath, but he clamped both hands over his mouth to silence it. Zeke was at his back, just as frozen, just as tense.

One of the gunmen crept past the end of the rack—casual, almost lazy. He paused right in front of them, less than two feet away.

Joey stopped breathing.

The man shifted his weight. The floor creaked beneath his shoes. Joey squeezed his eyes shut—don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t exist—but his elbow twitched, brushing the edge of the board rack.

Click.

Just the faintest tap.

The man froze.

Joey’s eyes snapped open.

The gunman turned.

Then he moved fast, jamming his hand between the surfboards. His fingers closed around Joey’s ankle and yanked.

“Agh!” Joey screamed, his bare foot slipping against the floor as surfboards toppled all around him, crashing like dominoes. He kicked and flailed, trying to twist away from the man’s grip. His heel connected with something—hard bone or muscle—but it didn’t stop the guy.

“Joey!” Zeke shouted—and hurled the closest thing he could grab: a giant decorative tiki head from a nearby endcap. It hit the guy square in the face with a thud.

The man went down. Hard.

Joey scrambled back on hands and knees just as the second gunman rounded the corner and opened fire. Silenced shots cracked through the air—pfft-pfft-pfft—punching holes in surfboards and display racks.

“Go!” Zeke grabbed Joey and they dove behind the register just as glass shattered and wood splintered. The shop exploded into chaos behind them—surf wax and fins flying, bullets thunking into walls.

Joey was screaming—muffled by his own hand—as he landed half-on Skylie’s body. He choked, eyes wide and wild.

“Oh god—oh god—”

“Don’t look,” Zeke rasped, pulling him close, trying to shield him. “Don’t look at her.”

Footsteps thundered into the shop. Three more men. All armed. Spanish barked between them. Commands. Orders.

Joey sobbed quietly, curled in on himself, his body shaking violently.

Zeke’s eyes snapped to the side—one of the men was rounding the counter.

Closer. Even closer.

Then Zeke lunged, grabbing the man around the knees and yanking hard. The guy fell forward with a shout and Zeke pounced, punching and scrabbling for the weapon.

They grappled. Fists, knees, elbows, snarling curses. The man slammed Zeke into the cabinet but Zeke didn’t let go—his hand closed around the gun’s grip—

Bang!

The muffled gunshot echoed through the shop and the man went limp.

Joey screamed again, covering his ears.

Zeke pushed the body off him, panting, blood on his face and hands now—but the gun was his. He turned, eyes blazing, blood on his cheek.

“Get up, Joey!” he barked. “We are not dying today!”

He grabbed Joey’s hand and pulled him up, hard. They sprinted for the back hall again, ducking as bullets shattered the air around them. Joey felt something rip past his shoulder. The wind of death, inches from skin.

They hit the stairwell—slammed the door behind them—and flew up the steps two at a time.

Joey tripped but Zeke yanked him up. “Go! Go!”

They reached the apartment, threw themselves inside, slammed the door. Locked it. Then bolted into the bathroom. Another door slammed. Another lock turned.

Zeke backed up against the sink, gun still clutched in his blood-slick hands, breathing hard.

Joey collapsed against the wall, trembling uncontrollably, chest heaving in sobs.

They were trapped again—and now, cornered, too. There was no window, nothing. No escape.

For a few seconds, there was silence.

Then—BANG.

Someone slammed into the bathroom door.

They were being hunted. Again.

Zeke looked to Joey.

Joey gasped, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Darius is coming,” he whispered. “F-fifteen minutes…”

Another bang. Louder.

Joey jumped.

Zeke took a steadying breath, gun rising just a little.

Footsteps just outside the door. At least two men.

Joey covered his mouth in a panic.

They were out of time.

BANG!

The bathroom door rattled in its frame, hinges screaming.

Joey flinched, crouched beside the tub, sobbing into his hands. His breath came in shallow gasps. The metallic scent of blood was thick in the air.

