CHAPTER 111

CHAPTER 111
"Did you hear that?" I halted, the heel of my boot scraping the sidewalk.

Arizen glanced at me, her eyebrows furrowed beneath the dim glow of the streetlight. "Hear what?"

"That sound. Like a—" I broke off, head tilted to one side. "Never mind."

She snorted, plucking a piece of lint from her coat. "You're just adrenaline-stoked. Your photo gallery sold out. You're basically a legend now."

I gave her a tired smile. "A haunted one, maybe."

The evening air had cooled, wrapping itself around us like silk woven from secrets. The gallery buzz had left a residual film in its aftermath—compliments, camera flashes, strangers taking my hand as if they were friends. For once, it wasn't about Tony. Or that photo. Or what I'd done. It was about my work. Me.

Arizen's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and scrunched up her face. "Ugh, my brother. Drama. I'll Uber home. You good to walk the rest?"

I nodded. "I need air anyway."

She gave me a quick hug. "Don't stay too long in your head, Kenz. That's where the monsters are.

I saw her off, swallowed up in the glow of the streetlights. Then I cut into the darker alley that bisected the rear of the art school—the shortcut. My shortcut.

The silence was. odd. New York silence isn't silent, not really. There's always something underlying: a thrum of tires, some guy cursing into a phone, jazz leaking from a window. But now—

Nothing.

Then, a scream. Shrill. Human. Close.

I froze.

The sound tore through the night like an alarm. And then—

Footsteps. Stumbling. Unsteady.

Someone staggered out of the alley. Stumbling. Covered in—

Blood.

They collided with me. I barely caught them as they collapsed into my chest, panting rough, body trembling. I opened my mouth to scream—

But then I saw his face.

"Wells?" I whispered.

His eyes were wild. One was half swollen shut. Blood trickled from his temple, soaked his shirt, and stained the front of mine.

He seized my shoulders, firmly. "They know," he snarled. "Mackenzie—they know. It's not over."

"What? Who—"

He collapsed to his knees, clutching his side. I tried to hold him steady, but his weight was slipping away. I caught a glint of something under his jacket—metal? A knife?

His blood smeared on my arms as I embraced him.

"Wells," I said again, louder this time. "Who did this?"

"Thatch," he gasped. "Was supposed to be—just a scare. But he…"

Sirens.

In the distance. Getting closer.

He fell completely into me.

I looked down—my hands were red. Warm. Sticky. Familiar.

The same as the day of the fight. The same day I took the photo that ruined everything.

The same as always.

The police came fast. Someone must've already called. They shouted, flashed lights, ordered me to step back.

I stood in shock as they loaded Wells, alive but dying, into an ambulance. One officer asked my name. I gave it. Another asked what I'd seen. I couldn't answer.

How do you explain the breaking down of a truth that hasn't even arrived yet?

One of them was talking on a radio. I caught the terms "gang altercation" and "weaponized." And I heard my name.

My hands shook. My head reeled.

Wells mentioned Thatch.

And they know.

But who the heck is they?

\---
I was brought to the station for a brief time—routine, they said. Witness statement. I had not much to give. Just broken bits: walking home, a scream, Wells bleeding in my arms.

They let me go around 2 a.m.

I didn't call Tony. I didn't know how.

So I walked.

Back to campus. Past the old football field where it all started. Past the dorm where Tony first slammed the wall beside my face and told me I broke him. Past the alley where I saw him hit a guy twice his size for sticking up for someone else.

Everything was a haze.

Until—

"Hey."

I turned.

Tony was under a streetlight. Like a ghost conjured up by blood. His hoodie was open and his jaw was set.

"You okay?" he asked.

I looked at him. "Why are you here?"

"I heard."

"From who?"

He hesitated. "Queens called me. Said the gallery closed early. Then a cop I know texted me. Said you were found covered in blood."

I laughed bitterly. "History repeating itself, huh?"

He came closer. "Is it yours?"

"No."

"Whose?"

I met his gaze. "Wells."

His expression barely altered—but his fists clenched. "Alive?"

"Barely. He talked before he blacked out. Said… they know. Said it's not over."

Tony's jaw set. "Who's they?"

"I don't know. But he said Thatch went too far."

Tony cursed beneath his breath.

I narrowed my eyes. "Tell me the truth, Tony. Was this your plan?"

He didn't answer.

"Don't you dare die now," I spat. "Because I've bled for your secrets. I've burned for your redemption. I've lost because of what you've made me see."

His voice was low, dark. "You think I ordered Wells to get stabbed?"

"I think you've lost control of the fire you started."

He thrust a hand through his hair, stepping backward. "This wasn't me. I commanded Thatch to stop. To stand down. He went rogue. He's spiraling."

"Spiraling into what?"

Tony looked at me, eyes flashing. "A war."

I sucked in a breath. "Against whom?"

Tony's silence was response enough.

He had no clue.

Maybe everybody.

\---

Later, I sat by myself in my room, a wet cloth still absorbing the blood on my arms. My camera sat by the window, untouched.

I opened my laptop.

Typed in: Wells Ambrose stabbing, campus violence, breaking news.

Nothing. Yet.

But it was coming.

I clicked over to a folder. The one labeled "Darkroom."

Photos. So many photos. Of Tony. Of Thatch. Of the wreckage of that one fight. The viral photo still stood in the header of my search results.

Now, I had another.

A mental image.

Wells in my arms, whispering: They know.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.

I had only wanted peace. A gallery. A future. A way out.

Instead, blood followed me again.

And this time, it whispered my name.

\---
___

I picked up my phone. Typed a message to Arizen. Deleted it.

Typed another to Queens. Deleted that too.

What was I to say?

Instead, I opened my notes app. Began writing—

A new story. A new truth.
Maybe love was never the goal.
Maybe it was just the eye of the storm.
\---
___

Final Line:

"I thought the story ended with love. But maybe love was only the prelude to the war that followed."