The BMW pulled up to Uncle Desmond's house just as dawn fully broke over London. Pale morning light cast long shadows across the modest country-side home with a familiar blue door. For a moment, Amias simply sat in the back seat, watching the house as if it belonged to strangers. The events of the night had changed something fundamental within him—he could feel it, a shift in his core, something cold and resolute where uncertainty had once lived.
"You coming in, or what?" Wyge asked, glancing back at him from the driver's seat.
Amias nodded slowly, his movements deliberate as he pushed open the car door. The morning air felt impossibly clean after the stale confines of the café, the metallic scent of blood, the acrid smell of gunpowder. He drew it deep into his lungs, savoring the momentary clarity it brought.
A2 waited by the gate, eyeing Amias with unconcealed concern. "You look rough, fam."
"Feel rough," Amias admitted, his voice hoarse.
The wound on his cheek had dried to a dark crust, his clothes were rumpled and stained, and exhaustion hung on him like a physical weight. But it was more than that—his eyes had changed, holding something that hadn't been there before.
Wyge led the way to the door, not bothering to knock. Inside, the house was unnaturally quiet, the usual bustle of Uncle Desmond's household suspended in the aftermath of the night's violence. The television murmured in the living room, the sound turned low—a news anchor reporting on "multiple incidents of violence across West London overnight."
Amias paused in the hallway, suddenly hesitant. The normalcy of the house—the familiar scent of his uncle's air fresheners, the family photos lining the walls, his cousin's shoes scattered by the door—seemed almost offensive after what he'd just experienced. Like it belonged to another life, another Amias.
He rapped his knuckles gently against the living room wall, announcing his presence.
The reaction was immediate. His mother, who had been sitting rigidly on the edge of the sofa, her eyes fixed unseeing on the television, turned sharply at the sound. For a heartbeat, she simply stared at him, as if unable to process his presence. Then she was moving, crossing the room in three quick strides, her arms outstretched.
"Amias," she breathed, his name half prayer, half sob. "Oh my God, Amias."
He stepped into her embrace, allowing himself to be enfolded in her arms. She smelled of home—of the lavender lotion she always used, of the herbal tea she drank when stressed, of safety. For a moment, he was simply her son again, not the person who had stared down death hours earlier.
"I'm okay, Mum," he said softly, the words feeling hollow even as he spoke them. "I'm alright."
She pulled back slightly, her hands coming up to frame his face, eyes searching his. Her gaze caught on the dried blood on his cheek, and her expression crumpled.
"Oh, my boy," she whispered, tears spilling freely down her cheeks now. "My boy."
Something broke inside Amias then—a dam he hadn't known he'd built. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling over to track clean lines through the grime on his face. He didn't sob or shake; the tears simply came, silent testimony to the night's horrors.
His mother pulled him close again, her own body shaking with barely suppressed sobs. Over her shoulder, Amias saw Uncle Desmond watching from the doorway, his normally jovial face set in grim lines, eyes dark with concern and something harder—anger, perhaps, or resolve.
The moment stretched, suspended in amber. Then his mother released him, stepping back to wipe at her tears with trembling hands.
"You need to clean up," she said, visibly pulling herself together. "There's fresh clothes for you in your cousin's room. And then we need to talk."
Amias nodded, grateful for the brief reprieve. As he moved toward the stairs, Uncle Desmond stepped aside to let him pass, laying a heavy hand on his shoulder—a silent acknowledgment of what had transpired, what had been survived.
The bathroom mirror revealed a stranger—a gaunt-faced young man with bloodshot eyes and a raw graze along his cheekbone where Apannii's bullet had kissed his skin. Amias stared at his reflection, searching for some remnant of the person he'd been just twenty-four hours earlier. That Amias—student, occasional dealer, nephew, cousin, son—seemed impossibly distant now, a character in a story he'd once heard.