Zeke stood between him and the door, face pale and streaked with sweat, gun trembling in his hands. There was blood in his hair.

THUMP.

Another strike. Wood cracked. The lock splintered.

Then—

CRASH!

The door exploded inward in a spray of splinters.

A man shoved through the broken frame, gun raised, eyes wild. He scanned the room and locked eyes on Zeke.

Zeke bared his teeth and fired.

Pop-pop-pop.

The pistol spat dry clicks after the third shot—empty.

But it was enough.

The man jerked, staggered, slammed into the doorframe, blood pouring from his chest—but he didn’t fall.

Zeke hurled the gun at his head with a yell and it cracked against the guy’s temple. The man grunted and collapsed to his knees, gurgling blood.

Joey shrieked as he fell forward, limp, and a second man pushed in, taller and meaner, sidestepping the body on the floor. He lunged straight at Zeke, and they crashed into the narrow bathroom wall, shoving and grappling.

Fists. Elbows. Grunts. The guy was way bigger than Zeke and the surfer boy was struggling. The mirror shattered. Zeke slammed against the towel rack and hit the floor hard, dazed.

The intruder raised his gun and Joey moved before he could think.

Panicked, he grabbed the first thing he saw—a fucking plunger—and swung it like a bat. The rubber end bounced off the guy’s back uselessly, but it got his attention. He turned, snarling over his shoulder, but Joey didn’t stop. He hooked the wooden handle around the man’s throat from behind and pulled with all his weight.

But Joey wasn’t strong enough. Not even close.

The man tore free, one arm swinging. Joey was flung across the room, his back hitting the tub so hard it knocked the wind out of him. He collapsed, head spinning, vision blurry.

The man raised his gun.

Pointed it straight at Joey.

And everything slowed.

Joey squeezed his eyes shut.

Then, in a blur of motion, Zeke, bleeding and gasping, slammed something sharp into the man’s back.

Glass. A broken shard from the mirror.

It sank deep and the man arched in pain and rage—howled—then swung around and slammed the butt of his pistol into Zeke’s temple.

CRACK.

Zeke fell to his knees, blood gushing from the side of his head.

The man staggered into the wall for support, and another shot rang out, blood spraying across the shower curtain.

Zeke slumped to the floor, clutching his side, now, groaning.

“No!” Joey screamed, scrambling forward on tile slick with blood. “Zeke!”

The man turned his gun on him again and Joey came to a halt. His heart stopped beating.

Then—

BANG.

A final gunshot. Louder than the rest.

Joey blinked, but he didn’t feel anything. His hands flew to his chest, searching frantically for bullet holes.

Then the man with the gun froze.

His eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped like dead weight, gun clattering beside him. A bullet hole bloomed in the back of his skull.

Joey gasped—

—and then he saw him in the doorway.

Darius.

Standing like a ghost. A god. His black hoodie dark with sweat and blood splatter. Smoke still curling from the barrel of his pistol.

His jaw was clenched, eyes wide and black with fury.

“D…” Joey’s voice broke into a sob.

Darius rushed in, kicking the dead man’s gun away, grabbing Joey, hauling him into a tight, desperate embrace.

“I got you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I got you.”

Joey sobbed into his chest.

Behind them, Zeke coughed and slumped against the wall, alive—but barely.

Darius turned toward him, jaw tight. “We’re getting out of here. Now.”

They barreled down the stairs, Darius dragging Joey by the wrist, Zeke limping behind, one hand pressed to the bleeding hole in his side.

The surf shop looked like it had been hit by a hurricane.

Shelves overturned. Surfboards cracked in half. Broken glass crunched under their feet. Blood stained the floor in wide splashes, and the smell of gunpowder still hung thick in the air.

Joey’s stomach churned. The bodies were everywhere—five of them, in different poses of violence. One sprawled over the wetsuit display, another crumpled near the t-shirt rack, then there was the one face down behind the counter, the guy Zeke had shot. He was right next to where Skylie still lay. Her lifeless eyes stared up at the ceiling like she was trying to make sense of it all.

