# World of Darkness

# World of Darkness

Audio by Paper 2 Audio

# World of Darkness

## The Snap

*(Draft — flow/copyedit pass)*

---

It was mid-afternoon in the spring of May, on a busy football practice field in Maryland. Bordering the lush green field and its inclined bleachers were vast oak trees stretching toward the horizon on one side; the other side stopped short at the street where cars passed by. Clouds cottoned lightly across the dimming sun and the pink skies of late afternoon — a tolerable warmth compared to the blazing humidity from earlier that day.

Today was football practice behind the University of Maryland college building. The team was known as the Raiders.

On the steel bleachers, a few students who'd stuck around after school sat watching the team practice. On the field, players in blue helmets, blue practice jerseys, and white padded pants moved through a lively, rowdy roar — the sound of pads hitting pads, cut by a whistle calling the next play. Today was a high-energy, demanding practice, like every Friday.

The offense huddled twenty feet away, deciding their next play, while the defense waited behind the line of scrimmage, ready to stop it.

Up front on defense was Josiah Myles — six feet even, 270 pounds of compact muscle that looked lighter than it was. Number 64. He stood slouched, struggling to think past his own ragged breathing and the ache of a body that felt like it had been hit by a baseball bat all over.

His uniform was dirtier than everyone else's, splotches of ground-in dirt that refused to leave. Still, the weight of the pads — an armor with a name attached to it — was a comfort he sank into. The meaning behind that name felt bittersweet, though: a mascot persona he never signed up for. *The Stone.* Number 64.

He'd been on the field all day, refusing breaks, targeted relentlessly — exhaustion versus the reputation he was known for, an unmoving anchor on the line, positioned at defensive tackle. They wanted something from him. He wasn't sure what.

He was just going through the motions. *Gosh, why am I here — take another player,* he thought, then let it go. He didn't fit here anymore, but he couldn't convince himself to leave either.

The rest of the defense stood in their usual spots, waiting to rerun the same play as before, same as always — until the coach said otherwise. He glanced around; the defense was still pumped, hungry even. He huffed a disbelieving, faintly amused smile beneath his helmet. *How the heck aren't y'all tired? We've been at this for hours.*

Across the way, the offense was still huddled. Coach Bea — bold, short, and passionate — barked one towering player off the field for an identical one waiting on the sideline, where the rest of the team watched, some rarely getting a turn.

Then the defensive coach shouted from behind number 64, calling everyone in. The defense jogged over in unison to Coach Ted.

Coach Ted towered over the whole undersized defensive unit — a mean-looking, middle-aged white man with a sharp, silvering black beard, dressed in a gray athletic shirt, black shorts, and black sneakers.

He pointed at number 46, a dark-skinned player, and said approvingly, "Good. Keep that pressure, Johnson!" Then he turned back to the huddle forming around him. "Alright, we're gonna change this up before it's time to go. We're pulling a triple rerun threat scope, got it?"

Ted pointed at number 64, then at another player — a stockier, blond-haired white man named Reggie. Sixty-four followed the gesture and met Reggie's gaze. Reggie wore the same blank, serious stare as everyone else, but it didn't fool him — there was something softer underneath, a conflict Reggie wasn't saying out loud. Sixty-four just furrowed his brow at him, then looked back to Coach Ted.

Ted was talking now, open playbook in hand, pointing out the printed formations — then he addressed number 64 by his last name. He dropped the book to his side and got right up in his face.

"Alright, Myles, ya hear me? Myles?!" he barked, loud enough that his breath — smelling of coffee — was enough to make the helmet shake.

Myles flinched but didn't respond, even though he was already staring right at him. He knew that wasn't enough. His eyes softened, briefly vulnerable, seeking to understand — then he cut it short, hardening into an annoyed look instinctively. He gave a slow, begrudging nod, embarrassed as the eyes of the huddle landed on him.

