The mall was a different country from East Brook. From West Brook.
The air didn't smell like rust or piss or hot concrete. It smelled like new jeans and pretzel salt and cologne samples sprayed by girls getting paid too little to care. Music bled from storefronts — pop songs, not sirens. Kids lined up for ice cream. Old men slept on benches and nobody checked if they were still breathing.
Everyone moved like normal people. Like Brookhaven hadn't already tried to eat them.
It put Mark on edge.
"Why is it so… peaceful here?"
He didn't realize he'd said it out loud until Austin answered. Mark's voice had been quiet, like he was scared the mall would hear him and take it back.
"Because this is one of the very few cease-fire spots in Downtown Brookhaven," Austin said, pushing his glasses up. His voice was careful. Academic. Like he was reciting a fact that could get you killed if you forgot it.
Mark's stomach dropped. "Wait. By cease-fire… do you mean a spot where fights aren't allowed?"
Adrian grinned around his lollipop. The cherry stick shifted from one cheek to the other. "Pretty much. So try to keep that taser of yours hidden, yeah?"
Mark froze.
The taser pressed against his thigh through his Adidas pants — cold, heavy, a reminder that Mom's love now came with a trigger and a safety switch. He'd thought he hid it well.
Then he forced a laugh. It came out dry. Brittle. "So I was that obvious, huh?"
"Pretty much, man," Connor said, clapping him on the back. His silver chain bracelet bit into Mark's shoulder. "Relax. We don't judge. Smart to carry in East Brook."
Connor said _East Brook_ like it was a curse. Like saying it too loud would summon it.
"So boys, where to first?" Adrian asked, lollipop clicking against his teeth.
Hakim's arms were folded, but his posture was easy. The silver cross at his neck caught the mall lights. "Garage. Need new parts for the Toyota. You hear that rattle on the drive here?"
"I'm hitting the sneaker shop," Connor said, already rolling his shoulders like he was about to fight the cash register. "New J's dropped. Then pizza. I'm starving."
"Ring set," Adrian said, holding up his hand. Silver glinted on three fingers. "North wing. Saw a place last week. Need an upgrade."
Austin was already writing. His pen moved like he was taking a test with one minute left, but his handwriting was perfect. No smudges. No wasted motion. He didn't look up when he spoke.
"What about you, Mark?" Hakim asked.
Mark touched his hair. It was longer now. Shaggy. The last cut had been in Zimbabwe, by a barber who knew his dad. "Haircut. It's getting in my eyes. Barber shop, if there's one."
"Done," Austin said, and spun the notebook around.
The plan was clean. Clinical.
*West Wing:* Connor + Mark — Sneakers & Barber. Close together.
*East Wing:* Hakim + Austin — Auto parts.
*North Wing:* Adrian — Jewelry. Solo.
"Alright. This is the plan," Austin said, tapping the paper with his pen. "Buddy system. If trouble comes, we're two minutes from each other. Adrian's the outlier, but…" He fixed his glasses. "…he's Adrian."
Mark almost asked if Adrian would be okay alone. Then he remembered the cafeteria. Adrian vs SK. Adrian vs eight guys in blue. Adrian catching a punch meant for Mark's face without even taking his hands out of his pockets.
Yeah. Adrian alone was enough for ten guys. Mark alone was barely enough for five pushups.
"So we meet on the second floor," Adrian said, grinning. "Food court. Two hours. That work?"
They all nodded. One motion. Like they'd done this before.
Then they split.
Hakim and Austin turned east, Hakim's hand already fishing keys from his pocket, Austin's book already back open. Adrian sauntered north, lollipop stick twirling, girls turning to watch him go.
Connor threw an arm around Mark's shoulders. "Come on, Scrawny. Let's get you looking less homeless."
Mark let himself be steered toward the east wing. The taser bumped his leg with every step. The mall was still peaceful. Still normal.
But normal never lasted in Brookhaven.
---
In the corner by the sunglasses kiosk, a first-year in a Blue Academy blazer watched them split up. He waited until they were gone. Until their laughter faded into the food court noise.
Then he pulled out his phone.
His thumb shook when he dialed.
"Hey, boss," he said, voice low. "That kid you were looking for? The one from the photo?"
A pause. Then a laugh on the other end. Not kind. The kind of laugh a dog gives before it bites.
"He's here. At the mall. East wing. With 1A."
"Good work, first year," Bruce said. The name tasted like blood and beer and cheap cologne. "I'll be there in an hour."
_Click._
The first-year shoved his phone in his pocket and disappeared into the crowd.
Two hours.
Mark had two hours before East Brook found him.
---
The east wing's bottom floor hit different.
No rust. No graffiti screaming gang tags. Just glass storefronts and the hum of AC and the smell of pretzels and leather from the sneaker displays. Music played from speakers instead of car radios. For the first time since he landed in Brookhaven, Mark could actually _look_ at things. Not scan for exits. Not check over his shoulder. Just look.