Joey nearly lost it.

“What—what are we gonna do?” he asked, voice shaking.

Darius’s eyes swept the shop grimly. “They’re Carrillo’s men. No doubt in my mind.”

Joey blinked through the sting of tears. “Wh-what does that mean?”

“It means Vinnie and Carmine are in bed with Carrillo. Even after Leon disappeared.” Darius looked toward the front of the store, where sunlight streamed in through shattered glass. In the distance, sirens wailed—getting closer, but still a few streets off. “I was almost at the house when you called. And I want to go back. Now. While the cops are still focused here.”

Joey’s mouth opened. “Then I-I’m going too.”

Darius turned to him, gaze intense. “Agreed. I wasn’t going to leave you again.”

Zeke had drifted behind the counter, wobbling slightly, blood soaking the waistband of his board shorts. He bent, retrieved his phone from the floor beside the body he’d shot point-blank. Then his eyes moved to his employee and he lingered there for a moment, frozen, gazing down at her.

Then he whispered, “I’m sorry, Skylie.”

He stood up slowly and turned toward them, dazed. “I just killed two guys.”

His voice cracked.

“What the fuck…”

Darius crossed the room in three long strides and grabbed Zeke by the shoulders, steadying him. “You saved our lives, Zeke. You hear me? Keep it together.”

Zeke’s lip trembled, but he nodded.

“We’re going back to the safehouse,” Darius said. “We’ll grab the evidence and disappear. You can come with us.”

Zeke shook his head instantly. “Nah, man. I gotta stay. This is my shop. It’s my name on the deed. I need to talk to the cops. Plus—” He lifted his bloodied hand and tried to smile, winced. “I don’t think I’ll make it far without a hospital.”

Darius studied him for a long moment, jaw tight. Then he nodded once. “Thanks man. For everything.”

Zeke exhaled slowly, eyes glassy. “Guess this is it then.”

Joey broke down again, stepping into Zeke’s arms and hugging him tight. “Y-you saved me. Th-thank you. Thank you…”

Zeke hugged him back fiercely. “Anytime, little dude.”

Darius watched them with something like guilt in his eyes.

When Joey finally pulled away, Darius smirked a little, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Can we borrow your car again?”

Zeke huffed a tired laugh. “Am I ever gonna see it again?”

Darius shrugged.

Zeke sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Fine. Just… try not to drive her off a cliff, okay?”

“Deal,” Darius said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Stay alive, yeah?”

They turned and ran for the door, feet thudding over broken tile and bloodstained rugs.

Outside, Zeke’s hybrid was idling in the sun, looking completely out of place in the aftermath of carnage.

Darius jumped into the driver’s seat. Joey dove in beside him, heart hammering. And as they peeled away, Joey looked over his shoulder.

Four squad cars rounded the corner just then, lights flashing red and blue. They swerved to a stop in front of the shop, officers spilling out—guns drawn, barking commands.

Joey couldn’t look away. The flashing lights lit up the smashed windows as Zeke stepped out, holding his bleeding side, raising one hand shakily.

Then they were gone.

Racing east. No music. No talking.

Just the roar of tires on blacktop and the terrifying thud of Joey’s pulse in his ears.

Darius kept one hand on the wheel, the other braced against the gearshift. His face was set like stone, eyes never leaving the road.

They passed through the sleepy coastal town, whipping past dunes and palm trees, fishing docks and tourist traps. Billboards blurred past, faded and peeling.

Joey clutched the door handle and stared straight ahead, trying not to think about the blood still drying on his hands.

“Are we g-gonna be okay?” he finally whispered.

Darius didn’t answer. Not at first.

Then: “We will be. If we get that lockbox.”

They reached Charleston in under twenty minutes, skimming just under the speed limit to avoid attention.