He was exhausted, and he knew the coach wanted a shout of acknowledgment back. But stubbornness — fed by embarrassment — kept him from giving it, not to the one person who'd been targeting him all day.

Ted reared back, disapproval plain on his face, and addressed Myles in front of the huddle. "Myles, if you're not gonna be a part of the team, then you should go home. Stop wasting our time." Then he turned back to the playbook like nothing had happened, addressing him by his nickname instead — which somehow felt more targeted than his own name.

"Alright! Reggie, you're the bear." Then, to sixty-four: "Stone, you're the bull. Nothing's changed." He said it carefully, like they might've forgotten.

"Stone, I want you to push forward and drag the offense to the right side, for Johnson. Reggie, I want you on the right end — shed that line and go for the blitz inside, cutting left! Everyone got it?"

The team answered in a chorus. "Yeah! Yes, coach!"

Stone didn't. A weight settled into his shoulders.

Ted nodded, satisfied. "Break!" He clapped, book tucked under his arm, and the team clapped a fraction of a second later in unison.

Stone didn't respond, but the sound reminded him of better times.

The defense hustled to the line of scrimmage. From the sideline came clapping and cheers — benched players and students rooting for their teammates. But to Stone's surprise, a few voices he didn't recognize shouted just for him: "Come on, Stone! Show them that power, Stone! Go, Stone!"

Jogging to the line, he felt oddly pitied by the chants, half-lost in the thought that they were only cheering because he'd looked like such an embarrassment all week — especially today — compared to last season. Like they were watching their player fail to be who he used to be. He didn't acknowledge them, just carried the bittersweet feeling inward. He reached the line, the last few steps costing him more than they should have, his sore lungs struggling to keep up. *Dammit, just work,* he told his body. *Stop weakening out like this. We're not gonna make it if we do.*

A unified clap erupted from the offensive huddle as they broke. Their towering linemen led the jog up to the line, Coach Bea clapping and yelling, "Come on, come on, hurry up, offense!"

As the offense arrived, Stone glanced over the lineup. To his right, Reggie's competition was already down, one hand in the dirt, fire in his eyes — something to prove. His left hand trembled slightly, itching to hit something.

Stone looked ahead, and the world shrank the way it always did — towers of muscle, taller than him, standing in front of him. It used to feel almost like a compliment, being matched against the bigger guys. Now it just felt like the weight of a chore he had to carry as the undersized player.

One spot in front of him was empty — the guard on his left. Everyone else settled into position. A second later, a six-foot-three white guy, Joshua, number 63, jogged up to fill it.

Joshua was the one who always volunteered when Josiah got put out front in drills. He arrived breathing heavy from the run, grinning a cocky grin, bouncing on his toes — night and day from Stone's exhaustion.

"Woooo! You ready, Stone?! I'm coming for ya!" Joshua said, loud and dramatic.

Stone ignored him, thinking sarcastically that he already knew why Joshua was here. *Ah, damn — he doesn't play like this normally. Wonder why.* He gauged the rest of the competition — how relaxed some of them were, like the center — but knowing Joshua was in, he figured he'd better bring more effort, in case Joshua actually meant it. *He's a dick, but not cruel,* he reminded himself as exhaustion tried to swallow the thought. He didn't feel any urge to hurt anyone back — just to hold his ground. *It's a game,* he told himself.

Both lines settled into position. Joshua went quiet and serious, not meeting Stone's eyes — though Stone could feel him watching anyway. The thought faded as fast as it came. It didn't matter. He just needed to survive the play.

He crouched into the A-gap between the center and Joshua, right hand in the dirt, barely any weight on it — his arms were already screaming. The center held the ball steady on the ground.

