~𝒜 𝒮𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓉 ℱℴ𝓇 𝒜 𝒮𝒾𝓃𝓃ℯ𝓇~

The scent of fried chicken still clung to the air in the small Harlem apartment, a comforting, greasy warmth. Fourteen-year-old Dave, all gangly limbs and growing impatience, listened to his Ma's off-key hum from the kitchen. "David," she called, "you say your prayers?" He mumbled a lie, the word 'prayers' feeling like a weakness he couldn't afford. Not since Pop had vanished. He didn't pray that night. Maybe that's why, two days later, he found her cold on the kitchen floor, the chicken on the stove blackened and forgotten. They called it random. He knew better. Harlem always kept score.

Years later, Naomi stood outside Mt. Zion Pentecostal, the worn brick building a beacon of light amidst the bustling 125th Street. She was a 'doer,' a 'worker,' handing out flyers for the food drive, a tambourine tucked under one arm, a Bible under the other. Her faith was her armor, her purpose. Then came the POP. POP. Gunshots ripped through the evening air, followed by screams. The world tilted. Strong arms yanked her behind an SUV, a growl telling her to get down. He was tall, hooded, his face sharp. He looked like trouble, but in that moment, he was her only anchor.