He showered mechanically, watching as blood and grime swirled down the drain. The hot water stung his various cuts and scrapes, each one a reminder of moments that now felt like fever dreams—the café standoff, Dyno's death, Capari's wounded leg, Apannii's revolver pressed against his temple.
Clean and dressed in fresh clothes that still smelled faintly of the fabric softener, Amias made his way back downstairs. Voices drifted from the kitchen—low, intense, punctuated by occasional bursts of profanity. As he approached, one voice rose above the others, familiar and commanding.
Oakley.
Amias paused in the doorway. Oakley—Central Cee to the world, but always just Oakley to family—stood with his back to the door, hands braced on the kitchen counter as he spoke to Wyge and A2, who sat at the table. Uncle Desmond leaned against the refrigerator, arms crossed over his chest, listening intently.
"—fucking stupid, man," Oakley was saying, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Moving with Capari and Dyno? What was he thinking?"
"He wasn't," Wyge replied flatly. "None of them were."
Amias cleared his throat, and four heads turned simultaneously in his direction. The sudden silence was heavy, weighted with unspoken accusations and concern.
Oakley straightened, his expression softening slightly as he took in Amias's appearance. "You look like shit, cuz."
"Feel it," Amias replied, moving into the kitchen to sink into an empty chair. The simple act of sitting felt monumental, his body suddenly reminding him of every blow, every fall, every moment of tension from the night before.
Oakley pulled out the chair opposite him, sitting down with deliberate slowness. "You know how dumb what you man did was, right?" he asked, voice deceptively quiet. "How many people got killed tonight? You have any idea what's happening out there right now?"
Amias met his gaze steadily. "I do."
"Police everywhere," Oakley continued, as if Amias hadn't spoken. "Ends is hot. Proper hot. And for what? Some bullshit beef that had nothing to do with you?"
"Had everything to do with me," Amias corrected softly. "They killed my friend."
"Yeah, and how many more dead now?" Oakley challenged. "How many more mothers crying tonight? And for what? You think any of this brings your friend back?"
Amias looked down at his hands—clean now, but he could still feel the sticky warmth of blood on them, could still see Dyno crumpling to the floor, could still hear Capari's scream as the bullet tore through his leg.
"No," he admitted. "Nothing brings him back."
"You messed up your whole operation, you know that?" Oakley continued, frustrated energy radiating from him. "Proper fucked your business. Got feds looking everywhere now."
Amias raised his head slowly, a strange half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I'm done with that anyway."
"What?"
"The weed. Dealing. All of it." Amias's voice was steady, resolved. "I'm not selling anymore."
Oakley stared at him, momentarily thrown by the unexpected response. "What you mean?"
"I mean I'm done," Amias repeated. "I'm giving it up. All of it."
A strange silence fell over the kitchen. Uncle Desmond shifted against the refrigerator, the soft squeak of his slippers against the linoleum abnormally loud in the quiet.
"Just like that?" Wyge asked finally.
"Just like that," Amias confirmed.
Later, back in the BMW, the four of them—Amias, Oakley, Wyge, and A2—sat in contemplative silence as they rolled through London's mid-morning traffic. Amias stared out the window, watching as the city continued its ordinary rhythms, oblivious to the night of violence that had just transpired, oblivious to the lives lost and the lives irrevocably changed.
"So," Oakley broke the silence, turning in the passenger seat to face Amias. "What's the word, cuz? We need to clean this up, make sure you don't end up in jail."
"There's something I need to sort first," Amias replied, his mind circling back to the anomaly in the night's chaos. "I need to find out how Temi knew what was happening. Why she warned me. Why she basically saved my life."
"Who is this girl, anyway?" Wyge asked, glancing at Amias in the rearview mirror.
"My classmate," Amias said. "She's been in your studio, Oaks. The quiet one."
Oakley frowned, searching his memory. "The one with the braids? Always taking notes about everything?"
"That's her."
"And how we gonna find her?" A2 asked. "She's not answering calls, right?"
