Askai turned to leave, fingers flexing around the envelope in his pocket. Just as he stepped into the hallway, his phone buzzed.

He glanced down.

Jordan.

But it was a blank text.

Askai checked the message again, hoping the words would magically appear this time—but the screen stayed blank. His stomach twisted. Jordan never sent empty texts. He wasn't the type to joke or pull pranks, especially not at this hour.

Askai typed a quick reply, then another, but both remained marked delivered, not seen. He dialled his number but there was no response. A cold ripple slid down his spine.

He tried to steady himself—It's probably a mistake. A glitch. Jordan's phone acting up again. But the lie didn't hold. His heartbeat kicked up sharply, loud enough that he could hear it between breaths.

Without another thought, Askai broke into a run. He needed to get back. He needed to see Jordan.

He was moving before he realized it, pushing himself into a run, the night air slapping against his face. Panic soared in his chest, as if everything could crack with one wrong step. The nearest bus stand was a mile away—too far for someone who lived on the wrong side of fortune. Those rich brats never needed to learn the weight of distance.

Askai, meanwhile, had only his legs and an envelope full of bills—gratefully enough for a cab if he was lucky tonight.

His phone buzzed again. Hope flared bright and sharp— only to die when he saw the sender.

A promotional message.

Askai's frustration rose so suddenly it nearly choked him. He curled his hand around the phone, holding it like a lifeline and a curse in one.

He lunged back into motion—and was blinded by a sudden wash of headlights cutting across the pavement. He stumbled, heart leaping into his throat. A cab jerked to a stop inches away, tires screaming softly against the road.

The window rolled down, revealing a driver with tired eyes and a raised brow. "You getting in or not?"

Askai didn't trust his voice, so he simply nodded and climbed in, shutting the door with more force than necessary. The cab smelled faintly of rain and old leather—oddly comforting, but not enough to slow the pounding in his chest.

"To the NU dorms," he managed, breathless. "Please… hurry."

As the city lights blurred past the windows, Askai pressed a trembling hand against his knee, fighting the rising tide of fear.

Jordan has to be okay, he told himself. He repeated it like a prayer, though he had never believed in prayers.

***

The corridor was quiet when he reached. The door to his room wasn't locked, and the moment he stepped inside, he saw the signs: Jordan's duffel bag thrown against the wall, a hoodie he used to wear back when they shared a flat together, boots caked in dried mud, and the unmistakable reek of cheap bloodied gauze wafting through the air.

Askai's brow creased. "What the hell is all this, man—?"

He stopped mid-sentence.

Jordan was sitting against the wall in the narrow space between Askai's desk and bed. His face was a mess—red, swollen, one eye bruised nearly shut, lip cracked, a smear of dried blood trailing from his temple to jaw. And his shoulder—

A sickening wave of physical shock and blazing protectiveness washed over Askai.

"Shit." Askai dropped to his knees and opened the bottom drawer of his desk, yanking out his first aid box. "What the hell happened? You should have called me. What were you thinking, leaving me blank texts?" His voice almost broke toward the end, torn between grief and frustration.

Jordan tried to wave it off, a smirk curling his busted lip—but even that winced into pain. "Just the usual."

"Your shoulder's popped, and you're calling that usual?" Askai's eyes, usually guarded and cool, flashed with genuine alarm. He was already reaching for a clean, tightly rolled towel. "Did you acquire a taste for beating while I was away from the streets, Jordan? Now bite on it."

Jordan's jaw tightened, the towel disappearing into his mouth. His good eye, though exhausted, held a defiant glint that Askai knew and loved. Askai worked with the precision of someone who had done this too many times. He braced his friend's body, his touch firm yet incredibly gentle, and then, with a sharp, smooth, utterly clinical motion, he reset the dislocation. Jordan's body arched, a strangled sound escaping the barrier of the towel, but he made no noise. He never did.

Askai sank back on his heels, breathing out slowly, the scent of antiseptic and agony filling his lungs. A suffocating wave of guilt descended. He had been so focused on getting out, on securing a better future, that he had blindly trusted the old guard to keep Jordan safe. Now, looking at the bruised, bloody ruin of his friend, he felt the full, crushing weight of his absence.

He peered closely. The other bruises and cuts were superficial, nothing to send the bells ringing in his head. But someone had still dared to take a direct hit on Jordan. The sheer audacity of it sent a cold, deep rage shimmering beneath Askai's composed façade. He schooled his expression, locking down the dangerous emotion, knowing that in their world, visible weakness was fatal.

He spoke, his voice low, measured, and stripped of all emotion. "Talk."

Jordan spat the towel aside, voice ragged.

"I went to collect from the owner of the 'Night Queen' Motel. He had borrowed from us, but then he paid Zeke's boys protection money to evade us. Thought I'd straighten it out, but that bastard…"

"You went alone?!" Askai couldn't keep the sheer disbelief from his tone. It was the fundamental rule of the street: never go alone.

"Didn't plan on a damn ambush. They were waiting. Those bastards played it out like a show," Jordan rasped, wincing as he coughed. "Barely slipped out alive."

Askai meticulously cleaned the dried blood from his friend's temple, dabbing it gently with antiseptic. The deep rage beneath his cool veneer intensified, solidifying into a cold, hard resolve.

"You should've gone in with your boys," Askai muttered, his tone laced with a biting disapproval that masked his fear. "You know the gutter mongrels like Zeke have no honor. Anyone on those streets doesn't. Why would you then be stupid enough to go alone?"

"I don't have boys, Askai," Jordan muttered bitterly, the pain pulling at the edges of his words. "Not anymore. When you left, Valez passed even your streets to me but none of the men. Then, Zeke's guys—they started cutting in on everything. Replacing our men with theirs. Pulling off legal tricks, social favors, street intimidation—whatever worked. They had been keeping us out. I don't know which of my own boys I can trust."

"And Moraine?" Askai asked grimly. "It is his damn job to keep that dog off your streets." The name tasted like ash on his tongue, a reminder of the powerful, merciless man who held the strings to their past and their future. There was no West End without Moraine Valez in it.

Jordan nodded, the motion stiff and painful. "You know that Valez would rather see me dead than back me up on those streets, and I wouldn't have it any other way. He wants his money now. Wants it yesterday."

"How much?" Askai's hand paused on the antiseptic bottle.

"Thirty grand."