The tire iron slips in my sweaty grip as headlights sweep the alley. Two suits step out of the black Jeep—Feds by the crispness of their haircuts, but something's off about how they scan rooftops like expecting snipers. I count to 300 after they leave before making my move. The third tire's lug nuts are half-off when a voice behind me says 'That's federal property, kid' in a tone that means handcuffs or hospital. I turn slowly to see two guns pointed at my chest—and the shorter agent's eyes widening at the scars on my arms. 'Jesus,' he mutters, just as the radio crackles with a dispatcher's voice: 'All units, we've got another smiling body at the old Monarch theater.' The agents exchange a look I know too well—the moment adults decide whether you're a witness or collateral damage.