Part VIII - The Weight of Creation
The morning after the confrontation with Eddie was quiet, thick with unspoken thoughts. Maria moved around the kitchen, her motions deliberate as she made coffee. The reality of their life pressed in: she had to work, no matter what shadows lingered on the block.
She knelt in front of Isaiah, who was already dressed, sketchbook clutched in his hand. She brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, her eyes serious.
"I have to go, mijo. Double shift today," she said, her voice soft but firm. "The team will be waiting for you. You think you're a big enough boy to walk to Marcus's garage by yourself?"
The Titan inside him recognized the test: the first step toward operational autonomy. The child simply saw the trust in his mother's eyes and felt a surge of pride. He nodded, his expression serious, clutching his sketchbook like a briefcase.
"Okay," she said, taking a steadying breath. "You go straight there. No stopping, you understand? You see Marcus's door, and you walk right in."
"I will, Mama," he said, his voice small but clear.
She kissed his forehead, holding him for a moment longer than usual. Then she watched from the doorway as he stepped out into the morning sun, a small boy on a big mission. The walk was only half a block, but for a three-year-old, it was a solo expedition into a world that had shown its teeth the day before.
The sidewalks still held last night's heat, the air sharp with gasoline and fried food from the corner stand.
As he neared Eddie's porch, the block shifted. Music spilled from open windows, steady and smooth, like Eddie's place had its own pulse. Eddie leaned against the railing, tall and confident, flashing a grin that pulled everyone in. A crowd of older teens and young men clustered around him, drinks in hand, laughter echoing down the block.
Eddie moved like a man who owned the space he stood in. But Isaiah saw past the easy charisma. He didn't see a man; he saw a system.
The crumpled bills Eddie rolled in his palm were a public display of liquidity, a performance to project success. His eyes weren't just sharp; they were auditing his territory, constantly scanning for new assets or potential threats. When Eddie leaned down to the skinny teen strumming a beat-up guitar, it wasn't encouragement. It was a hostile takeover in miniature. His praise was a low-cost investment; his final words—"Just don't forget who heard you first"—were the establishment of future equity. He was staking a claim, planting a flag of ownership on a person's dream.
Isaiah felt a familiar, cold recognition. Eddie was a predator, a street-level CEO running on the same ruthless principles he himself had once perfected. This was Eddie's business model: a localized monopoly on hope and fear, siphoning the creative energy of the block for his own gain.
He clutched his sketchbook tighter, not out of fear, but out of a surge of professional fury. This garage, this block—it was his new marketplace. And he had just identified his primary competitor. His pace quickened as he headed for Marcus's garage, his mind already shifting from creation to corporate warfare.
He reached the large, corrugated metal door and knocked, his small fist making a tinny rap against the surface. From inside, he heard the faint sound of a radio, then footsteps approaching. A latch clicked, and the old roll-up door groaned as Marcus pushed it upward, creating a gap just big enough for him to enter.
Marcus's kind, tired face appeared in the opening. "There he is. The CEO has arrived. C'mon in, champ, your team's waiting."
Isaiah ducked under the heavy door. The garage was a world of organized chaos. The air smelled of oil and hot dust, cut with the faint, sharp tang of toner from the copy machine humming in the corner like a steady heartbeat. Faded posters of Muhammad Ali and Kareem looked down from the walls, silent guardians watching over the space where, every day, the messy work of creation took place.
Once the first batch was stapled and stacked—a small, proud tower on the workbench—Marcus wiped his hands on a rag. "Alright, CEO," he said with a grin, gesturing to the comics. "Product's finished. Now for the hard part: sales and distribution. Stick with me, kid. Time for a field trip."
Marcus took a stack, and Isaiah clutched a few of his own, his knuckles white. The Titan within him analyzed market entry strategies, but the three-year-old child was just nervous.
Their first stop was the barbershop on Florence. Marcus didn't have to sell; he just placed a copy in the barber's hand. "Check out what the kid's making," he said simply.
Isaiah watched, silent and wide-eyed, as the man flipped through the pages, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Hey, this is good!" he announced to the room. He proudly pinned a copy to the big mirror for everyone to see.