Downtown was busy with weekend traffic, but Darius didn’t slow. He weaved through with a predator’s focus, turning down side streets and looping through residential blocks until the city gave way to wealth.

Leon’s neighborhood.

Massive palms lined the sidewalks, dripping Spanish moss like mourning veils. The houses were mansions, each with tall white columns or towering fences, deep porches and glossy black doors.

Joey swallowed, his throat dry. He hated how small he felt. Like an intruder. Like a ghost drifting through someone else’s nightmare.

Darius parked two houses down from Leon’s—out of sight of the cameras mounted on the gateposts.

They both stared ahead.

Leon’s house was silent, the tall wrought-iron gate closed tight. Shrubs trimmed to perfection. Not a single light on inside.

“We’ll have to climb the fence,” Darius said quietly, already pushing open his door.

Joey hesitated for one long, shallow breath. Then he followed, heart racing as his bare feet hit the pavement.

They crossed the quiet street together, the shadows of the gates swallowing them whole.

It was taller than it looked.

Joey stopped in front of the gate, head tipped back, barefoot on the edge of the quiet Charleston street. The iron bars stretched at least ten feet high, black and cold and knotted with finial spikes. No keypad. No bell. No way in but over.

His heart was still pounding from the drive, but now it felt louder in the silence, like something might hear it.

Darius stepped up beside him, still wearing that dark hoodie from Zeke’s, the sleeves stiff with dried blood. His red board shorts looked stupid beneath it—too bright, clashing with the danger still clinging to him like smoke. One flip-flop slapped the pavement as he shifted his weight and looked up at the gate.

“Brace yourself,” he muttered. “We’re going over.”

Joey nodded, though his stomach sank.

He was still in his dumb shark swim shorts from yesterday and dried seawater from his and Zeke’s swim lesson itched between his toes. He shivered in the breeze coming off the cliffs, cool and salted. The mansion loomed above them, pale and silent, its white stucco walls catching the early sun.

Darius grabbed the bars and hauled himself up like it was nothing—or at least, he made it look that way at first.

But the flip-flops didn’t help.

He kicked one off halfway up, cursing under his breath, then yanked off the other and let them both fall to the pavement below. Barefoot now, he climbed faster. He hooked an arm over the top of the iron gate and hoisted himself up, straddling the bars with a grunt.

He turned back down. “Come on.”

Joey stared up at him, heart thudding. The iron looked slick. Tall. Spiked.

“I—I don’t—” he started, then shut his mouth. No time.

He wiped his hands on his shorts and grabbed hold.

It was brutal.

The iron was cold and rough, and the rungs were spaced just wrong. His foot slipped immediately, toes barely gripping. His arms trembled by the third bar, his stomach scraping against the metal. He wasn’t built for this. He hadn’t climbed anything taller than a bunk bed since he was a kid.

Above him, Darius leaned down. “You’re doing fine. Keep going.”

Joey grit his teeth. “F-fuck you,” he gasped, and kept climbing.

By the fifth rung, his palms were sweating again. He missed a handhold and almost fell back, but Darius reached down fast, grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him upward, hard.

Joey scrambled the last few inches with Darius’s help, breathless and shaking. They straddled the top together, legs hooked awkwardly around the cold bars. Joey looked down and immediately regretted it.

“I c-can’t jump—”

“Yeah, you can,” Darius said. “We’ll do it together. Just bend your knees and land soft. Don’t think about it.”

Joey closed his eyes. He nodded.

They counted off.

“One. Two. Three—”

Then they dropped.

Joey hit the grass with a thud and collapsed sideways, his knees jarring. He gasped, rolling onto his back, blinking at the sky. His arms were burning. His feet hurt. His shark swim shorts had gotten caught on the fence, and now the waistband was twisted and digging into his hip.

Darius landed beside him with a grunt, barefoot now too, hoodie streaked with dirt. He looked down at Joey, then held out a hand.

