Maybe it was the yelling. It was the kind of arguing that sounded like it had been on loop for years, voices cracking from overuse and rage. Tex sat on his bed with one earbud in, the other dangling loose as if even music couldn’t drown it out anymore. Dinner had stopped. Now there was just a kitchen table, a flickering light overhead, and takeout bags on the counter that no one claimed. At school, Tex lived between library stacks, curled under his hoodie, head resting against a textbook he hadn’t opened. His teachers stopped calling on him. He wasn’t going back. Every time he walked home, he passed this same corner—a half-burnt-out liquor store with bars on the windows and an alley that always reeked of smoke and something sour. A group of men always loitered nearby, faces shadowed under caps or hoods, tattoos peeking from sleeves, smoke curling around them like a ritual. Tex never looked. The rule was simple: don’t make eye contact, don’t slow down, don’t speak. They laughed with gravel in their throats, joked loud and crude. Tex always wondered what it was like to belong somewhere so fiercely, even if it was hell. Then the idea came. Maybe it wasn’t just stupid—it was dangerous. But Something real. Something reckless enough to matter. That night, instead of walking by, he paused at the alley entrance. His heart hammered in his chest, cold sweat forming under his jacket. One of them turned, brows raising. “You lost, kid?” Tex swallowed hard. “Can I… join you?” There was a beat of silence before sudden, barking laughter. One guy nearly doubled over, coughing into his smoke. “Ain’t this a damn first,” one chuckled. “Lil’ man wants to play gangster?” Tex stood firm, fists clenched in his hoodie pocket. They looked at him like he was a stray cat asking to be let inside. “Fine,” said one, waving him forward with a cigarette in hand. “Come on, kid. Let’s see how far you get.” ⸻ They brought him to the edge of the city, somewhere industrial and dead-looking—a warehouse with busted windows and rusted metal doors that groaned like ghosts when pushed open. Inside, the air was thick, heavy with the sharp stench of weed, the sour bite of alcohol, and old oil. The place buzzed with voices and low music from a speaker balanced on a crate. People lounged on piles of cushions and busted chairs, gambling, flirting, arguing. Eyes followed Tex like wolves clocking an outsider. They led him to a velvet-lined booth tucked under the shadows of an overhead catwalk. The glow of a red lamp cast eerie shadows across the man who sat there. He radiated authority. One finger tapped slowly on a glass, and that was enough to hush the nearby crowd. “The kid wants to mess around,” one of the men said. The man at the booth slowly tilted his head, eyes locked on Tex. “Get Alex over here,” he murmured. Tex didn’t know who that was supposed to be, but the entire atmosphere shifted. A few catcalls echoed out. Someone slapped a crate twice and hollered, “Oi, pretty boy!” A figure emerged through the crowd. Well, shit. He couldn’t look away— every step was intentional and slow, confident without trying to be. He wore dark, fitted clothes, layered in a way that said he didn’t care. Jewelry glinted at his neck and ears—rings on his fingers. He was beautiful. Tex realized his jaw had gone a little slack and closed it quickly, heat rushing to his face. Alex hadn’t even looked at him yet. “This sixteen year old—“ “Seventeen,” Tex muttered, a little too quickly. He ignored him. “He walked in here asking to play grown-up. And I figured… if he wants to dance with fire, might as well stick him with someone who already got burned.”

The man in the velvet booth exhaled a slow, amused breath—like Alex’s words were some private joke only he understood. He flicked his cigarette into a tray, then leaned back with the lazy grace of someone who owned every shadow in the room. “He ain’t that poor,” he said dismissively, waving a hand at Tex like inspecting livestock. “Looks clean enough. Jacket’s fake military but it fits him.” Alex didn’t move right away. He studied Tex—the frayed cuffs of that oversized jacket, the worn soles of combat boots scuffed from pavement and sidewalks no one would choose to walk on twice. The notebook peeking out from an inner pocket—spiral-bound thing looked cheap as hell. Then there was him—the kid himself: too-thin face under messy copper hair; dark eyes that held too much silence for seventeen years old; hands stuffed deep like they weren't sure if they belonged here or anywhere else anymore. A beat passed where no one spoke. One bodyguard shifted slightly behind Alex—not threatening yet—but ready to step if things went south fast enough for violence to make sense before anyone thought twice about it. Finally… Alex tilted his head just slightly—and smirked. Not kind. Not warm. But curious? Maybe? Like seeing something unexpected crawl outta your shoebox after months tucked away dusty. "Okay," he said simply—then turned fully toward Tex and took one smooth step forward without asking permission first. The whole warehouse watched quietly now. Waiting what came next between them two kids who couldn't be more different except maybe age... The man in the booth didn’t argue. Just gave a single, slow nod—like this was all beneath him anyway. One of his guys snapped his fingers toward Tex: Go on. Tex swallowed. His pulse thudded loud in his ears now—not from fear, not exactly. More like… performance anxiety? Like he’d been handed a test with no instructions