Next was the corner store, where Marcus handed a few to the cashier. "Put these by the register, Rosa. Let's see what happens."
But the real test was the swap meet, a bustling hub of commerce and chaos. Marcus found a small, clear spot on a table and laid out a half-dozen copies. For a moment, they were just another item among countless others. Then a teenager picked one up, then another. Soon, a small crowd had formed, crumpled bills and loose change trading hands for the small booklets.
When they returned to the garage an hour later, the quiet hum of the copier felt like a welcome home. Their arms were empty, but their pockets were a little heavier.
Marcus cleared a space on the workbench. "Alright, Mr. CEO," he said, his voice full of warmth. "Let's see the first day's profits."
Isaiah carefully emptied his pockets onto the dark wood. A small pile of wrinkled bills and a cascade of coins sat under the single buzzing lightbulb. Rico and the twins leaned in, their eyes wide. It wasn't a fortune, but it was proof. It was real.
With a focus that was all Titan, Isaiah began to count, his small fingers carefully separating the coins and smoothing the bills. The others watched in a kind of reverent silence.
"Thirty dollars," he announced finally, the number hanging in the dusty air.
A wide grin split Rico's face. "See?" he whispered, as if a loud voice might break the spell. "People like it. They really like it."
The twins giggled, nudging each other with excitement, while Marcus observed the scene, a deep pride in his calm posture. He ruffled Isaiah's hair.
"This right here," Marcus said, his voice steady as he tapped the tin now holding the money, "this is what happens when you work together. When you count the toner, respect the paper, and mind your edges. Small victories like this matter more than you think."
Isaiah looked from the money to the faces of his team, a warmth spreading through his chest. He reached out and traced a finger along the edge of a fresh copy, careful not to smudge the ink. "It… It's alive," he whispered.
That single, quiet victory became the fuel for the rest of the afternoon. The garage transformed from a dusty workshop into a humming headquarters. Marcus kept the old copier running, Rico expertly organized the pages as they came out, and the twins fell into a steady, focused rhythm of folding and stapling. Above it all was the soft scratch of Isaiah's pencil, laying down the blueprint for the next part of their world.
They were so lost in the rhythm of their work, a small, self-contained universe of ink and paper, that no one noticed the figure leaning against the curb outside until the second batch was stacked and ready.
Eddie drifted over, casual and deliberate, his hands in his pockets. His smile was smooth but sharp, like a knife wrapped in velvet.
"You've got something people want," Eddie said, nodding at the comics spread across the table. "I could help you sell more. Everywhere. Bigger bucks, bigger reach."
Isaiah's fingers clenched the half-finished stack. "I… I don't think we need help," he stammered. His eyes darted to Marcus, who stayed quiet but alert.
Marcus stepped forward, steady hand on Isaiah's shoulder. "Thanks, Eddie. But this is the kids' work. Their rules."
Eddie's grin tightened. He leaned in closer, voice dropping low. "Rules don't make money. You could be selling hundreds. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it."
Isaiah swallowed hard. He thought of the thirty comics already sold, the tin of coins and bills hidden in the garage, their little treasure chest. He had never held that much before. And it was theirs—his and the kids'.
He straightened, voice small but firm. "It's ours. We made it. You can't take it."
Eddie's eyes narrowed, the grin fading. "We'll see," he said, voice low and warning. "Every empire's got cracks, kid." He turned and walked off, leaving the garage heavy with silence.
Isaiah stood frozen for a moment, chest tight, hands still clutching the sketchbook. The weight of the day pressed down—the victories, the coins, and now Eddie's shadow looming over them all. Slowly, he stepped out of the garage, feeling the evening air wrap around him, cooler than the afternoon heat.
The streets had quieted, the neighborhood shifting with the falling sun. Shadows stretched long along the cracked sidewalks. He hugged his sketchbook tighter, walking past familiar corners now softened by dusk. The laughter and music from earlier had faded, replaced by the occasional bark of a dog or the distant hum of a car engine.
