"Ma!! I want leave outside!"
Miguel's voice was small, high-pitched, with the rough edges of a language he barely knew. He stood by the door, tiny hands gripping the rusted doorknob of their cramped apartment, his wide brown eyes staring up at his mother with impatience.
Ji-Yun Kang'Gweon, exhausted from a fourteen-hour shift at the laundromat, barely looked up from the steaming pot of rice she was stirring. Her back was hunched from years of labor, her fingers raw from detergent burns. She had been on her feet all day, scrubbing away the dirt of people who lived in cleaner places than she could afford.
She sighed. "No. Stay inside."
Miguel pouted, his small, chubby face twisting with frustration. "Why? I want play."
Ji-Yun turned, her sharp eyes locking onto him with the tired patience only single mothers possessed. "Because I say so." Her accent curled thick around each word; her English was clipped but firm. She wasn't going to explain herself further.
Miguel stomped his foot, his bare toes smacking the creaky wooden floor. "But I wanna go!"
His mother didn't flinch. "Miguel. No."
And that was the end of it.
Miguel crossed his arms, glaring at the door as if sheer willpower would open it. He could hear the other kids outside, their laughter echoing through the apartment's thin walls. Somewhere below, a car horn blared, followed by the distant sound of a man shouting in Korean. He didn't understand most of the words but knew anger when he heard it.
He wanted to go outside. He tried to run. To feel the cracked pavement under his feet, to chase the sounds of the city that never seemed to sleep.
But his mother had made an ironclad rule in their home.
Ji-Yun sighed, softening. She bent down, reaching out to cup his cheek. Her palm was warm, calloused. "Miguel-ah… outside is not safe." Her Korean slipped into her English like it always did when she was tired. "People see you; they think you trouble. You understand?"
Miguel didn't understand. Not then.
He just knew that "outside" meant something dangerous. Something his mother didn't trust.
And so, for that night, he stayed inside.
The First Time He Learned the Rules
By age eight, Miguel learned there were unspoken rules to being a boy like him.
1. Don't run when you see the cops. It made you look guilty.
2. Don't walk too slowly. It made you look like you were up to something.
3. Don't put your hands in your pockets in a store.
4. Don't stare at people too long.
5. Don't act too smart in front of grown men. They don't like that.
6. Never talk back to an adult who isn't your mother.
And the most important rule of all: If someone more significant than you picks a fight, you hit first, hit hard, and don't stop.
His mother never taught him that last one. The streets did.
He was nine years old the first time Miguel got into a fight.
A boy named Travis, a white kid from the next apartment over, shoved him hard against the metal railing of the stairwell. "Your mom doesn't even speak English, right," Travis sneered, his voice high and taunting. "My dad said she's just some dumb gook."
Miguel didn't know what gook meant. But he knew it was meant to hurt.
He also knew his mother wasn't dumb. She spoke two languages. Travis could barely spell his name.
Miguel punched him in the mouth.
Blood. Teeth. The sound of Travis's high-pitched scream.
Miguel didn't stop. He shoved him against the railing again, fists swinging, heart pounding.
By the time an adult pulled them apart, Miguel's knuckles were raw, and Travis was crying.
The building supervisor dragged Miguel upstairs. His mother answered the door with tired eyes and flour, still dusting her hands from the dumplings she had been folding. The supervisor, a middle-aged Dominican man with a cigarette dangling from his lips, looked at her with something close to pity.
"Your kid got a temper," he muttered.
Ji-Yun only looked at Miguel. "What happened?"
Miguel's lip trembled, his fists still clenched.
"He said you were dumb."
Silence.
His mother didn't get angry. She didn't yell.
She just turned back into the apartment. "Come inside."
Miguel followed, dragging his feet. The moment the door shut behind them, she grabbed his hands. Her touch was firm, not unkind.
"You fight for me?" she asked softly.
Miguel sniffed, nodding.
For a moment, Ji-Yun just looked at him. Then, slowly, she let out a breath.
"Don't do it again."
