The group falls silence. The distant city noises that once felt mundane now carry a slight edge of menace, and the flickering streetlamp casts long shadows that seem to stretch.
"So what are you gonna do?" Darren finally asks, his tone serious but unsure, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.
Angel shrugs helplessly, his shoulders trembling slightly. "What can I do? They told us to wait and not to talk about it much." His voice cracks, and he quickly clears his throat, looking away. "It's hard, though. Jasmine is my little sister, man. I just want her back." He rubs his face with one hand, trying to steady himself, but his voice drops to almost a whisper. "I can't lose her."
Obinai, steps forward and claps a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Hey, man, they'll find her. These guys, whoever they are, they sound serious about it. We gotta keep hope, alright?" His voice is firm, trying to infuse a bit of confidence into the unsettling atmosphere.
Angel stiffens under Obinai's hand, his lips pressing into a thin line as he nods quickly, not trusting himself to speak. He turns away slightly, his face half-hidden in shadow, pretending to adjust his hoodie. His hand lingers near his face too long, wiping at nothing.
Darren shifts uncomfortably, glancing at Obinai before speaking up. "You know," he starts, forcing a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, "Jasmine's tough, right? Like, remember that time she smacked me upside the head for spilling my soda on her shoes? She didn't even flinch, just—" He mimes a slap to his own head, adding a dramatic sound effect.
Angel lets out a small huff of laughter, though he doesn't turn around. Darren grins, encouraged. "Yeah, she's probably somewhere chewing someone out right now. Telling them how they're doing everything wrong. 'Cause you know she'd do that."
Obinai chuckles softly. "He's not wrong, man. Your sister doesn't seem like the kind to take crap from anyone."
Angel shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite himself. He finally turns back, his eyes a little red, but his expression steadier. "Yeah," he murmurs, voice stronger now. "Yeah, that sounds like her."
After a sniffle Angel begins to speak, when Obinai's phone buzzes loudly against the wooden bench. He jumps slightly, fumbling to grab the device before it vibrates itself onto the ground. His mom's name flashes on the screen, and his heart sinks. He hesitates for a split second, then swipes to answer.
"Hi, Mom," he says, his voice a little too quick, a little too high-pitched. He shifts awkwardly on the bench, his foot tapping nervously against the ground. His mind races, remembering how he'd snuck out earlier without telling her where he was going.
The other end of the line is silent for a moment—a brief, foreboding pause. Then her voice cuts through, low and sharp as a knife.
"Come. Home. Now."
The line goes dead.
Obinai stares at the phone in his hand, the screen already dark, her tone echoing in his ears. Guilt and dread churn in his stomach as he slowly lifts his head to meet Darren's and Angel's gazes. Both of them are wide-eyed.
For a moment, it's quiet.
Then Darren cracks. A wide grin splits his face, and he bursts into laughter, clutching his sides. "Oh, man! 'Hi, Mom,'" he mimics in a hilariously high-pitched tone, swiping an imaginary phone. He rocks back on the bench, barely holding himself upright. "Smooth, Obi. Real smooth. Gonna tell her you're at a study group next?"
Wiping his eyes, Angel tries to hold it together, but a snort escapes before he doubles over, his shoulders shaking. He hops off the swing, nearly tripping on his own feet as he staggers to recover. "'They can't know I'm gone,'" he gasps between wheezes, pretending to whisper into an invisible earpiece. "'Stealth mission failed!'"
"Mission? More like total disaster," Darren chimes in, still laughing. "Ninja skills? Negative, bro. She caught you so fast it was criminal."
Obinai glares at them, but his lips twitch against his will, the corners of his mouth threatening to betray him. "Y'all are the worst support system," he mutters, shaking his head, though the faintest smile creeps through. "Here I am, probably grounded for life, and you're auditioning for a comedy show."
Darren throws an arm around him, still chuckling. "C'mon, man. You'll live. Worst-case scenario? You'll be the first ninja to clean dishes in stealth mode. Just don't drop the plates—your cover's blown."
Angel wipes his eyes, his laughter finally settling into quiet chuckles. "Yeah, yeah, seriously though. Good luck with that. You should probably get going before she sends out a search party."
Obinai groans, standing up and pocketing his phone. "You guys suck," he says, but there's no heat in his voice as he turns to leave. "I'll text you if I survive."
"Make sure you do," Darren calls after him, smirking. "I wanna hear how she roasts you!"
Angel waves him off, still grinning. "Later, stealth master. Watch your six."
Obinai can't help but crack a smile. He flicks them off with a laugh and a playful middle finger before hopping off the playground equipment. "Yeah, yeah, keep laughing, you jerks. I gotta bolt before I'm grounded till I'm thirty," he calls back over his shoulder.
He starts running, his footsteps quick and light as he dashes through the park, the laughter of his friends fading behind him. The city streets ahead are dimly lit, the occasional street lamp casting long shadows across his path. He dodges a late-night jogger and a stray dog rummaging through a trash can, his heart racing.
The cool night air whips against his face as he picks up speed, the city's distant hum a constant companion. Obinai's thoughts whirl with possible excuses or apologies he could offer, but he knows none will really work; his mom had that tone that meant business.
As Obinai races through the city streets, the late-night world around him feels strangely alive. The neon lights from storefronts and billboards bleed into the darkness, their colors sharp and almost otherworldly. He lets out a quiet chuckle, the lingering effects of the weed making everything seem exaggerated, a little too vivid. It's ridiculous, he thinks.
He sidesteps a group of people spilling out of a glowing diner, their laughter ringing out as they jostle each other playfully. The clatter of plates and muffled music from the building behind them weave into the night air. A taxi zips past, its horn blaring as the driver shouts something unintelligible out the window.