By the time he reached Eddie's porch, the block had transformed. Music was gone. The porch lay littered with crushed cans and glass bottles, glinting like broken teeth in the streetlight. Two men slumped in chairs, heads tipped back in shadows. A woman stumbled down the steps, mascara smeared, heels dangling from her hand. Near the curb, a car with tinted windows idled, smoke curling from the open glass, voices low and sharp inside.
Isaiah hugged his sketchbook closer, small hands trembling. The shine he had seen that morning was gone, replaced with the raw, jagged edges of the street at night. He forced himself to breathe, reminding himself: every empire has cracks—but this one, the one he was building, was still his.
Isaiah hugged his sketchbook closer, his small hands trembling.
I've been here before, he thought, once in another life. I've held empires, created wonders… now it's all smaller, yet the same spark is inside me. He tightened his grip on the sketchbook. Every comic, every coin, every fold—this is my new empire. I have to protect it. I can't let it slip away.
Bursting into the house, he called out, "Mom! Mom! I… I sold thirty comics today! Thirty!"
Maria emerged from the kitchen, concern flickering in her eyes. "Thirty? That's… amazing, Isaiah. But your face—what's wrong? You look like you've seen something."
"Nothing, Mama," he said quickly, forcing a grin.
Maria stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. "You're lying. Your hands are shaking. Your chest… did Eddie scare you?"
Isaiah hesitated, heart hammering. He opened his mouth, then closed it, swallowing the truth. "No, Mama. I'm fine. Really."
Her brow furrowed, sharp and piercing. "Don't lie to me, Isaiah. I can feel it. My boy, you're afraid, and that's okay—but hiding it won't protect you."
She always knows, he thought, chest tightening. Even now, I can't hide from her. He held the sketchbook closer. "I… I just… walked fast past Eddie's porch. That's all."
Maria placed a hand on his shoulder, strong and steady. "Fast… or scared? You don't have to face him alone. You're smart, mijo, and brave—but smart and brave together beats fear."
Marcus came up beside them, his calm presence filling the room. "Maria, Eddie's the type to drain everything—money, talent, any spark he can find. But here, in the garage? Isaiah is safe. This is paper, pencils, and toner. Creation. Nothing Eddie does can reach him."
Maria's eyes softened slightly, but her worry remained. "I can't lose him, Marcus. He's all I've got."
Marcus stepped closer, voice steady, persuasive. "And you won't. I'll keep him away from the parties, the porch, and anyone who wants to snatch his spark. Nothing touches him. Not here, not ever. You have my word."
Her jaw stayed tight, but finally, she let out a slow breath. She bent down and kissed Isaiah's forehead. "Mi vida, mi corazón."
She looked at Marcus, eyes still cautious. "One chance. If I even feel something's wrong, it ends."
Marcus nodded. "Fair enough. Nothing happens to him. I swear."
Isaiah clung to Maria, caught between her desperate love and Marcus's calm, persuasive assurance. I am reborn, he thought, and this time, I get to do it right.
He hugged his sketchbook tight, the coins, the comics, and the victories of the day pressing against him like a fragile weight he had to protect. The echoes of Eddie's warning lingered at the edges of his mind, but for the first time, he felt the steady pulse of control—not power over others, but over what he could create and keep safe.
Later, under the thin blanket in his bedroom, the apartment quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside, Isaiah let himself breathe. He traced the edges of the sketchbook, feeling every crease and staple as a reminder of what he had built. He imagined himself larger, older, the titan of another life—strong, unyielding, unstoppable. The worlds he had created before seemed to live inside him still, ready to be built again.
I can feel it inside me, he thought, eyes closing. The spark, the vision… the chance to create again. Small hands, small comics, but the same mind, the same fire. Step by step, page by page… I am building it. My empire. My life.
Even as the shadows of Eddie's porch lingered in his thoughts, he felt something else—power, purpose, and the unmistakable thrill of rebirth. Marcus had arrived before his mother that evening, Isaiah realized later, knowing she would worry. That calm foresight, that steady presence… it gave him the space to rest, to gather his strength, to keep building his world without fear.
With the sketchbook tucked safely under his arm, Isaiah let sleep take him. Tomorrow, the city would wake, the streets would move, and the challenges would come—but tonight, he rested. The spark was alive, and it was his.