Page 22 of Ghosted

This one.

Mine.

The boy I taught to hit first and feel bad later. The brother who learned how to swallow pain, spit it back as violence, and call the whole thing discipline. The one who still thinks being quiet means he’s hiding.

Poor little Jagger.

Still forgetting I knew him before he learned how to lie to himself. Before Wraith, before the cage, before he figured out how to turn silence into something people mistook for control.

I know what lives under it.

Every twitch and locked jaw.

Every little fracture in that careful, violent mask he wears without needing one.

He turns toward the back hall. “I’m getting my money.”

“Careful,” I call after him.

His shoulders go tight, but he keeps walking.

I laugh under my breath as he disappears past two guys arguing over a payout and a girl in smeared devil makeup trying to wipe fake blood off her phone screen.

Careful.

Right, as if either of us has ever been good at that.

The cigarette burns low between my fingers. I look at the end of it for a second, then flick it onto the concrete and crush it under my boot.

The warehouse keeps roaring like it doesn’t know something shifted.

That’s the thing about places like this. They’re too loud to notice the smaller violences. The ones that happen in a glance, a warning, in the half second before a man decides he wants something badly enough to become really fucking stupid.

Everyone saw Jagger win tonight.

But I saw him react, and to me, that’s worth more.

I cut through the edge of the crowd instead of following him.

No rush. Rushing is for people worried the world won’t wait for them. The world waits for me plenty. People too, even when they don’t mean to.

Bodies part as I pass.

Some recognize me. Some just feel something wrong moving toward them and step aside before their pride can get them hurt. Instinct is a beautiful thing when people are smart enough to listen to it.

A girl with glitter on her cheeks smiles at me from beside a stack of crates, eyes glossy, mouth parted, already deciding what kind of bad idea I might be.

I give her half a smile back.

Because I’m not rude.

She lights up like I handed her something holy.

Pretty little thing.

Forgettable little thing.

By tomorrow, she’ll tell her friends Johnny Cutter smiled at her, and they’ll turn it into a story. Add heat where there wasn’t any. Meaning where I gave none. Maybe she’ll say I looked at her like I wanted her.