Miguel frowned. "But—"
"Listen." Her fingers squeezed his, her grip firm. "They already think you are trouble. You understand?"
Miguel swallowed.
She cupped his cheek, forcing him to look at her. "You fight, and they won't let you go. The world is not kind to boys like you, Miguel."
He didn't understand what she meant.
Not yet.
But he would.
The First Time He Met Dennis
Miguel was ten the first time he met Dennis Holloway.
It was late, past curfew, and Miguel was sitting on the rooftop of their apartment building, knees pulled to his chest. His mother was asleep inside, exhausted from her double shift, and Miguel had snuck out, needing air.
The city stretched below him—Bronx streets lined with flickering streetlights, the occasional rumble of a subway car in the distance. He liked it up here. It felt… quiet. Safe.
That's when he heard footsteps.
Miguel turned, heart, jumping.
A boy, maybe eleven or twelve, stood at the roof's edge. Dark skin, loose hoodie, a cocky smirk pulling at his lips. His Air Forces were scuffed, his hands stuffed in his pockets like he owned the world.
"Yo, you live here?" the boy asked.
Miguel eyed him warily. "Yeah."
The boy whistled, stepping closer. "Damn. You the kid who rocked Travis's shit last year?"
Miguel's stomach clenched.
"I heard about that," the boy continued, flopping beside him. "The white boy had it coming."
Miguel didn't say anything.
The boy stuck out a hand. "Dennis."
Miguel hesitated. Then, slowly, he shook it. "Miguel."
Dennis grinned. "Ayo, you ever been on the train tracks?"
Miguel blinked. "No?"
Dennis's grin widened. "C'mon."
Miguel hesitated. His mother's words echoed in his head. Stay inside. Don't go looking for trouble.
But Dennis's eyes sparkled with something Miguel didn't recognize—something reckless, something alive.
Miguel made a choice.
He followed.
And that night, for the first time in his life, Miguel felt like the world was his to take.
The First Time Miguel Felt Invincible
The endless and rust-covered train tracks stretched before them, cutting through the Bronx like a scar. The air smelled like metal and damp concrete, the kind of thick city scent that stuck to your skin.
Miguel's heart pounded as he followed Dennis, the older boy moving like he had been born in places Miguel had never dared to go. The night was warm, the hum of the city filling the silence between them.
"You scared?" Dennis asked, walking along the rails with lazy confidence, his arms outstretched like he was balancing on a tightrope.
Miguel squared his shoulders. "No."
Dennis laughed, a low, amused sound. "Yeah, you are."
Miguel scowled, stepping onto the tracks beside him. His sneakers wobbled slightly on the uneven metal, but he kept his balance. He wouldn't let Dennis see him struggle.
"How do you even know about this place?" Miguel muttered, glancing at the graffiti-covered walls surrounding the tracks.
Dennis smirked. "I've been out here since I was a kid." He hopped off the rail, landing smoothly on the gravel below. "Ain't nowhere else to be."
Miguel frowned, jumping down beside him. "What you mean?"
Dennis shrugged, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. "Ain't got no reason to be home."
Miguel didn't ask why. He didn't have to.
Because he knew what it meant to be a boy without a father.
The silence between them stretched thick with unspoken things.
Then, suddenly, Dennis grabbed Miguel's arm. "Yo—run."
Miguel barely had time to react before Dennis took off, sprinting down the tracks like the devil himself was chasing him.
Miguel's pulse spiked. "What—?"
"MOVE, NIGGA!" Dennis shouted, and that's when Miguel heard it—
The distant, rising roar of an approaching train.
Panic shot through Miguel's veins, but his body moved before his brain could catch up. He ran, sneakers kicking up loose gravel, lungs burning. Dennis was ahead of him, laughing as he sprinted, the kind of wild, reckless joy that simultaneously made Miguel furious and alive.
This is stupid. This is so stupid.
The train's horn blared, a deafening sound that rattled in Miguel's chest.