“You alive?”

Joey nodded, groaning. “I h-hate rich people.”

Darius grinned and helped him up.

The backyard opened before them like something out of a magazine.

Perfect green lawn rolled down to a glass-edge infinity pool, the water so clear it reflected the blue of the sky. Beyond it, a black iron railing curved with the cliff’s edge, and then—open ocean. The waves crashed far below, frothing white against the rocks, the sound muffled but constant.

Joey sucked in a breath. The air was sharp with salt and flowers. Even the breeze felt expensive here.

They stayed low, moving past the pool, flanking around the side of the house. There were lounge chairs, untouched, and a wide stone patio with a stainless steel grill, a fancy outdoor shower tucked behind a privacy wall.

The back door came into view—French-style, glass panes, security stickers on the corners.

Darius crouched beside it and pulled a thin tool from his hoodie pocket. It was silver and curved, and looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office. He was prepared.

He worked fast, calm, efficient. The pick scraped inside the lock for a second. Then there was a sharp click, and he eased the door open.

Joey followed him inside, heart in his throat.

The kitchen was massive—cold marble counters, gleaming appliances, polished floors that echoed every step. But what made his blood freeze was the sudden shriek of a beeping alarm just inside the door.

It wasn’t loud yet. Just pulsing, a slow-warning tone.

Darius didn’t even flinch.

He dropped to one knee, yanked a second tool from the same pocket, and popped the cover off the wall panel. Joey stood guard, eyes wide as the beeping picked up speed—faster, sharper, ready to trip into full sirens.

Darius murmured something under his breath and twisted the pick into the guts of the system.

A spark.

A whine.

Then—silence.

The lights on the alarm box went dark.

Joey let out a long, shaking breath. “Th-that was close.”

“Too close,” Darius muttered.

They both stood still for a beat, listening.

But there was nothing.

Just the tick of the giant kitchen clock above the stove, and the hush of the sea outside the glass.

The house stretched out before them—long white halls and vaulted ceilings, the kind of place that echoed your footsteps and smelled like lemon polish and money. Wide staircases. Crystal vases. Paintings of storms and racehorses and boats on fire.

But for now, it was quiet.

For now, they were alone.

Darius turned, voice low but urgent.

“The lockbox will be in Leon’s office. Upstairs. There’s a safe, hidden behind the wall. That’s where he kept anything important.”

Joey barely nodded, his heart still hammering as he padded after Darius across the sleek tile, feet leaving faint prints behind.

They passed through the kitchen, clean and stainless with black marble counters. A tall bowl of wax fruit sat perfectly arranged at the center of the island—so fake it was almost insulting.

From there, they stepped into the living room, where a massive leather sectional wrapped around a glass coffee table. A throw blanket was draped with military precision over one arm. The fireplace was spotless. Not even a smudge on the hearth.

Through an arched doorway came the front hall, and Joey slowed a little behind Darius, looking around. The two-story front door towered before them, made of thick beveled glass and dark metal trim. Across from it sat a black grand piano, gleaming under the overhead chandelier, untouched and perfectly in tune with the house’s cold opulence.

The sweeping staircase curved upward to a wide landing. Joey followed Darius silently, the pads of his bare feet whispering over the glossy steps. The silence was unnatural—not peaceful, but staged.

At the top, Darius glanced to the back wall and gave a dry huff.

A massive oil portrait dominated the landing. It was the first time Joey had ever seen Uncle Leon.

The man in the painting was imposing—old, Italian, mafia-rich, dressed in a three-piece suit with a gold watch glinting at his wrist. Silver hair, combed immaculately. Thick brows. A heavy jaw. His eyes were deep-set and dark, like he was daring someone to lie to him.

Joey stopped short, blinking up at it. “J-Jesus…”

Darius smirked faintly. “Looks scary, right? Like some Godfather shit. But Leon was one of the real ones. Cool as hell. Smart, too. That portrait’s just for show. Kept people on their toes.”