Stone took a slow breath and exhaled. A brief mental check: *Am I even going to try to push them? No — I can't. I'll just anchor. Stand here. Can't let them push me back. That's all.*

A few seconds ticked by. The quarterback rattled off his usual string of filler calls from behind the wall of linemen. "Blue rhino, blue rhino, forty-seven ditch, Domingo, Domingo—"

Stone knew the trick — get the defense comfortable, lulled toward rest, right before the play actually started. He tuned out the words and watched only the ball in the center's hand, waiting for the roar to erupt.

A beat. Then two.

Then the snap.

The ball shot back between the center's legs to the quarterback, and everything blurred — the roar of chaos, pads slamming pads, cleats tearing at turf. Stone's eyes had closed for a fraction of a second too long, but his first two steps drove forward anyway, pure instinct, straight into the center guard meeting him. The impact knocked the air from his lungs. He leaned in, legs burning but finding balance, anchoring down the way he always had — the thing that made him The Stone, unmovable. Except right now his muscles felt weak even as he engaged them.

For one strange, stretched-out moment, he realized the hit he'd braced for from Joshua hadn't come. He couldn't see him through the grill of his helmet anyway. His eyes cracked open, staring at the ground. *Just a few more seconds,* he thought.

Boom

The impact didn't come from the front — it came from the blind side. Joshua hit him like a freight train, and the sunlight blinked out of his left eye. Plastic cracked against plastic; his helmet rang like a bell. He was thrown off balance, head snapping back, knocked away from the center a few staggering steps.

His feet scrambled for purchase, muscles screaming that they were out of time — the hit had all but guaranteed he'd go down. By some chance, he caught himself on one leg, flexing hard, barely staying up, that one leg's strength already fading. His core tried to clench and failed.

Then he saw who'd hit him — Joshua, helmet locked against his, not stopping, driving forward like an angry bull. A spark of heat surged through him — anger, raw and bigger than himself in that moment. He gritted his teeth, understanding it had been a cheap shot, and that it was going to be next to impossible to hold his ground now. The temptation of anger pulled at him — the thought that maybe, if he let it take over, it would be enough.

Another step back. His upper back gave out fast.

For some reason, he didn't lash back. *It's Joshua. No,* he reminded himself, just enough to snap out of it — though the anger stayed lit somewhere in his chest, smaller now but still burning. He refused it and tried to hold with what strength he had left, lost his footing on his right foot, tried to find it again with his left.

He felt the grim certainty of ground he wasn't getting back — a helpless shame settling in. He kept losing turf, driven steadily backward until he was finally shoved down, five yards behind where he'd started, flat on his back. Joshua stood over him. The play kept going without him for its last few seconds, adrenaline fading into the ache blooming in his left shoulder.

The gear on him felt like it absorbed the embarrassment along with everyone's eyes, folding it into its weight.

*Don't,* he thought, as the anger tried to surge again. *Don't you dare. This is on you.*

He lay there. A moment later the play ended, and the field erupted in celebration — a touchdown.

Joshua threw his head back like he'd won the Super Bowl instead of a Friday practice drill, and stepped past Stone, cleats flicking a bit of dirt through his face mask — a stale little reminder of exactly where he stood on this team.

"Stone's crumbling!" Joshua shouted toward the sideline, looking for a high five from the coaches.

---

Stone heard the rest of the play continue without him — noise rolling past, something getting by, a heavy sense of having failed, though the details didn't matter anymore. He lay there like he was mourning himself. He let out a breath. His muscles felt tight as a garden hose full to bursting; moving was hard, but he didn't try yet.

He lay there as if this were it — taken down, having let people down, too many to count. But it wasn't really about him — they wanted *the Stone.* He breethd in through his nose and accepted it: a grim reminder that he didn't have that strength anymore, that it felt like living in a weaker body. Infuriating, to be taken down like that.

He opened his eyes to a sky gone deep orange — a reminder that it was getting late, that time kept moving whether he wanted it to or not. His ears rang; the chatter around him was incoherent. Something rose behind his eyes and he flinched it back down, bracing himself before he even looked around at who might be watching. He'd been on the ground longer than felt right. Wincing, he forced himself up onto one side.

