CHAPTER 132 – STREETS OF HARLEM
The car purred low against the night, headlights sliding across cracked sidewalks and shuttered storefronts. Logan drove one hand on the wheel, the other flicking ash out the window, cigar glowing red against the dark. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror where Ororo sat. Back straight, chin high, but her silence said more than words ever could.
He finally broke it. "You're wound tighter than Summers' tie, darlin'. Mind tellin' me why I'm drivin' you through these parts?"
Storm's eyes stayed on the streets rolling past. Old brownstones, corner shops, alleys where shadows ran deeper. "Because this is where my story began, Logan. My first home. Before Africa. Before the skies ever answered my call."
Logan grunted. He could tell by the tone in her voice she didn't want company. He also knew better than to leave her alone in a place that stank of ghosts.
The car stopped at a block whose bricks seemed older than the century. Storm stepped out without another word. The night air clung damp to her skin. She looked back once, her white hair shimmering under the streetlight.
"Do not follow me," she said softly.
Logan leaned against the car door, smirking through the smoke. "Sure thing, darlin'. Scout's honor."
He waited until she disappeared up the path, then muttered to himself, "Never was a scout." He flicked the cigar and started after her, quiet as shadow.
Storm moved through the block as if tracing old scars. Every step was a memory, though warped by time. She had expected warmth in the air, laughter in the windows, the familiar rhythm of life. Instead she found litter, boarded glass, walls painted with graffiti instead of history.
"This is not the Harlem I remember," she whispered to herself. Her heart sank, heavy with guilt for ever leaving.
At last she found it. The building. Her building. The steps creaked under her weight as she climbed, her hand trembling just slightly against the railing. She reached the flat that had once been hers, breath caught in her throat, and pushed the door open.
Voices.
Children. Teenagers, not more than sixteen, scattered across the room. Smoke in the air, bottles on the floor. The moment she stepped through the doorway, all eyes turned. One boy, wiry and mean-eyed, grinned with a knife flashing in his palm.
"Well, well. Lookit this, boys. Lady in white just walked into the wrong house."
Storm's voice was calm, but her heart ached. "This was my house once. My home. You should not be here."
Laughter. A girl with a cigarette dangling from her lips blew smoke at her. "That so? Then you oughta pay rent."
Another boy rose, eyes glinting with hunger. "Empty your purse, lady. Pretty clothes like that don't come cheap."
Ororo raised her hands, palms outward, voice firm but gentle. "You are children. You should not choose this path. There is still time to turn back."
"Lady, shut up." The wiry one lunged, knife flashing.
Storm's eyes narrowed. Wind stirred from nowhere, her hair whipping around her face. She whispered a word to the storm inside her, and a sudden gust slammed the boy against the wall, the knife clattering away. The others staggered, clutching their heads as oxygen thinned and static crawled across their skin. She was careful—gentle, for her—but their eyes rolled back as they crumpled, one by one, unconscious.
Her chest heaved with the effort of restraint. "Children…" she whispered, sorrow heavy in her voice.
But she didn't see the last one. A boy creeping behind her with a short blade, eyes wide with panic and desperation. He raised the knife high—
—and a fist came from the dark, smashing him square in the jaw. The boy crumpled, knife skittering across the floor.
Logan stood in the doorway, shaking out his knuckles, cigar now clamped back between his teeth. "Thought I told myself I wouldn't follow. Guess I lied."
Ororo spun, startled. "Logan! I told you—"
"Yeah, yeah. Don't follow. Good thing I don't take orders well." He looked down at the unconscious teens, then back at her. His voice dropped low, serious. "You alright, 'Ro?"
Storm's eyes burned, not with fury but sorrow. "How can children… children… fall to this? My Harlem was not like this. This city was alive. These streets once sang. And now…" Her hands trembled, clenching at her sides. "Now the children carry knives instead of dreams."
Logan drew in smoke, let it out slow. His gaze was steady, no illusions in his eyes. "World don't care about dreams, darlin'. Life forces some kids to grow teeth before they've even lost the last of their baby ones. That's just the way it is."
Ororo's eyes glistened, but her voice was steady. "Then what hope do we fight for, Logan? If this is the world?"
He stepped closer, resting a heavy hand on her shoulder. His claws slid back with a soft snikt, almost like a promise.
"We fight 'cause maybe—just maybe—we're the only second chance these kids are ever gonna get."
The room was silent but for the hum of the city outside, distant and uncaring. Storm closed her eyes, shoulders rising and falling. For a moment, she leaned into the weight of his hand.
Then she opened them again, steel in her gaze.
"You are right," she said. "We must be their second chance."
Logan gave a half-smile, sharp and weary. "Glad we agree. Now let's get outta here before they wake up wantin' round two."
Together they stepped back into the night, the city air cold on their skin, the weight of the world heavy but carried side by side.