Amias nodded, determination settling over him like a mantle. "She's not answering, but I know where to start looking for clues. Her mother's hair salon. That's where I got my hair done last time." He paused, remembering the warm space, the easy conversation, the familial atmosphere so at odds with the coldness he'd witnessed in Temi. "Something's not adding up with her, and I need to know what it is."
"Before any of that," Wyge interrupted, "you need to sort yourself out, fam. We got a lot of cleaning up to do."
For the first time since getting in the car, Amias really looked at himself in the side mirror. Despite the shower, despite the clean clothes, he was a mess. Dark circles shadowed his eyes like bruises, his face was drawn and pale, and there was something in his expression—a hollowness, a distance—that even he barely recognized.
What he did recognize, however, was the look of someone who had crossed a line and could never return. The look of someone who had stared into the abyss and found something staring back.
As the car turned onto the main road, sunlight flashed across the mirror, momentarily blinding him. In that instant of pure light, he could have sworn he saw another face superimposed over his own—older, harder, with cold eyes and a colder smile.
"Drop me at the salon," he said quietly. "I need to do this now."
Wyge and Oakley exchanged glances in the rearview mirror—a silent communication born of years of friendship and shared violence.
"Not alone," Oakley decided.
"I'll be fine," Amias insisted. "Her mum doesn't know me as any random customer."
Another loaded glance between the older men.
"Fine," Wyge conceded finally. "But we park up the road. Any sign of trouble, you call."
Amias nodded, grateful for the trust—however tentative. As they approached Ladbroke Grove, memories of his last visit to Shanelle's salon flickered through his mind: the comfortable chatter, the pride in her voice when speaking of her daughter, the easy way she'd welcomed him. It seemed impossible that those warm recollections belonged to the same world as last night's horrors.
Wyge pulled the BMW to a stop half a block from the salon. "We'll be right here," he said, his tone making it clear this wasn't a suggestion. "Don't do anything stupid."
"I just want answers," Amias replied, though even as he spoke the words, he wasn't entirely sure they were true.
The morning air felt sharp in his lungs as he stepped onto the pavement. Unlike his last visit, when the salon had been winding down for the day, now it hummed with early morning activity. Through the large front window, he could see several stylists already at work, the warm glow of the interior spilling out onto the street like an invitation.
The bell above the door chimed as he entered, the scent of hair products and essential oils enveloping him. Several heads turned briefly in his direction before returning to their work. Behind the reception desk, a young woman he didn't recognize looked up from her phone.
"Help you?"
"I'm looking for Shanelle," Amias said, trying to sound casual despite the tension coiling in his chest.
The woman gestured toward the back of the salon. "With a client. Want to wait?"
Amias nodded, taking a seat in one of the plush chairs near the entrance. From this vantage point, he could see Shanelle working on an older woman's hair, chatting animatedly as her hands moved with practiced precision. There was no recognition in her eyes when she glanced briefly in his direction—just the polite acknowledgment of a new customer.
He waited, watching the salon's routine unfold around him. Two stylists worked on elaborate braids, another applied a chemical treatment, all while music played softly in the background and conversation flowed. The normality of it all felt surreal after the chaos of the night before.
Twenty minutes passed before Shanelle finished with her client, sending the woman off with a warm smile and promises about next time. As she began cleaning her station, Amias approached, heart thudding against his ribs.
"Ms. Shanelle?"
She looked up, recognition dawning slowly on her features. "Oh—Amias," Her smile was professional, warm. "You need maintenance on those braids already?"
"Actually," he said, lowering his voice slightly, "I was wondering if you knew where Temi is. She's not answering my calls."
The change in Shanelle's demeanor was subtle but immediate. Her smile remained, but something shifted in her eyes—a wariness, a calculation. She took in his appearance properly now—the graze on his cheek, the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his posture.
"I don't suppose," she said carefully, "this has anything to do with what went on last night?"