The celebration was still going — he glanced toward the benched players and the students on the bleachers, half-expecting them to be too caught up in the touchdown to have noticed him. *Who was he kidding.* Of course they'd seen. A few of them were staring, something written on their faces he didn't bother reading. It was enough. It stuck deep.

He fought his own body upright — tight, swollen biceps, a back and thighs that screamed like they were tearing. He rose, lost his balance, caught himself on one knee, flexed hard against the weakness out of pure frustration. He stood slowly, refusing to give anyone another reason to pity him by staying down.

Ready to numb out and grind through another play if that's what they wanted — just to hold onto some piece of himself, so nobody could say he'd shown weakness. God, he wanted to sit on the sideline more than anything right now.

As the celebration carried on, the head coach — Coach Duggs, a short man in a backward black cap with a long black beard, new to the team a few months back — walked in and cut through it. "Alright, team, pack up! Time to pack up now!"

Josiah stood there a moment, awkward, as if he could pretend nothing had happened since no one had said anything directly. He avoided catching anyone's eye, but he caught his friend Reggie's anyway. Reggie looked back and said nothing, then returned to a knot of players that included Joshua, their girlfriends beside them, helmets already off.

It hurt to see. His friend Reggie barely talked to him anymore unless they were away from school. *Oh, right — Reggie's cool now,* he thought bitterly.

Head down, he avoided the mixed looks of concern and disappointment from the handful of people who'd seen it happen. The group scattered toward the university building — bright red brick, glass panels, banners of the Bald Eagle Raiders hanging overhead.

Josiah joined the path, cleats crunching over the turf, the orange light stretching his shadow ten feet tall. Behind his eyes, a dull ache lingered. He didn't trust himself to speak — afraid of what might slip out from behind the stoic mask.

---

Seven minutes later, back at the college building, Stone had rebuilt that mask and walked straight into the cramped, fluorescent-lit locker room. He faced his locker as chatter flooded in and out through the door. The room smelled like lemon cleaner fighting a losing battle against musk, but it didn't bother him — he was used to it, and these guys were as close as brothers to him.

Life kept moving around him — arguments about pop culture, the upcoming N.F.L playoffs, weekend plans, a few stragglers still talking about what had happened at practice. He tuned it out unless it mattered.

He took a breath, then pulled off his helmet. The fluorescent light hit him bare — vulnerable without the armor. Almond skin, a broad face, soft brunette-bleached black curls that settled naturally, a chiseled jaw, small tired brown eyes.

He turned the helmet in his hands, its surface lightly marked with scuffed color from different teams over the years. It used to feel like an achievement — an echo of camaraderie, of coaches and teammates once proud of him.

He remembered a promise from his high school coach: strip all the blue paint off the helmet through play, and he could keep it. He never had. He tried not to take it personally — the program had run on a shoestring budget back then. But those years still held something sweet, a time when the team came before winning.

He stared at the front of the helmet like it was a mirror, then set it on the floor of his locker, spun the combination, and pulled off his pads, stacking them on top. His chest and back, freed from the pressure, were damp with sweat, but at least he could finally breathe.

He changed — dark gray hoodie, black baggy sweatpants, his custom domino-colored letterman jacket tied around his waist, black-and-white high-tops. He shut and locked the locker, grabbed his gear, and walked out with a relaxed, stoic posture, one earbud in, a bass-heavy song already playing on autopilot.

Out in the hallway, a few players changed there instead, freshening up along the white walls. Josiah kept walking, mind mostly empty except for the music. Around a corner, a woman crossed paths with him. His brow flicked up instinctively, then softened into something more approachable — he'd been told he could look mean without meaning to.

She stopped. "Hey, excuse me — I'm looking for Jake Summers. Do you know where he is?"