Joey nodded absently, following again as they moved down the wide hallway.

They passed more framed photos—some black-and-white, some color—shots of Leon with other men in suits. One in particular made Joey’s stomach twist. The guy looked like Vinnie, the big boss he’d seen back at the club in Cleveland. Much younger, though. Leaner. Grinning like he’d just won something.

He didn’t say anything.

They passed a sitting room, tall velvet chairs arranged around a low glass table. Next came a guest bedroom, the kind Joey imagined in a luxury hotel—white sheets, gold accents, a tray with unopened soaps. Then a gym, brightly lit with a full mirrored wall and equipment that looked like it cost more than his house.

Finally, at the end of the hall, Darius stopped. He opened the last door wide.

Leon’s office.

The air changed immediately.

It was darker in here—cooler. Quiet in a different way.

The room was like stepping back in time. Rich wooden paneling lined the walls. The carpet was wine-colored, thick and silent underfoot. Bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, full of old hardbacks, leather-bound ledgers, and a few strange objects Joey didn’t recognize. In the center of the room sat a broad desk—stately and bare—except for a single leather blotter and a chair that looked like it came from a courtroom.

Darius made a beeline for the far wall, running a hand over one of the bookcases.

“He showed me once. The safe’s behind here.” He frowned, muttering, “He gave me the code, but it’s been years. I’ll probably have to crack it manually.”

He crouched down, fingers searching along the inner edge of the shelf. After a second, there was a soft click, and a panel slid open to reveal a matte black safe, large enough to hold files, documents—a lockbox.

Darius pulled out his tools again—thin steel picks and a tension wrench. He got to work, the metallic clicks faint, rhythmic.

While he messed with the safe, Joey wandered a little. On one shelf was a paperweight that looked like an ancient coin. A smooth chunk of obsidian sat next to a signed baseball. One photo showed Leon smiling beside a young boy in a suit, maybe a grandson. Joey kept moving, eyes scanning everything.

Then he reached the desk.

It was empty, except for a single item sitting near the edge.

A little plastic fish.

Joey blinked.

It was cartoonish, out of place. Bright pink with little green fins.

He picked it up, turning it over in his fingers. It was heavier than it looked. Solid. And strangely satisfying to hold. He looked closer and realized it came apart in the middle and, curious, he tugged it apart.

It was a flash drive. And Joey loved it.

He glanced over his shoulder.

Darius was still crouched, focused on the lock and he quietly slipped the little fish into the pocket of his swim trunks.

A dumb souvenir, maybe. Something useless and left behind.

But it made him feel like he’d found something.

Joey had just slipped the memento into his pocket when he heard it—a soft woosh, like a mechanical breath.

He turned sharply.

Darius straightened at the safe, a furrow of satisfaction between his brows—until his expression collapsed in an instant.

“What the—” he said, then flinched back.

Inside the safe, there was no lockbox. No files. Just… wires. Bricks. A digital countdown glowing red.

25.

“Shit. It’s a bomb!” Darius roared as the clock began to count down.

24, 23.

He lunged back, grabbing Joey by the arm and dragging him out of the office like the floor had just caught fire.

Joey’s feet slipped on the thick hallway carpet as they flew past the home gym, its chrome machines gleaming like metal skeletons under recessed lights.

20.

Next came the guest bedroom—pillows fluffed, curtains billowing from the open window—everything so peaceful it made Joey want to scream.

The sitting room loomed to the right—tall velvet chairs, untouched. Joey’s pulse thundered in his ears.

16.

They reached the landing. The air felt heavier now, pressure building all around. Joey’s eyes locked with Leon’s portrait again. The man’s eyes looked right at him.

He barely had time to shudder before Darius yanked him forward again.

14.

They started down the stairs. Halfway down, Joey’s heel slipped and he fell hard, hitting the last four steps with a thud and a cry of pain.

