She beat me in the race AGAIN.
<>
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Dyno's body jerked with each impact a marionette with its strings suddenly cut. He staggered backward, his expression frozen in that manic grin even as the blood blossomed across his chest. Knife clattering to the floor, eyes wide with surprise rather than fear. Then he crumpled, folding in on himself.
For a moment, no one moved. The silence that followed the gunshots seemed to stretch into eternity, broken only by the soft whimpering of Tyler, face still buried against Marcus's chest.
Jaime stood motionless, the gun still raised, smoke curling from its barrel. His eyes were locked on Dyno's fallen form, his breathing shallow and rapid. Behind him, Elijah stared, mouth open in shock, his protective stance forgotten.
Through the bedroom doorway, Amias watched it all unfold as if in slow motion. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Dyno's body, the growing pool of blood beneath it. The man who had seemed unstoppable just moments ago, now reduced to a lifeless heap on the floor.
Capari appeared beside him, face drained of color. "Shit," he whispered. "Shit, shit, shit."
The gun in Jaime's hand shifted, barrel now pointing directly at Amias's chest. Not to Capari who maneuvered behind the wall.
Jaime's eyes, red-rimmed and filled with tears, locked with his. There was no hesitation there, just raw pain and a terrible resolve.
"You," Jaime said, his voice breaking. "You fuckers killed my cousin."
Amias didn't raise his hands. His breath became labored, each inhale feeling like it might be his last. He became acutely aware of the knife still clutched in his own hand, useless against the weapon trained on him.
"Wait," he managed, the word barely audible.
Jaime jerked the gun, making Amias flinch. "For what?" he demanded, voice rising. "You killed my cousin! For what? He didn't kill nobody, he didn't shoot nobody. All he does is sell weed!"
Each movement of the gun sent a jolt of terror through Amias's body, but he remained rooted to the spot. Behind Jaime, the three younger boys watched with wide, terrified eyes. The youngest—Amias guessed—had his hands over his ears, tears streaming down his face.
"You people don't deserve to live," Jaime continued, stepping forward, tears now flowing freely down his cheeks. His eyes were red, bloodshot, filled with a grief so profound it seemed to hollow him out from within.
Amias stood silent. In that moment, all he could see was himself laid out on that floor like Dyno, blood pooling beneath him, life draining away. But strangely, he didn't feel the panic he expected. Instead, a calm resignation washed over him. He closed his eyes, not making peace with death exactly, but accepting its possibility.
With his eyes closed, memories rushed in, vivid and clear as if he were reliving them.
—
The plane from Texas hummed beneath them, the vibration a constant reminder of their escape. His mother sat beside him, her face turned toward the window, but Amias knew she wasn't seeing the clouds or the endless blue. Her mind was back in Texas, with everything they'd left behind.
Amias was eleven, old enough to understand they were running, young enough to still believe running could solve things. His father, Raymond Mars, had stood in the driveway as they left, not trying to stop them, just watching with those cold eyes. Beside him, the woman Amias had never met before, holding the hand of a little girl who looked just enough like Amias to make his stomach hurt.
His half-sister. The daughter his father had fathered behind his mother's back. The final betrayal that had broken what little remained of their family.
The flight attendant passed by, offering drinks. His mother declined without looking away from the window. Amias asked for apple juice, feeling oddly grown-up as he thanked the woman and carefully balanced the plastic cup on his tray.
"You okay, Mum?" he asked quietly.
She turned then, her face composed into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "We're going to be fine, love," she said, reaching over to squeeze his hand. "We'll be with family soon. Uncle Desmond and the cousins. You remember them from the video calls?"
Amias nodded, though the faces in those occasional Skype sessions were blurry in his memory. Uncle Desmond with his booming laugh. Cousins whose names ran together—Oakley standing out only because he was the oldest.
"Will Dad come find us?" Amias asked, the question that had been gnawing at him since they packed their suitcases in the dark.
His mother's smile faltered, then steadied. "No, love. He won't."
The certainty in her voice should have been comforting, but something in Amias knew it was a lie. Raymond Mars wasn't a man who let things go easily. Not his business with Tango Blast, not his other women, and certainly not his son.
But for now, they were flying away, putting an ocean between themselves and Raymond Mars. And Amias tried to believe that would be enough.
—
Landing at Heathrow was a blur of customs forms and luggage retrieval. Uncle Desmond waited beyond the gates, a short man with the same smile as Amias' mother, arms open wide.
"Adrianna!" he called, gathering Amias' mother into a crushing hug that lifted her off her feet. "Welcome home, little sister."
Then his attention turned to Amias, dark eyes appraising him from head to toe. "And this must be young Amias. Last time I saw you, you were just a baby."
Amias stood awkwardly, suddenly shy under the scrutiny of this stranger who was supposedly family. Uncle Desmond seemed to sense his discomfort and didn't force a hug, just clapped a hand on his shoulder, nearly buckling Amias' knees with the weight of it.
"Come on then," Uncle Desmond said, taking their largest suitcase. "Car's outside. Everyone's waiting to meet you."