Josiah glanced back toward the locker room, then to her. "Oh — yeah. White guy, brown hair?" She nodded. "He's probably still in the locker room. Wouldn't go down there though, boys changing and all. He'll be out."

"Oh, okay — thanks!" She smiled and headed that way anyway.

He gave a thin, polite smile and kept walking. At the end of the hall, a few players debated the vending machine. Beyond them, in the main entrance where the halls all converged, stood Reggie and Joshua with their girlfriends.

Josiah's eyes softened at the players by the machine — his hand found his wallet in his pocket, then hesitated. He looked ahead at Reggie and stopped halfway down the hall, then abruptly turned back the way he'd come, something pulling at him he couldn't name. He looked and saw nothing. Just felt something.

The thought passed. "Ah, right — Jay, the gym's this way," he muttered to himself, chuckling faintly at his own forgetfulness.

---

### Gym

Five minutes later, inside the gym — the air a mix of soapy cleaner and stubborn sweat — Josiah walked the treadmill, tired muscles still tight, trying to sweat the memory out of them. He looked up at the max-prep board hanging above the door, a record of the team's lifting and athletic achievements.

Three years ago, his name topped nearly every line on that board — back when things felt whole, when he really was the Stone the team called him, driven by something like family. Even then, though, he'd never let anger be the fuel, never wanted to hurt anyone to get there. It was just a game to him. That's what he told himself.

Now the board read differently. Joshua, 600-pound deadlift. James Fernir, 300-pound clean.

The numbers shouldn't have meant anything — they weren't what drove him in the first place. But they were what the team cheered for, what got shouted in motivational talks. Looking at the board now, it was just a reminder of what he couldn't do anymore, and what it would cost to get it back: becoming the "beast," the version of the Stone the team actually wanted.

That change scared him more than any hit ever had. It threatened the one thing he still recognized — his own reflection.

"Let it go, Jay. It is what it is — just numbers. Doesn't matter now. Things go, and that's the way it'll be," he muttered, exhaling through his nose. He turned his attention to the T.V mounted on the wall, letting the news numb him out, and kept walking.

A news anchor droned faintly: "—gonna be chilly, everyone—"

---

A moment later, his music cut out for a ringing chime — a call, phone sitting on the treadmill's dashboard. It rang a while before he grabbed it. The name on the screen made his eyes widen: Lo'mont. An old friend, like a brother.

He glanced around — the gym was empty. He wiped away any lingering shadow from the night and hit the green button.

"Yo, hello?"

Lo'mont's voice came back deep and ecstatic. "Hey, Josiah! What's up with you, man?"

Josiah's eyes lit with recognition, a smile breaking through. "Yeah — hey, Lo'mont. I've been... chilling. How's things with you?"

"I'm doing great. Draft's coming up — I'm gonna try to make it in."

"Wow, that's cool, man." A beat. "Because you're my best friend, man — I'll be at the draft. I wanted us to hang out, here in Miami. What do you say?"

Josiah went quiet. "Uh... well, I don't know, Lo'mont. I'm happy for you — I know football's been huge for you. I've never been to Miami. When's this happening?"

"I'm hyped, man — wanted my day-ones with me. This is huge. Draft's Saturday night. I'll get you set up, already got the ticket — just get here." He laughed.

"Uh, wow. A plane? That's gotta be quick — this Saturday..."

"Don't worry, I'll set it up. Hey — honestly, man, I'm nervous. You've always been there when I needed you. I know it's sudden — if you can't make it, I'll understand."

"Yeah — I think I'd like to go. Just gotta think about it, see if I can get away for a few days."

"Yeah, I get it. Let me know today, though. It's tomorrow."

"Yeah, I get it. Thanks, man. And thanks for calling... I missed hearing from you. So how've you been, other than football?"

The call ends. Josiah sighs, a tight pressure settling in his chest — a deep ache of sympathy for his friend.