“Shit—” Darius spun and hauled him back up by the arm, slinging Joey into motion again as they raced across the marble floored entry and hit the living room. The leather sectional passed in a blur of dark brown, the coffee table gleaming like glass teeth.

9.

“Faster, Joey!”

They stumbled into the kitchen. The French doors gleamed ahead, freedom, but they were already swinging closed with a resounding bang.

Darius bolted for them, cursing as he fumbled with the handle—

4.

Joey gasped, hands bracing against the counter.

3.

Finally, Darius flung the door open and shoved Joey through it.

2.

They spilled onto the patio—

1.

—then a massive crack of heat, pressure, and sound ERUPTED behind them.

And the world exploded.

BOOM!

A white-hot wave of flame engulfed the back of the house. Wood and brick shattered. Glass shrieked. Shingles ripped free like confetti. And the shockwave hit them like a truck, launching both Darius and Joey into the air—

—and straight into the pool.

Underwater, everything was orange and gold and black.

Joey sank like a stone, limbs flailing uselessly. The heat was behind him, above him, roaring like a dragon.

His ears popped. His heart pounded. Water filled his nose, his mouth.

He blinked up through the glowing, shimmering surface, dazed, a curtain of bubbles rising all around him.

His mind twisted—a memory bloomed in his mind. And suddenly, he was four years old again, back at the community pool in Warren, Ohio.

Ronnie’s voice. “God, you’re so annoying, just shut the fuck up!”

Then a hard shove in the chest. Cold water rushing all around him as he sank deep. Suffocating.

Joey kicked weakly. Drowning again. The same panic as before filling his heart. The same suffocating weight in his chest crushing, forcing the air from his lungs.

But then—

Zeke’s voice. From just yesterday.

“Point your toes. Kick from the hips. Pull with your arms. Breathe, Joey. You got this.”

Joey kicked harder. His chest burned. His limbs screamed. But he moved.

He clawed toward the surface.

He broke through with a cry, sputtering, sucking air as ash rained around him. The pool was glowing red from the inferno behind them, rippling with firelit debris.

“Darius!” he gasped, choking, spitting out pool water.

Darius was already climbing out of the pool, hauling himself up with scraped elbows and a wet, bloody hoodie. He turned, eyes wide, and reached back down.

“Gotcha.”

He yanked Joey up and out of the water.

Joey coughed hard, pool water and mucus streaming from his nose, his chest heaving as sirens screamed in the distance. Close. Too close.

Darius looked wildly over his shoulder. “We have to go!” he shouted over the roar. “That was it. The evidence is gone. It's just our word against Vinnie’s now—”

Joey stumbled to his feet, dizzy, water squelching between his toes.

And they ran. Sprinting back across the scorched lawn, through the smoke and raining ash.

The gate was open now and Joey’s heart stuttered with a surge of hope.

“C’mon! We gotta get to the car!”

Gasping for breath, they slipped through the gate, hearts pounding, lungs aching, smoke trailing from their backs like ghosts.

Joey didn’t even see Zeke’s car. The street was alive with red and blue.

Police cars. Flashing. Barking orders. Slamming doors.

“HANDS IN THE AIR! GET ON THE GROUND—NOW!”

Multiple officers surged forward, guns drawn, shouting, forming a wall across the pavement, more moving around to cut them off from the house, securing the gate, a dam against the flood.

Joey skidded to a halt, slipping and falling hard to his knees in some loose gravel, his mouth wide open as he gasped for air.

Darius stopped over him, soaked and bleeding, hoodie half torn and burned, his jaw clenched hard.

He looked at the guns. The uniforms. The end of the road.

Then—slowly—he lifted his hands.

Joey stayed on his knees, shaking, wet hair in his eyes, coughing hard as the sirens screamed and boots thundered toward them.

“Shit,” Darius muttered, eyes fixed on the officers as they were swiftly surrounded. “It’s over.”