Part VII - Shadows and Small Victories
By mid-afternoon, the first stapled copies were ready. Marcus stacked them carefully, the pile representing a significant investment of their time and precious paper. Isaiah held one of the finished booklets, tracing the spine as if it were a fragile wing.
Maria wiped her hands on a rag, a proud, nervous smile on her face. "Alright, mijo. You made them. Now let's go show the world."
She took his hand. The Titan in Isaiah registered this as the first official distribution run, but the child simply held his mother's hand tightly. She knew the rhythm of the block, the hubs of conversation where a little bit of magic might find a home. Their first stop was the local barbershop.
"Hey… this kid drew all this?" the barber, Carlos, asked the room after flipping through a copy. Isaiah nodded quickly, cheeks burning. The man grinned and pinned the comic to the big mirror. "First edition. Might be worth something someday."
Small victories stacked. At the corner bodega, teens crowded around, and soon, crumpled dollar bills were being exchanged for the small booklets. On the walk back to the garage, the stack of comics was gone, replaced by a handful of warm, crumpled bills in his pocket. It wasn't an empire's fortune, but it was a start. It was proof.
"See, mijo?" Maria squeezed his hand. "They see your fire, too."
When they returned to the garage, the energy was electric. "It… it works," Rico said quietly, his eyes wide as Isaiah held up the crumpled bills. A small cheer went through the team.
Marcus leaned against the doorway, wiping sweat from his brow. "Not just making comics," he murmured to Maria. "They're learning to move together."
The initial victory spurred them on. Inside, the garage hummed again with the rhythm of creation. But just as they were settling in, a shadow fell across the open door. It was Carlos from the barbershop, his friendly expression now tight with concern.
"Maria, Marcus," he said, keeping his voice low. "The comic is a hit. But… you need to be careful. Eddie's crew saw it. They were asking questions. Who the kid was, where he was working from."
The cheerful hum in the garage died instantly.
Carlos looked at Isaiah with worried eyes. "Just watch yourselves. Eddie doesn't like anyone making noise on this block unless he's the one making it." He gave a quick nod and was gone.
The silence he left behind was heavier than the noise of the copier. A triumphant afternoon had suddenly turned sober. Maria looked at Marcus, her jaw tight, and then her eyes fixed on her son. In that moment, she saw it all—the impossible creativity, the unchildlike focus, and the dangerous world that would inevitably be drawn to such a bright light. It wasn't just a gifted child. It was a fire. And her job was to protect it.
She came and knelt in front of Isaiah, her hands gently taking the pencil from his trembling fingers. Her eyes searched his, a profound, silent promise that she had seen the danger and would stand guard. Rico moved to crouch beside him, giving his shoulder a small, firm squeeze. We're with you.
With a quiet determination, Isaiah picked his pencil back up. The others followed his lead, the soft scratch of graphite on paper becoming a quiet act of defiance. They worked as the sun began to fade, the joyful energy replaced by a focused resolve. Finally, Isaiah set his pencil down, the full weight of the day settling in his small chest. Thirty comics sold. A real victory. But now it came with the weight of a warning.
A gentle hand rested on his shoulder. "Come on, mijo," Maria said softly. "You've done enough for one day. Time to come home."
She scooped him up, sketchbook and all, and his head came to rest on her shoulder. The short walk home was quiet, the familiar scent of his mother a shield against the creeping shadows. She gently placed him on his bed, and he was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow. Maria carefully took the sketchbook from his loose grip and placed it on the nightstand, a silent guard.
She watched him for a long moment, her heart aching with a fierce, protective love. He was just a little boy, but today, she had seen the fire in him—a fire worth guarding with her life.