He shut off the treadmill and cleaned it slowly, turning over how he might make this work. By the time he finished up in the gym, he passed a slimmer player struggling with the vending machine — Xavier, the coach's son, a bench player who mostly kept to himself. Josiah's eyes softened; he waited until Xavier was out of sight, sighed, and shook off the feeling.

He bought two energy bars himself and headed for the front doors. Outside, night had already fallen — he blinked at how fast it had come on. Cold air, the smell of greenery and exhaust, players filing toward their cars.

Xavier was leaning against a pillar under the entrance roof. Josiah took a breath, steadying himself, and walked over. He kept his eyes just past Xavier's shoulder, offering a bar with a casual, warm tone. "Hungry?"

Xavier's furrowed expression softened in surprise. He took the bar. "...Yeah, thanks, Stone."

Another player stood just around the pillar — they must've been talking. Josiah's eyes flicked to him, then to his own pocket, and he offered a second bar. They took it too.

"No problem, y'all. Did good today at practice. Take care." He smiled, warm and brotherly, then looked away and walked off toward an isolated bench.

He sat down. The school lights glowed behind him, scattered across the parking lot where the last players loaded into cars, laughing about something.

Josiah sat alone, heart heavy but steady, weighing the choice in front of him.

"Miami, huh," he said quietly, then huffed a laugh. "Today's been something. Got my ass sacked to the ground by a guy trying to prove something, I guess. Funny, though — I thought I wanted all this. Football. All I ever heard growing up was how many people told me to join, to play, to go to college for it. And somewhere in there I lost myself in it. When the team changed, I stopped believing as much — saw what they actually wanted.

The Stone. To hurt people. Be the beast they needed. That's what it is — a beast. But I couldn't. I saw how wrong that felt, and I'm not strong enough to fake wanting to hurt somebody.

"Now I'm just on a team, still hanging on somehow, trying to survive the hard stretch, hoping the good comes back eventually. God, I remember crying to my coach in high school just to stay on the team. Thought college would be different. It wasn't. People just got better at being cold — better at their own delusions of what a player's supposed to be, what they're for.

And honestly, I feel for them. How do I stay mad at people who are just as lost as I am? I don't know if they're really trying to hurt me. But I guess it doesn't matter. I'm in control of me. Question is what I'm gonna do now. No clue, Josiah."

A tear sat on his cheek. He let it stay, pretending it wasn't there.

He pulled out his phone and stared blankly between his contacts and his music apps, then sighed and called his mom — Reggie's mom.

"Hey, Mom."

"Hi, hun. I'm just around the corner."

He scoffed, amused. "I'm not Bee Vomit, Ms. Valls."

"Oh, right — you don't like the nicknames. Sorry. So how was your day?"

"It was okay. Just tired. But guess what — a friend called."

"Oh! Who?"

"Lo'mont. Apparently he's a prospect, thinks he'll make the N.F.L. I'm happy for him."

"Oh my — your best friend?! That's amazing. Good for him."

Josiah flinched. "Yeah... sure. Friend. But he invited me to Miami tonight — sudden thing, otherwise it'd be too late. Said he's nervous, wants a friend around. Not sure if I'm going yet."

"Wow, Miami? Far, and nice. Watch out for the women, might snag you up." She laughed.

He winced, half-amused, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, no thanks. Don't need anyone like that. Never have, never will."

"Okay, okay. Up to you. I'll drive you down, just let the school know. Where's Reggie?"

Josiah sighed. "Reggie? He's probably with his girl, or a group of guys, planning something. Why — you talk to him?"

"No, he doesn't like talking to me about it."

"Yeah. Guess I should mention — I'm a little concerned about him. Just simply."

"Well, maybe you should tell him."

"Okay, Ma. I'll think on it."

"Okay, Jay. See you soon."

He leaned back, arms stretched along the top of the bench. A crescent moon hung to his right, almost like a living symbol in the sky, surrounded by stars and drifting clouds. Crickets sang loud in the nearby oaks.