and zero second chances. He stepped forward into Alex’s space—careful not to invade too fast, but close enough that they were standing face-to-face under the red glow of the overhead lamp. The air between them felt charged—with judgment mostly—but maybe something else too? Alex just stared at him. Unblinking. Cool as ice water poured over firecrackers before they go off wrong direction entirely... No smile. No frown. Just assessing every inch: how tall you are compared to me (taller), if your clothes look cheap (they do), whether you’ve ever fought for anything serious (maybe). Ten minutes started ticking somewhere invisible but everyone could feel it passing by fast… And then Alex finally broke silence: "...You got anything interesting about you?" Tex didn't flinch. Didn't fumble. He just reached slowly—deliberately—into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulled out the small spiral notebook, and held it up between them like an offering. The cover was scuffed. Pages bent at corners from being flipped too much. A few coffee stains smeared through a couple chapters’ worth of scribbled handwriting. Then he flipped it open to a random page—not hiding anything—and turned it slightly so Alex could see without leaning in too close (respecting space; smart move). It wasn’t poetry or diary entries about feelings. Nope. Page after page: names, dates, little sketches of faces with tattoos noted beside them ("R - snake on neck"), locations ("Dockside 12th & L"), times ("3AM always there"). Some pages had rough maps drawn in pencil—the kind you’d use if you were tracking someone… or planning something dangerous quietly… A surveillance logbook disguised as school notes. Alex blinked once. Slowly. Eyes narrowing just slightly—not suspicious yet… but intrigued? not awkward, very casual but discriptive. do not be afraaid to use modern slang

Maybe it was the yelling. It was the kind of arguing that sounded like it had been on loop for years, voices cracking from overuse and rage. Tex sat on his bed with one earbud in, the other dangling loose as if even music couldn’t drown it out anymore. Dinner had stopped. Now there was just a kitchen table, a flickering light overhead, and takeout bags on the counter that no one claimed. At school, Tex lived between library stacks, curled under his hoodie, head resting against a textbook he hadn’t opened. His teachers stopped calling on him. He wasn’t going back. Every time he walked home, he passed this same corner—a half-burnt-out liquor store with bars on the windows and an alley that always reeked of smoke and something sour. A group of men always loitered nearby, faces shadowed under caps or hoods, tattoos peeking from sleeves, smoke curling around them like a ritual. Tex never looked. The rule was simple: don’t make eye contact, don’t slow down, don’t speak. They laughed with gravel in their throats, joked loud and crude. Tex always wondered what it was like to belong somewhere so fiercely, even if it was hell. Then the idea came. Maybe it wasn’t just stupid—it was dangerous. But Something real. Something reckless enough to matter. That night, instead of walking by, he paused at the alley entrance. His heart hammered in his chest, cold sweat forming under his jacket. One of them turned, brows raising. “You lost, kid?” Tex swallowed hard. “Can I… join you?” There was a beat of silence before sudden, barking laughter. One guy nearly doubled over, coughing into his smoke. “Ain’t this a damn first,” one chuckled. “Lil’ man wants to play gangster?” Tex stood firm, fists clenched in his hoodie pocket. They looked at him like he was a stray cat asking to be let inside. “Fine,” said one, waving him forward with a cigarette in hand. “Come on, kid. Let’s see how far you get.” ⸻ They brought him to the edge of the city, somewhere industrial and dead-looking—a warehouse with busted windows and rusted metal doors that groaned like ghosts when pushed open. Inside, the air was thick, heavy with the sharp stench of weed, the sour bite of alcohol, and old oil. The place buzzed with voices and low music from a speaker balanced on a crate. People lounged on piles of cushions and busted chairs, gambling, flirting, arguing. Eyes followed Tex like wolves clocking an outsider. They led him to a velvet-lined booth tucked under the shadows of an overhead catwalk. The glow of a red lamp cast eerie shadows across the man who sat there. He radiated authority. One finger tapped slowly on a glass, and that was enough to hush the nearby crowd. “The kid wants to mess around,” one of the men said. The man at the booth slowly tilted his head, eyes locked on Tex. “Get Alex over here,” he murmured. Tex didn’t know who that was supposed to be, but the entire atmosphere shifted. A few catcalls echoed out. Someone slapped a crate twice and hollered, “Oi, pretty boy!” A figure emerged through the crowd. Well, shit. He couldn’t look away— every step was intentional and slow, confident without trying to be. He wore dark, fitted clothes, layered in a way that said he didn’t care. Jewelry glinted at his neck and ears—rings on his fingers. He was beautiful. Tex realized his jaw had gone a little slack and closed it quickly, heat rushing to his face. Alex hadn’t even looked at him yet. “This sixteen year old—“ “Seventeen,” Tex muttered, a little too quickly. He ignored him. “He walked in here asking to play grown-up. And I figured… if he wants to dance with fire, might as well stick him with someone who already got burned.”