The drive to Brixton was a sensory overload—the wrong-side driving, the narrow streets, the press of buildings so different from the sprawling Texas landscapes Amias was used to. His mother seemed to come alive, though, pointing out landmarks, reminiscing with her brother about places from their childhood.
Uncle Desmond's house was a modest one-story in a row of similar homes, distinguished only by the bright blue door and the small garden out front, carefully tended despite the urban setting. As they pulled up, the door flew open and a stream of people poured out—Aunt Marie, cousins of varying ages, neighbors curious about the newcomers.
Amias hung back as his mother was engulfed in hugs and exclamations. The noise was overwhelming after the quiet of their life in Texas, where his father's temper had taught them both to move silently, to exist without disturbing the air.
"You look lost."
Amias turned to find a boy regarding him with amused eyes. Older, maybe fifteen or sixteen, with the easy confidence of someone comfortable in his own skin. He wore a tracksuit that looked expensive, his hair long and flowing.
"Oakley," the boy introduced himself, holding out a fist.
Amias bumped it awkwardly. "Amias."
"I know who you are, cuz," Oakley laughed. "Been waiting to meet you. Heard you're staying with us for a bit."
Amias nodded, unsure what to say.
"Don't worry," Oakley continued, slinging an arm around Amias's shoulders. "I'll show you how things work around here. By next week, you'll be proper London, innit?"
Something in Oakley's easy acceptance eased the knot in Amias's chest. Here was someone who didn't look at him and see Raymond Mars' son, didn't see the broken pieces of a family fled across an ocean. Oakley just saw a cousin, a new friend, someone to bring into the fold.
"Come on," Oakley said, steering him toward the house. "Let's get your stuff inside. Then I'll show you my PlayStation. You play FIFA?"
—
Years later, Amias would look back on those first months in London as a time of strange contradictions—the grief of what they'd left behind mingling with the excitement of discovery. Oakley—who would later become known to the world as Central Cee—had been his guide, his protector, his brother in all the ways that mattered.
It was Oakley who introduced him to Wyge. Before Zara helped him navigate the complex social hierarchies of school. It was Oakley who taught him the slang, the mannerisms, the unwritten rules of the world.
And it was Oakley, ultimately, who showed him that family wasn't always about blood, but about who stood beside you when the world turned cold.
—
The memory shifted, dissolved, reformed. Texas again, but earlier, before everything fell apart.
Amias was eight, standing at the edge of Lake Travis, the water stretching out before him like another world. The summer heat beat down, making the surface shimmer with invitation.
"You scared?" Raymond Mars asked, standing beside him. His father was younger then, his face not yet hardened by the years, his smile still coming easily.
Amias nodded, eyes fixed on the depths. "What if there're alligators?"
Raymond laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "No gators here, son. Just fish and turtles. Nothing gonna hurt you while I'm around."
"I can't swim," Amias admitted, the confession feeling like failure.
"That's why we're here," Raymond said, crouching down to Amias's level. "Every Mars man needs to know how to swim. It's tradition."
His father's hands were gentle as they guided Amias into the shallows, explaining about floating, about trusting the water to hold him. When Amias still hesitated, Raymond scooped him up without warning and tossed him into deeper water.
The panic was immediate, overwhelming. Amias flailed, water filling his mouth, terror gripping his chest. Then strong hands caught him, lifted him, held him secure against a broad chest.
"I got you," Raymond's voice said close to his ear. "I always got you. Now, let's try again. But this time, don't fight the water. Work with it."
Hour after hour, they practiced. Raymond endlessly patient, Amias determined to master this challenge. By sunset, Amias was swimming—not gracefully, but confidently enough to cross the small cove and back without his father's support.
On the shore, as they dried off, Raymond pulled him into a rare hug. "Proud of you, son," he said, his voice gruff with an emotion Amias didn't recognize then. "You're a quick learner. Got your old man's natural talent."
For years, that day remained one of Amias's most treasured memories—a perfect afternoon with the father who, more often than not, existed as a distant figure, away on "business" or locked in his study with men whose hard eyes made Amias uneasy.
He couldn't know then how that simple lesson would shape his future—how years later, in England, he would join a swimming club and discover his father's words had been true. He did have a natural talent. At Chelsea Academy, he broke records, won regionals, qualified for nationals. In the water, he found a place where the complexity of his life fell away, where he was defined not by what he came from but by what he could do.
In the water, he was neither Texan nor Londoner, neither running nor standing ground. He was simply Amias Mars, moving through the world on his own terms.
Another shift, another memory.
London, Hyde Park. His mother laughing as she pushed him on a swing, her face younger, lighter than he'd seen it in years. The worries of money, of building a new life, temporarily set aside.
"Higher, Mum!" he called, and she obliged, her strength surprising for her slender frame.
"Be careful what you wish for!" she teased, giving an extra-strong push that sent him soaring.
For an afternoon, they were just a mother and son enjoying the park, their complicated past an ocean away.