"He wouldn't have asked if it wasn't serious. Especially after this long. He's probably really going through it."

A stuttered breath. "You'd think he'd have more people around him than just me. Heh. But yeah — I'll go." He nodded to himself, looking down at the grass. "Yeah. Not gonna leave him if he needs me around."

*[Dorm scene — exposition: Josiah packs for the Miami trip. Messy closet, football helmet on display, a moment with his mom figure, logistics of the trip.]*

---

That evening, night had fallen. Josiah sat aboard a Beta Airways flight, the plane parked at the gate. The cabin was half full, warmly lit by the setting sun through the windows. A flight attendant in a blue uniform moved down the aisle checking on passengers; conversation drifted in scattered pockets around him — not unpleasant, just noise.

His heart raced, equal parts nerves and disbelief — his first time flying as an adult. A flicker of memory told him he'd flown once as a baby, though he couldn't recall it himself. He sat with a pleasant, sheepish look on his face, letting the wordless chatter wash over him — relaxed voices, complaints, stories, none of it his business, all of it strangely pleasant. There was comfort in not having the outcome in his own hands anymore. He let himself imagine good things ahead, careful not to catch anyone's eye and seem nosy.

The pleasant, practiced voice of the announcer came over the speakers: "Okay, ladies and gentlemen, we are about to set off. Please stay in your seats and enjoy your flight with Beta."

He looked out the window to his right, leaning his temple against the frame. The runway stretched out below, strung with lights, the terminal building across from it. The engines revved, a soft vibration running through the plane. He accepted that it wasn't in his hands anymore — like everyone else on board, he just had to trust it. He was terrified of heights, but there was an odd ease in having chosen this, for his friend's sake. He held his breath, willing his racing heart to settle, though it seemed to have a mind of its own.

He leaned his temple against the glass, glancing instinctively for the moon — not on this side, just amber runway lights sliding by as the plane turned.

"It's alright," he whispered to himself. "It's what we're gonna do. It's gonna be what it'll be." A small, bittersweet smile.

---

Meanwhile, in Miami — another place, another person.

On a vast stretch of freshly cut land reflecting the moonlight stood a large white mansion. On the third-floor stone deck, in the cool night air, stood the celebrity musician Michael Blackwell — dressed in a burgundy three-piece suit, Caucasian, dark blond hair pulled back behind his ears, blue eyes catching the moonlight like glass, jaw sculpted and smooth, a broad, brawny figure fitted into a perfectly tailored suit. He looked out over the distant, neon-lit skyline, taking in the night.

A door closed somewhere deep in the house behind him. Then the steady click of heels on hardwood.

A blonde woman in her thirties stepped onto the deck, dressed for a public appearance — a black satin dress reaching her ankles, a silver cross necklace catching the moonlight, pointed black heels. His wife crossed to his side, shoulders shivering in the cold, and leaned into him. He opened his arm reflexively and drew her close. She looked out at the same horizon, breath fogging faintly from her red lips in the cold air, unlike his.

"I'm ready now. We can go," she said warmly.

He turned to her, his expression flipping instantly from cold to warm, like a switch. She looked up at him — a beautiful, admired woman gazing up at her handsome, composed husband. She reached up, brushing his cheek with her thumb, brow furrowing as she inspected it. "Well. It healed up well. Can't even see it anymore."

"Yeah," he said, smiling. "They got a little crazy tonight. Thank you..." He leaned in, grinning, faintly flirtatious. "Though it still kind of hurts. You could heal it a little more, if you wanted."

She gasped, mock offended but clearly amused, and gave his chest a light backhanded slap. "No — you've had enough. Let's go before we're late."

She laughed, rolled her eyes, and led the way back inside. He followed, matching her stride with the effortless, practiced grace of a gentleman, their footsteps clicking in rhythm through the mansion and down the long staircase.

