Time don’t heal in the hood.
It just teaches. Slow, brutal lessons that carve themselves into your bones. Teaches you how to strike first, how to shut up and keep moving, how to recognize betrayal by the sound of footsteps behind you. In the hood, silence was gospel and loyalty was gold. Everything else could get you killed.
Jay was ten when he learned the rules of the street.
With a Glock in one hand.
“Yo, lil' Jay!” Marcus barked, tossing a duffel bag into the back of a rusted van. Its back doors creaked like they were protesting the weight of another bad decision.
Jay stood at the corner, barely tall enough to see through the passenger window. His hoodie was two sizes too big, his yellow eyes narrowed under the brim of a beatup cap.
“You keepin’ lookout like I told you, yeah?”
Jay gave a curt nod. “The dude inside’s limpin’. Left leg drags a little. Saw him reach for a keyring three times before gettin’ it in.”
Marcus cracked a grin. “Atta boy. Good eye. Always clock the details.”
Behind him, Smoke, a lanky feline dude with twitchy hands and a lip scar that made his mouth look like a cracked egg, leaned in.
“You really bringin’ this kid on a job?”
Marcus didn’t even turn around. “He smarter than half y’all. He don’t flinch. lil' Jay learns fast.”
Jay didn’t react. Just kept watching the pawn shop from across the street. Old man Gutierrez’s spot. Security was low, cameras barely functional, and Marcus had inside info about a dirty cash drop behind the register.
Simple. Clean. Until it wasn’t.
Alarms blared like a war horn. Jay’s heart jumped, but his feet were already moving.
A side door burst open. Security guard, hand on his belt, reaching.
Jay didn’t hesitate.
He sprinted.
Fast, low, hard.
He slammed into the man’s knees with everything he had, knocking the wind out of both of them.
“Yo he here!” Jay shouted, voice cutting through the chaos.
The guard hit the pavement hard. Then came the others. Fists, boots, one flash of a baton before it was dropped. Noise exploded around him. Gunfire cracked behind them.
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BANG! BANG! BANG!1!!!11!
Jay hit the ground. Pain seared through his shoulder as a bullet skimmed his arm.
He gritted his teeth.
Didn’t scream.
Didn’t cry.
Just clenched his jaw and dragged himself behind a dumpster as someone yanked his hoodie and pulled him out of the line of fire.
Later, in a gutted-out apartment with a leaky roof and mold up the walls, Marcus wrapped Jay’s arm with a grimy bandana. The kind of place no cop would ever bother looking.
“You good?” Marcus asked, tone casual, but his hands were careful.
Jay stared at the cracked paint on the wall. “Yea.”
“You froze up?”
Jay turned to face him, yellow eyes fierce.
“Sh*t got me pissed when I missed the guy’s jaw. Next time I’m goin’ for the throat.”
Marcus paused, then gave a tired, proud smirk. “That’s my boy.”
The years didn’t wait.
Jay was schooled in alleyways and basements, trained in closequarters sparring and long range fire from rooftops. He learned to break down a pistol blindfolded, learned how to tell if someone was lying by how their hands moved.
“Keep your stance wide. Eyes up. Chin tucked, Jay.” Marcus growled during their sessions.
Jay bobbed, weaved, then snapped a low kick. He swept Marcus’s legs clean from under him.
The older man hit the mat with a grunt.
“Damn, lil’ wolf!” Marcus coughed. “You tryna knock me into next week?”
Jay just grinned. “You said don’t go easy.”
Later, Marcus handed him a handgun. Heavy. Cold. Real.
“This ain’t no toy. You pull this, you mean it.”
Jay checked the clip, thumbed the safety off with fluid grace.
“I always do, old man.”
That night, the apartment was dim. Cluttered. The hum of a busted radiator in the corner. The air thick with smoke, cheap fried rice on the table, and the sharp tang of gun oil. Jay sat on a ragged couch, arm bandaged, gaze low.
Marcus was across from him watching an analog TV, sat on a slouched in a chair with a bottle of brown liquor in one hand, a cigarette dying slow between his fingers.
The quiet stretched.
Jay finally broke it.
“So yo…Why ain't I be lookin' like you?”
Marcus didn’t answer at first. Just stared at the bottle, then up at the boy.
“You really wanna know?”
Jay hesitated, then nodded.
Marcus sighed, exhaling smoke from his nose like a dragon tired of burning things. “Aight. You old enough.”
He set the bottle down.
“Yo' mom...” he began, voice cold “was supposed to be mine. Ride or die. She knew what this life was. But she went and gave herself to one of them.”
Jay’s ears twitched.
“You ever wonder why I ain't no leave you behind?” Marcus asked. “Why I ain’t tossin' you in a damn ditch like she did?”
Jay didn’t blink.
“’Cause blood ain't gon' mean shit...” Marcus growled.
“What matters is loyalty. What matters is survival. And she? She chose him. Some beast ass lookin that got into her head with pretty words and fake promises.”
He pointed to Jay’s face. “That fur? Those eyes? That’s him. Ain't me. Not this hood. You walk around with his damn face, but you live my life. You bleed my blood in the street. You earn your name through pain, not DNA.”
Jay gulped. Hard. “…So I’m ain't even your real son?...”
Marcus stood. Walked over. Got down to his level and gripped his shoulder.
“You mine because I made you. I carved the weakness out of you. I taught you the truth. I didn’t choose you. But I kept you..."
"...and that means more.”
He tightened his grip.
“And you remember this, she ain’t gon' love you. She ran. She trash'd you. So when that hate builds in yo' chest? Don’t fight it. Feed it. Let 'em make you stronger. ‘Cause this world? This world ain’t give a shit about your bloodline. And it sure as hell don’t care what species you are...”
Marcus persuaded.
Jay stared, jaw clenched.
His fists balled.
His heart beat hard and bitter.
And deep inside him, something old stirred. Quiet. Watching. Waiting.