Under a flickering streetlamp, a street performer painted entirely in silver moves in stuttering, robotic motions, his tinny speaker playing distorted music. A couple walks arm in arm, their quiet conversation lost in the hum of the streets. On top of a trash bin, a stray cat watches him with wide, glowing eyes, tail flicking once before it slips into the shadows.
Then he rounds the final corner, and the sight of his family's apartment building comes into view. The structure rises above the quiet street, its brick facade seeming heavier in the dim light. The windows glow faintly, hinting at the lives still awake inside, their stories unfolding behind drawn curtains.
Obinai slows his pace, his steps dragging as he approaches the apartment building. His breath escapes in a sharp sigh, and he rubs the back of his neck, running through excuses in his head.
"I got caught up helping a friend." He shakes his head. Too vague. She'd ask which friend, and I'd blank.
"I was studying late at the library." He groans softly. Right, because I'm _so studious Mom will believe that in a heartbeat._
"I got mugged?" His lips twist in a grimace. What am I, a bad soap opera character?
He's still mentally discarding excuses when he reaches the entrance, where the familiar figure of Mr. Thompson, the doorman, stands watch. The stout man, always impeccably dressed, tips his cap with a knowing look. His neatly pressed uniform and combed-back salt-and-pepper hair give him the air of someone who's seen it all—and probably has.
"Evening, Obinai," Mr. Thompson greets, his voice warm but laced with amusement. His sharp eyes take in Obinai's disheveled appearance and slightly sheepish expression. "I'd wish you luck, son. You look like you're going to need it."
Obinai chuckles nervously, scratching the back of his neck. "Thanks, Mr. Thompson. I think I'm gonna need all the luck in the world tonight."
Mr. Thompson steps aside, holding the door open for him. "Just don't make it worse by trying to explain yourself too much. Sometimes less is more," he advises with a wink.
Obinai nods, forcing a weak grin. "Noted. Thanks for the tip."
As he steps into the building, the familiar scent of lemon cleaner and polished wood fills his nose, grounding him slightly. He makes his way to the elevator and presses the button for the seventh floor, the faint hum of machinery filling the silence as the doors slide shut behind him.
The elevator lurches into motion, and the small, mirrored walls feel like they're closing in. Obinai stares at his reflection, his hands shoved into his hoodie pockets. The excuses creep back in.
"Maybe I could say I stayed out late helping a stray cat? That's kind of believable, right?" He shakes his head, muttering under his breath. "Yeah, and when she asks where the cat is now, what do I say? 'Oh, it just ran off'?"
The soft ding marks another floor passing, and his heart rate ticks up with it. He leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment.
"I tripped and fell, and I—no, that's just stupid." His reflection stares back at him, unimpressed. He groans softly.
The ding of the seventh floor pulls him out of his spiraling thoughts, and he straightens, steeling himself as the doors slide open. The long hallway stretches ahead, lit by warm sconces that do nothing to soothe the dread pooling in his stomach.
"Alright, just… less is more. Mr. Thompson's right. Just own up to it and hope for mercy."
With a deep breath, he steps out of the elevator, his footsteps echoing softly as he heads toward his family's apartment. Each step feels heavier than the last.
Finally, the elevator doors slide open, and Obinai steps out into the hallway. The familiar stretch of carpet leading to his apartment feels like it's grown longer, stretching out ahead of him like a gauntlet. He hesitates for a moment, then forces himself forward, his steps slow and uneven.
Reaching into his pocket, he fumbles for his keys, his hands trembling slightly from nerves. His fingers slip, and the keys fall to the floor with a metallic clatter that echoes far too loudly in the quiet hallway. He winces, crouching quickly to pick them up, his heart pounding in his chest.
Before he can straighten, the sound of the doorknob turning makes him freeze. His breath catches, and he slowly looks up to see the door swing open.
There stands his mother, Maria, framed in the doorway. Her petite frame seems to take up the entire space, her sharp eyes fixed on him with a mix of concern and disappointment that makes his stomach churn. Her hair is pulled back into its usual tight bun, not a strand out of place, giving her an air of quiet authority that feels even heavier now.
"Obinai," she says, her voice calm but with an unmistakable edge. "Where have you been?"
Obinai swallows hard, standing up a little too quickly and almost stumbling over his own feet. He grips the keys tightly in one hand, his palm slick with sweat. "Uh… hey, Mom," he starts, his voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat, forcing a shaky smile as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
"I, uh…" His mind scrambles for something—anything—that doesn't sound ridiculous. "I was just… out. You know. Around."
Maria's eyebrow arches slightly, and that single gesture feels like it pierces right through him.
"Out?" she repeats, her tone flat but pointed.
"Yeah," he says quickly, his words tumbling out too fast. "I was—uh—just helping… a friend! Yeah, a friend with some… stuff. You know, nothing crazy. Just…" He trails off, his nervous grin faltering under her unyielding gaze.
"Helping a friend," Maria repeats slowly, crossing her arms as she leans against the doorframe.
"Y-yeah," Obinai stammers, scratching the back of his neck. His eyes dart to the side, anywhere but her face. "It's, uh, a long story. You probably don't wanna hear all the boring details, right?" He chuckles nervously, the sound weak and forced.
Maria doesn't say anything for a moment, just watches him with those sharp, unreadable eyes. The silence stretches, and Obinai shifts again, his free hand fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie.
"Obinai," she finally says, her tone soft but firm. "Come inside. Now."
He nods quickly, stepping past her into the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him.