…
The memories faded, reality reasserting itself. Amias opened his eyes to find Jaime still standing before him, gun aimed at his chest, tears still streaming down his face.
Time seemed suspended as they stared at each other—two young men caught on opposite sides of a war neither had started. In Jaime's eyes, Amias saw his own reflection—the same fear, the same grief, the same desperate wish that things could be different.
Jaime's finger tightened on the trigger. Amias tensed, waiting for the explosion of pain, the darkness.
Click.
The gun had jammed.
Jaime's eyes widened in disbelief, gaze dropping to the weapon in his hand. When he looked back up, he noticed for the first time the knife still clutched in Amias's grip.
They stared at each other, locked in a moment of terrible understanding. Behind him, Amias heard a whispered, "Did it jam?"
Amias's mind raced. He could lunge forward now, use the knife while Jaime was still processing the gun's failure. He could end this, right here, right now.
But then his eyes moved past Jaime to the three younger boys huddled against the wall. Their faces, streaked with tears, filled with terror. Watching their older brother—their protector—face death at the hands of strangers who had invaded their home.
Slowly, deliberately, Amias took a step back. Then another.
"No," he said quietly, the lie coming easily. "It's not jammed."
Understanding dawned in Jaime's eyes—surprise, confusion, the faintest flicker of relief.
He retreated through the doorway, feeling Capari's presence close behind him. They moved quickly through the apartment, not running but not lingering either. Leon's body still lay where he had fallen, blood pooling beneath him. Amias stepped around it, refusing to look.
Outside, the night air hit him like a physical force, cool against his overheated skin. They descended the stairs at a run, no one speaking until they reached the van parked below.
Capari slammed the door after them, then brought his fist down hard against the steering wheel. "Damn it, Dyno!" he shouted. "Damn it, damn it, damn it!"
Ekane sat in the back, face grim. "Fuck, man," he muttered. "Fuck."
Amias leaned his head against the window, the cool glass a small relief against his pounding temples. The image of Dyno falling, blood blossoming across his chest, played on a loop in his mind. He'd seen violence before—the night Mason died, those bodies in the wood, the man he killed, the shopkeeper's son beneath Dyno's boot.
Capari sat motionless behind the wheel, his knuckles white where they gripped it. Amias could sense the conflict in him—torn between heading back to finish what they'd started or cutting their losses and retreating.
"Well," Ekane said into the tense silence, "that's another of ours down."
There was something in his tone that made Amias glance at him sharply. Ekane met his gaze, then looked away, pulling out a burner phone from his pocket.
"Got word," he said, nodding to Taiwo beside him. He showed the screen to Capari. "Man sent a pic."
Capari leaned over to look, his expression darkening. "MGZ," he said. "Where's this?"
"Down at some apartment block," Ekane replied. "Flat 55B, Westbourne Gardens."
Capari's jaw tightened. "They're not on roads?"
"Apparently not," Ekane shrugged. "But man said bare men just left the area, probably to spin through our endz."
A cold fury settled over Capari's features, breaking through his usual nonchalance for the first time that night. "Yeah, yeah," he said, already turning the key in the ignition. "Let's do this."
Amias, still thinking more clearly than the others, put a hand on Capari's arm. "Wait, bro," he said. "We should get more gear. You want to roll up on him with just knives and two guns?"
Capari froze, then nodded sharply. "Right." He swerved the van suddenly, making everyone in the back lurch sideways, and accelerated back toward their own territory.
The ride passed in tense silence, each man lost in his own thoughts. When they reached the estate, Amias didn't linger with the others. The feeling of having a gun pointed at his chest, of staring death in the face, had left him with an urgent need to hear his mother's voice, to know she was safe.
He made his way to the empty flat where they kept their phones. Opening it up, he reached for his personal phone, thinking only of calling his mother.
But as he unlocked the screen, a notification caught his eye. Temi.
His first instinct was to ignore it. After what he'd just experienced, whatever party drama Temi wanted to discuss seemed trivial, meaningless.
Then his eyes caught the preview text, and his heart stuttered.
"...Apannii...don't go...trap..."
He opened the message, blood running cold as he read the full text:
"You're looking for Apannii, right? And you got his location? Don't go. It's a trap."
Confusion flooded him.
How could Temi possibly know about Apannii?
How could she know they had his location?
He called immediately, but the phone rang through to voicemail.
He tried again.
And again.
For four minutes, he stood there, staring at the phone, trying to make sense of what was happening.
"What the hell," he muttered. "How..."
The phone buzzed in his hand, Temi's name flashing on the screen. He answered instantly.
"Amias," her voice came through, urgent, afraid.
"How the hell do you know—" he began.
"Just don't go to that location," she cut him off. "I really don't want you to die."
Amias strained to hear background noise, expecting the sounds of the party they'd been at earlier. But there was nothing—no music, no voices, just a tense silence.
"Temi, what's going on? How do you know about—"
The call disconnected.
Amias stared at the dark screen, confusion giving way to a creeping dread. "Temi..." he whispered.
The phone remained silent in his hand, offering no answers, only new questions that twisted in his gut like a knife.