The question hung between them, loaded with unspoken knowledge. Amias inhaled slowly, weighing his response. "She's the reason I'm standing here right now," he said finally, the simple truth more powerful than any elaborate explanation.
Shanelle considered him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a slight nod, she pulled her phone from her pocket and stepped away, turning her back as she made a call.
Amias watched as she spoke in low tones, too quiet for him to make out the words. The conversation was brief—barely thirty seconds—before she ended the call and returned to where he stood.
"Holland Park," she said quietly. "The small playground by the water gardens. She'll meet you there in half an hour."
Relief flooded through him. "Thank you."
Shanelle caught his arm as he turned to leave, her grip surprisingly strong. "Amias," she said, her voice pitched for his ears alone. "Be safe."
There was something in her eyes—a knowledge, a complicity—that suggested she understood far more than she was saying. Amias nodded, unsure how to respond to the unexpected show of concern from this woman who was, essentially, a stranger.
Outside, he slid back into the BMW, feeling the weight of three questioning gazes.
"Holland Park," he said simply. "She'll meet me there."
—
The playground sat nestled among trees, a small oasis of bright colors against the muted greens and browns of early spring. At this hour, it was deserted—the swings moving gently in the light breeze, the roundabout occasionally creaking as if haunted by the ghosts of children's laughter.
Amias approached slowly, every sense heightened. Despite Wyge's protests, he'd insisted on coming alone, compromising only by agreeing to keep his phone in his hand, one finger hovering over the call button. The BMW was parked just out of sight, beyond a small copse of trees, close enough to come running if needed.
Temi sat on one of the swings, her back to him, braids cascading down her back. She didn't turn as he approached, though he made no effort to mask his footsteps on the gravel path.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," she said as he circled around to face her.
Up close, she looked as exhausted as he felt. The carefully cultivated image she maintained at school—pristine uniform, immaculate makeup, that infuriating half-smile of superiority—had crumbled. Here was a different Temi: bare-faced, dressed in a simple hoodie and jeans, eyes shadowed with the same haunted look he'd seen in his own reflection.
"So," he said, taking the swing beside her, "how exactly did you know what was happening last night?"
She shook her head, a humorless smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Let me start," she said quietly. "With all my heart, I wish this could have played out different."
Amias waited, sensing the weight of whatever she was about to share.
"Her name was Aisha," Temi began, her eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance. "She transferred to Chelsea Academy in Year 10. We had English together. She sat in front of me." A ghost of a smile crossed her face. "Always had these gold earrings shaped like little stars. Said they were from her grandmother."
The swing creaked as Temi pushed herself back and forth slightly, the movement almost unconscious.
"We became friends. The kind where you just... click, you know? She'd come to the salon after school sometimes. My mum loved her, said she was a good influence." A bitter laugh escaped her. "She was. Straight-A student. Wanted to be a doctor."
Amias remained silent, watching as Temi's face shifted through emotions—fondness, pain, anger—each one bleeding into the next.
"It was my fault," she continued, her voice dropping lower. "She met Apannii through me. At a party my cousin was throwing. I should have warned her about him, about what he was like, but I didn't think..." She trailed off, swallowing hard. "I didn't think he'd go after her. She wasn't like the girls he usually went for."
A cold feeling settled in Amias's stomach as pieces began to click into place. The story Apannii had told during the Russian roulette game—the friend of his cousin from Chelsea Academy, the one he'd raped and murdered along with her mother...
"She turned him down," Temi continued, confirming his suspicion. "Multiple times. He wasn't used to that. Guys like Apannii, they think they're entitled to whatever they want. And when they don't get it..."
Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the swing chains. "One weekend, she stopped answering my texts. Monday came, she wasn't at school. Tuesday, Wednesday—nothing. I went to her house after school on Thursday. No one answered."
Temi's voice had taken on a detached quality, as if she were reciting events that had happened to someone else.