Connor was already back on Temple Run, thumb smashing the screen, silver chain bracelet clinking with every jump. He moved through the mall like it couldn't touch him. Like cease-fire was a law of physics.
"So Connor… where's the barber shop?"
Connor didn't look up. The little runner on his screen slid under a tree root. "Relax, Marky boy. We're almost there. Chill."
_Marky boy._
Mark blinked. Nobody had ever called him that. It was dumb. Too familiar. But Connor said it like it was already his name, and somehow… it didn't feel bad. It felt like Connor had just decided they were friends and wasn't asking permission.
They walked. Past a Cinnabon that made Mark's stomach growl. Past a store with mannequins wearing jeans that cost more than Mom's monthly salary. Past kids his age laughing, holding hands, normal in a way that made his chest ache.
Five minutes later, Connor veered left. "We're here."
The stall was small. A black sign with white letters: *BARBER*. Simple. No fancy graphics. No appointment app. The smell hit Mark first — clipper oil and talc and that sharp, clean scent of aftershave. The sound came next: buzzing clippers, scissors snipping, men laughing about soccer scores.
Inside, three chairs. Two full. One empty.
It knocked the air out of him.
This was it. This was like the shops back in Harare. Saturday mornings when Mom would drop him off before her shift at the hospital. He'd sit on a wooden bench with a Coke bottle, listening to old men argue about football while Mr. Dube cut his hair. The clippers were warm against his scalp. Safe.
For one second, Brookhaven disappeared.
"Hey, young man. You want a cut?"
The barber in the empty chair was old. Skin like worn leather, hands steady as concrete. His eyes crinkled when he smiled. He didn't look at Mark like he was East Brook or West Brook or 1A. Just… a kid who needed a haircut.
Mark's throat went tight. "Um. Yes, sir."
He sank into the chair. The vinyl was cracked. It creaked under his weight. The cape went around his shoulders, cool against his neck.
"So what'll it be, son?" The old man's voice was gravel and kindness.
Mark caught his reflection. Shaggy. Hair curling over his ears, into his eyes. He looked like the kid who got jumped seven days ago. Like the kid who could only do five pushups.
He wanted that kid gone.
"Buzz cut," Mark said. "Simple. All around."
The barber nodded. No judgment. No "are you sure?" Just _click_ — the clippers came alive.
The first pass was cold. Then warm. Hair fell onto the cape in dark tufts. With every strip, Mark felt lighter. Less like the boy who hid behind Adrian. More like… someone else. Someone who could walk through a mall without flinching.
The men around him kept talking. One complained about his wife. Another about gas prices. Normal problems. Mark closed his eyes and listened. For thirty minutes, he wasn't Mark from East Brook. He was just a kid getting a haircut.
_Snip. Buzz. Snip._
"All done," the barber said finally. He spun the chair.
Mark opened his eyes.
The kid in the mirror was sharp. Jawline clean. His eyes looked bigger. Older. Tired, but… harder. The taser at his thigh felt less like a secret and more like a choice.
He touched his head. The hair was short. Rough against his palm. No way for anyone to grab it in a fight.
Good.
"Thank you, sir." His voice came out rough.
"No problem, kid." The barber was already brushing hair off his shoulders. "That'll be three dollars."
Mark blinked. "Three dollars?"
Back in Zim, a cut was one. Here, with clippers that didn't pull and a chair that didn't wobble? Three?
The old man laughed. It was a deep, wheezing sound that made the other barbers grin. "You're new here, aren't you? First cut's on the house. Call it two dollars."
Mark fished out the cash Mom gave him that morning. His fingers shook. Not from fear. From something else. "Thank you, sir. Really."
"Take care of yourself, kid," the barber said, counting the bills with slow, careful hands. "Brookhaven's got teeth. But you… you've got a good head on your shoulders. Now it looks like it, too." He winked. "If you ever need a cut, you know who to come to."
Mark nodded. Couldn't speak. He pulled the cape off and stood. The chair felt taller without all that hair weighing him down.
Connor was leaning against the doorframe, Temple Run forgotten. He took one look at Mark and grinned, wide and wolfish.
"Damn, dude." Connor let out a low whistle. "You make a buzz cut look good. Put some muscle on that frame and you'll give Hakim a run for his money."
Mark's face went hot. He rubbed the back of his head, self-conscious. "Shut up."
"Nah, I'm serious. You look like you belong here now." Connor clapped him on the back, hard enough to make Mark stumble forward. "Alright, Marky boy. Now let's hit the sneaker store before all the good J's are gone."
There it was again. _Marky boy._ Connor said it like he'd been saying it for years.
Mark didn't correct him.
Connor was already moving, weaving through the mall crowd like he owned it.
Mark followed.
His head felt light. Cold. The AC hit his scalp and made him shiver. The taser bumped his leg with every step.
