Chapter 1: The Spark of Change
The South Side of Chicago hummed with its usual rhythm—car horns blaring down 63rd Street, the faint pulse of drill music spilling from a passing Chevy, and the chatter of kids weaving through sidewalks cracked by time. Kevin Williams, barely 14, stood outside the corner store, his school uniform slightly wrinkled, the navy polo untucked at the back. His backpack sagged heavy with books and a beat-up Game Boy he'd been tinkering with all summer. The August sun baked the asphalt, and sweat beaded on his forehead as he squinted toward the intersection, waiting for Jake Taylor, his best friend since third grade. They were supposed to hit the arcade, a ritual to squeeze the last drops out of summer before school locked them back into algebra and essays.
Kevin's sneakers scuffed the pavement as he shifted his weight, replaying the day in his head. He'd spent lunch sketching pixelated characters in his notebook—ideas for a game he swore he'd code one day. Jake had peeked over, snorted, and said, "Man, you still on that nerd shit?" The words stung, but Kevin brushed them off, like always. Jake was his boy—rough around the edges but loyal. At least, that's what Kevin told himself. He ignored the nagging memory of last month, when Jake had asked out Andrea, the girl Kevin had been crushing on since spring. Kevin had spent weeks hyping himself up to talk to her, only to see Jake slide in first, flashing that easy grin, knowing full well how Kevin felt. "She wasn't even your type," Jake had said later, tossing Kevin a half-hearted dap. Kevin swallowed the hurt, chalking it up to Jake being Jake.
The store's bell jingled, snapping Kevin back. He glanced at his phone—4:17 p.m. Jake was late. Again. Across the street, a group of older dudes lounged near a hydrant, their eyes scanning every passerby. Kevin recognized one—Reg, a 63rd Street Mob shot-caller who always seemed to know when trouble was brewing. Kevin's stomach tightened. He'd seen enough to know the block could turn in a second, like it had for Coogie, his friend who'd caught a stray bullet just weeks ago. The image of Coogie's body, sprawled in an alley, flashed in Kevin's mind—blood pooling, eyes blank. Kevin had been there, frozen, when Ronnie pulled the trigger. He hadn't told a soul, not even Jake. The secret sat heavy, like a brick in his chest.
A familiar laugh cut through the haze. Jake strutted up, his Jordans gleaming, a cherry-red Slurpee in hand. "Yo, my bad, fam," Jake said, tossing Kevin a nod. "Got caught up with Jemma." Kevin's ears perked at the name—Jemma, his girlfriend of four months, the one who'd smiled at him during history class and made his palms sweat. Jake smirked, slurping his drink. "She was lookin' right today, though. You holdin' it down with her, huh?" Something in Jake's tone felt off, like he was testing Kevin, but Kevin couldn't pin it down. He forced a grin. "Yeah, we good."
They started toward the arcade, weaving past a mural of fallen locals, names Kevin knew too well. Jake kept talking—about some party, about Reg owing him a favor, about how he was "movin' up" on the block. Kevin half-listened, his eyes catching a flyer for a coding workshop taped to a pole. He slowed, reading the details—free, downtown, next Saturday. "Yo, check this," Kevin said, pointing. "Could be dope for my game stuff." Jake glanced, then chuckled. "Man, you think them tech dudes care about us? Stick to what you know." The dismissal hit Kevin harder than usual. He opened his mouth to argue but stopped. Why bother? Jake always had a way of making him feel small for dreaming bigger than the block.
At the arcade, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the clatter of claw machines. Kevin fed quarters into a Street Fighter cabinet, his fingers flying over the controls. Jake leaned against the machine, scrolling his phone, barely watching. "Yo, Jemma just texted," Jake said, smirking again. "Said she might swing by later." Kevin's combo faltered; Ryu took a hit on-screen. "She didn't tell me that," Kevin said, trying to sound casual. Jake shrugged. "Guess she figured I'd pass it on." Kevin's grip tightened on the joystick. He didn't like how Jake said her name, like it was his to hold.
The night took a turn when Jake's phone buzzed with a text from Reg. Jake's vibe shifted—less playful, more cagey. "I gotta handle somethin' real quick," he said, pocketing his phone. "Come with?" Kevin hesitated. He knew "somethin'" with Reg usually meant trouble—weed runs, lookouts, worse. "Nah, I'ma finish this round," Kevin said, eyes on the screen. Jake sucked his teeth. "Aight, but don't cry when I'm eatin' and you still broke." He dapped Kevin and bounced, leaving Kevin alone under the arcade's flickering lights.
Kevin's character went down in a blaze of pixelated fire. He stepped back, the weight of the day settling in. Jake's laugh, his jabs, the way he'd mentioned Jemma—it all churned in Kevin's gut. Then came the memory of Coogie, and Ronnie's gun, and how Kevin had run home that night, too scared to speak. He wasn't that kid anymore. Or he didn't want to be. He pulled out his phone, snapped a pic of the coding flyer, and texted his sister Kiesha: You think I could do this tech shit? Her reply came quick: Hell yeah, lil bro. You smarter than half these fools.
Outside, the city buzzed on, indifferent. Kevin slung his backpack higher, glancing at the spot where Jake had vanished. Something clicked—a spark, small but stubborn. He was tired of following, tired of swallowing slights, tired of being the kid who got played. Tomorrow, he'd call Jemma himself. He'd hit up that workshop. He'd start paying attention. Kevin stepped into the night, his shadow stretching long behind him, not quite sure where he was headed but knowing he wasn't turning back.