"The following Monday, my mum heard something from one of her clients. Police activity down by the canal. They were fishing something out of the water." She closed her eyes briefly. "It was Aisha. And they found her mother in their flat. Stabbed."
The playground seemed to grow quieter, as if the world itself were holding its breath in respect for the horror of her words.
"The police said it was a home invasion gone wrong. But I knew. I'd heard Apannii bragging to his friends at another party. Didn't mention names, but..." She shook her head. "I knew."
"Did you report it?" Amias asked, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.
"I told my dad," Temi said, a flash of anger crossing her face. "He has—connections. Influence in certain circles. Know what he did? Called Apannii's father. Had a 'man-to-man' talk. Apannii got a scolding, probably a slap on the wrist. And that was it." Her laugh was hollow, empty. "That was justice for Aisha."
The parallels were impossible to ignore. Mason's death—Amias's own quest for vengeance—it was a mirror image of Temi's story, played out with different actors but the same director.
"After that, I decided I'd handle it myself," Temi continued. "I started collecting information. Following movements. Learning patterns. I'd feed information to rivals, stir up beef, give people his location. But I had to be careful. Even though my brothers and my dad would never let anything happen to me, I never knew what Apannii might do if he found out."
She turned to look at him fully for the first time, her eyes searching his face. "And then you came along. Central Cee's cousin. With connections to 12Anti. It was like—I don't know, like the universe was finally giving me a chance."
"So you were using me," Amias said, the words not a question but a statement, flat and without accusation.
"I was using you to get to your cousin, to Wyge, to anyone who could take down Apannii," she admitted. "I've never taken you for a killer, Amias. That's not who you are."
He wasn't sure whether to be flattered or insulted by her assessment.
"How did you pull it off?" he asked. "How did you know where we were last night?"
Temi sighed, pushing her braids back from her face. "I've had eyes on Apannii for over a year now. People who owe me favors, people who hate him as much as I do. When I found out you and your crew were going after him, I tried to warn you. But it was too late."
"And yet, here I am," Amias said. "Alive because of you."
She didn't respond to that, instead lowering her voice further. "Apannii is in cohorts with one of your friends, by the way. That's how he knew where your apartment was. They scoped it out at a warehouse nearby to confirm. They've been helping Apannii track you down."
The words hit Amias like a physical blow. He felt his mind kick into analytical overdrive, racing through possibilities.
If it was Tyler or Jordan, Apannii would have caught him long ago. He was always with them, practically living in each other's pockets. If it was Zane, that made no sense—they'd hospitalized him. Unless they decided he wasn't needed anymore...
But then again, Zane had probably heard his apartment being broke into and rushed in...
"He beat one of Apannii's runners with a pipe this night," Temi continued, as if reading his thoughts. "E-something is his name."
Amias went still.
E?
E?
"Ekane?"
"Well, I don't know his name," Temi shrugged, "but they call him E-Slime."
"Yeah..." Amias said slowly, pieces falling into place. Ekane had been acting strange all night. Before that, he was oddly inquisitive. Always asking about his movements, always conveniently absent when things went down. The connection to Apannii explained so much.
A new thought formed, dangerous but potentially useful.
"If Ekane were to find out my location right now," he said carefully, "if I was alone, nearby, convenient—would Apannii come?"
Temi's eyes sharpened, understanding dawning. "I heard he was pissed, been rolling around looking to catch you off guard." She nodded slowly. "Yes. He'd come."
Amias nodded, a plan already forming. "You want Apannii dead," he said simply. "So do I. Help me get this done."
A smile spread across Temi's face—sweet, incongruous with the darkness of their conversation. "Of course," she said, reaching for his hand. "Where shall we start?"
Her fingers were cold against his palm, her touch light. But as their eyes met, Amias felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. There was something in her gaze—a calculated hunger, a ruthlessness—that made him wonder if he'd just made a deal with a devil he didn't fully understand.