But for the first time in seven days, when he caught his reflection in a store window, he didn't flinch.
The kid looking back didn't look like prey.
Not yet.
But he didn't look like prey.
---
The sneaker store was a cathedral of consumerism.
Wall to wall Jordans. Yeezys behind glass like museum pieces. The smell of new rubber and leather and money. Music thumped — not loud enough to drown out the price tags, but loud enough that you had to lean in to talk.
Connor took his time.
He circled the store twice. Picked up a pair of 1s, put them down. Held some Dunks to the light like he was inspecting diamonds. Asked an employee to unlock the case for some Off-Whites, then didn't even try them on.
Mark trailed behind him, hands in his pockets, head still cold from the buzz cut. He could feel eyes on them. Girls whispering by the running shoes. A group by the registers kept glancing over, giggling when Connor flexed in the mirror with a pair of high-tops he had no intention of buying.
Mark couldn't tell if it was Connor's red hair and silver bracelet and _chaos_ energy, or if the buzz cut actually made _him_ look different too. Or maybe it was both of them — the loud one and the quiet one. Opposites drawing attention like a car crash.
After what felt like hours, Connor stopped. He walked straight back to the first pair he'd touched. Chicago 1s. High. Clean.
"This one," he said to the employee, like he'd just discovered them.
Mark stared. "Dude. Why did you waste forty minutes of our time if you were just gonna pick the pair you came for?"
Connor grinned, not even a little sorry. "I wanted to be extra sure."
_Extra sure._ Right.
They headed to the counter. The guy behind the register had gauges and a sleeve of tattoos. He scanned the box, didn't blink. "That'll be three hundred dollars, sir."
Three. Hundred. Dollars.
Mark's stomach did a slow roll. That was half of Mom's rent. For _shoes_.
But the shocking part wasn't the price.
It was Connor.
He pulled out his wallet, tapped his card against the machine, and didn't even watch the screen. Like three hundred was three dollars. Like money wasn't real.
"Thanks, man," Connor said, grabbing the bag.
Mark couldn't help it. The question fell out of him, raw and too honest: "How do you have so much money?"
Connor looked at him like it was obvious. "Duh, bro. I got a part-time job. We all do. Me, Hakim, Austin. Even Adrian, though his is… different." He slung the shoe bag over his shoulder. "You should get one too. Mom's money only stretches so far in Brookhaven."
_Part-time job, huh._
Mark murmured it under his breath. The taser felt heavier suddenly. Mom gave him that. Mom gave him the twenty bucks for the haircut. Mom gave him _everything_. And here Connor was, buying three-hundred-dollar shoes with his own cash, talking about jobs like it was nothing.
Another thing Mark didn't have. Another way he was behind.
"Now let's go catch up with the others," Connor said, pushing the glass door open. The bell above it jingled.
Mark stepped forward.
And stopped cold.
Someone was already in the doorway.
Tall. Buff. Arms like tree trunks under a Hawaiian shirt printed with screaming skulls. Jogger trousers. Timberlands, laces loose, scuffed at the toes like they'd kicked in doors. Tattoos crawled up his forearms — knife scars, gang ink, a blue panther on his left wrist with its teeth bared.
Mark's blood went cold.
He knew that panther.
He'd seen it a week ago in an alley behind 5th Street. On the wrist of the guy who weaved through Adrian's kicks like a pro. The guy who landed a heavy left hook Adrian had to block. The guy who got a phone call and walked off mid-fight.
_"Well, Adrian, name's Bruce. I gotta bounce—but we'll finish this next time."_
Bruce.
The boxer. The senior delinquent. The guy who told eight Blue Academy thugs to jump Adrian and watched it happen.
This wasn't a first meeting. This was the _next time_.
"Bruce."
Mark's voice came out low. Not surprised. Not scared. _Knowing_. Like saying _knife_ when you see the blade come out.
Bruce's smile spread slow. Flat eyes. The same cold from the alley. The kind that doesn't come from weather. The kind that comes before someone gets put in the ground.
He stepped inside. The bell jingled again, cheerful and wrong.
Connor went still beside Mark. The shoe bag crinkled in his grip. For the first time since Mark met him, Connor wasn't grinning.
"Sup, kid," Bruce said. His voice was casual. Almost friendly. Like he was running into a classmate at the mall. He didn't even look at Connor. Just Mark. Like Connor wasn't there. "I've been looking for you."
The cease-fire didn't matter.
The mall didn't matter.
The taser in Mark's Adidas pants might as well have been a toy.
Mark remembered Adrian in that alley. _"Now get to a safe distance. I've got this."_ Adrian with his hands in his pockets, dropping seven guys. Adrian blocking Bruce's hook.
Adrian wasn't here.
It was just Mark. Connor. And Bruce.
East Brook had found him.
Again.
And this time, nobody was catching the punch for him.
---