Dennis didn't slow down. He was too close to the platform's edge, the train's headlights casting long shadows.
Miguel's breath came sharp and ragged. He pushed himself harder, faster, his legs burning as he caught up to Dennis—
And then, at the last possible second, Dennis leaped off the tracks, landing in a pile of discarded newspapers and old beer bottles.
Miguel wasn't thinking anymore. He just followed.
His feet left the ground. The world blurred.
Then—impact.
Miguel hit the pavement hard, his arms scraping against the rough concrete, but he was alive.
The train screamed past them, a steel and fury wall shaking the ground beneath them.
Miguel lay there, gasping, his heartbeat slamming against his ribs.
Dennis was next to him, grinning like a devil. "Ayo… that was fire."
Miguel turned his head, glaring. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Dennis just laughed, pushing himself up onto his elbows. "You kept up, though."
Miguel opened his mouth, ready to cuss him out—but then he saw it.
The way Dennis was looking at him.
Like he respected him. Like Miguel wasn't just some random kid, some quiet nobody who didn't belong in the streets.
Like he was worth something.
Miguel swallowed, chest still heaving.
Then, slowly, he started laughing too.
The First Time Miguel Saw Power Up Close
After that night, Miguel and Dennis were inseparable.
If Dennis was in the streets, Miguel was right there with him. They ran through alleyways, snuck into corner stores, and hopped subway turnstiles without a second thought. Miguel learned how to move like Dennis—how to blend in and own a room without saying a word.
But Miguel wasn't stupid.
He knew Dennis was in deep with people he shouldn't be.
The first time he saw it with his own eyes was a cold afternoon in December.
They had skipped school, weaving through the crowded streets near Third Ave, when Dennis suddenly grabbed Miguel's shoulder and pushed him into an alley.
Miguel stumbled. "Yo—?"
"Shut up." Dennis's tone was sharp. Serious.
Miguel went quiet.
That's when he saw them.
Three older dudes posted up near the alley's entrance. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in heavy coats that barely concealed the bulges of guns beneath them.
Miguel had seen gangsters before. But not like this.
These weren't the loud, reckless kids in his school who repped colors but didn't mean shit.
These were real.
One of them—an older man, probably in his twenties—eyed Dennis. "You got it?"
Dennis, calm as ever, pulled something from his hoodie. A thick wad of cash, held together by a rubber band. "Like I said."
The man took it, flipping through the bills. He nodded, satisfied. "Good shit, Holloway."
Miguel didn't breathe.
Dennis just smirked.
Then, before Miguel could even process what was happening, the man's eyes snapped to him.
Miguel stiffened.
The man exhaled smoke from the blunt between his lips. "Who's Shorty?"
Dennis barely glanced at Miguel. "He's cool."
A long pause.
Then the man smiled, slow and knowing. "He better be."
He gave Dennis a nod, then walked off, the others following.
The moment they were gone, Miguel shoved Dennis. "What the fuck was that?"
Dennis rolled his eyes. "Relax, man. They ain't do nothin'."
Miguel's hands shook. "They had guns."
Dennis shrugged. "Everybody got guns."
Miguel stared at him. "That don't mean shit."
Dennis grinned, stepping closer. "It does when you the one holdin' it."
Miguel's stomach twisted.
Because for the first time, he realized—
Dennis wasn't afraid of this life.
He was becoming a part of it.
And Miguel?
Miguel didn't know if he was ready to follow him there.
The Beginning of the End
That night, Miguel lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling.
From the next room, he could hear his mother's slow and steady breathing. Outside, a siren wailed, then faded into the distance.
His mind was a mess.
Dennis had power.
People respected him.
Miguel? He had nothing. No father. No legacy. Just an exhausted mother and a life that felt like it was already set in stone.
He wanted to be strong.
He wanted to be somebody.
But as he closed his eyes, one thought whispered at the back of his mind
What if Dennis was the wrong person to follow?
But by then, it was already too late.
Because Miguel was in Dennis's orbit.
And getting out would cost more than he could afford to lose.