In the living room, an older Black butler moved among half-unloaded boxes and scattered decorations. He caught them from the corner of his eye and straightened up.

"Stacy, Michael — you two look lovely tonight."

They both nodded, smiling.

"Master Blackwell, the last of the supplies for the draft party arrived today. I'm about half finished with the setup. Quite excited for this one — much deserved relief for them, I think. For me too, honestly."

Michael adjusted his cuff, expression flattening slightly. "Alright, Oscar. If you're happy with the arrangements, then so am I. It's your show this weekend — I'm just the host."

Stacy added, amused, "Well, Oscar, have some fun for me too, since I won't be around for it. And make sure this one doesn't do anything too reckless." She patted Michael's arm, laughing.

"Of course, ma'am," Oscar said, smiling.

Michael checked his watch. "We've got a long night of handshakes and donations ahead of us. Don't stay up too late with the stats, Oscar."

Oscar gave a casual thumbs-up, his voice pleasant and proper. "Of course. Master Blackwell, Lady Blackwell — enjoy your evening."

Michael and Stacy strode toward the front door, her heels leading the way across the porcelain floor and down the long rug.

---

Josiah stepped out of the airport's sliding doors, luggage in hand, and reached the edge of the sidewalk. Ahead, the road curved into the main street; beyond the parking lot and tree line rose a skyline lit violet, cyan, and lime green. Breathtaking. Since the plane landed, he'd finally been able to exhale. The air was hotter than he was used to — a warm, silky heat cut by a cooler breeze carrying asphalt and a faint salt smell.

He enjoyed the chill anyway, the way the hair on his arms stood up, the faint tremor in his muscles. What lingered was the *what now.* He knew he had to get to the hotel and meet his friend tomorrow, but beyond that — just the sights, and a low current of embarrassment about not knowing the local rhythm well enough not to mess something up.

He stood there, trying to look casual while clearly lost. He spotted an open bench, but a woman already sat on half of it, and he didn't want to spook her by sitting down at midnight next to a stranger. Instead he settled on the edge of a large flower planter, luggage at his feet, and closed his eyes for a long moment — still listening, still aware of the footsteps and distant chatter. It felt normal.

He opened his eyes, pulled out his phone. Blue wallpaper. 11 24 PM, April 26th, 2024. No notifications.

He opened his messages. Lo'mont.

> **Lo'mont:** yeah man after the draft, we gonna be at a party the rockstar michael blackwell is hosting. this years draft party.

> **Lo'mont:** great man. lmk when you land.

> **Me:** lol. alright, will do, take care.

He typed back: *"Hey bud, I just landed. Out of the airport building now. Take care, I'll find my way."*

He looked up as a car engine sounded somewhere down the road. He let the moment settle — no assumptions about what came next, just the breeze moving past the pavement, the trees, his own skin. Strange, unfamiliar temperature, but calming all the same.

He scanned the area — the parking lot, one car idling with its headlights on, people walking, talking on the pavement, a bus stop off to his right with a few people waiting.

A man in a black hoodie and blue sweatpants, hood up, approached the woman on the bench. Josiah couldn't hear what passed between them — unclear if they knew each other. He watched, mildly curious, chest tightening slightly, though he made no move. A moment later she stood and followed the man to a motorcycle parked behind a bush at the corner, climbing on the back as it pulled away.

*Guess it was fine,* Josiah thought, faintly concerned, huffing in disbelief at himself — as if he'd have done anything anyway. He rarely stepped in for strangers; he didn't know the full context, and people tolerated a lot from the people they cared about. He watched the bike disappear, then noticed the same car with its lights on pulling up to the curb.

A bald, rugged Black man leaned out, Jamaican accent thick. "Hey — you Josiah? Boy in the black and white jacket!"

Josiah startled, caught off guard — had that been his ride the whole time, just sitting there? He cleared his throat, stood, and jogged over. "Uh, yes, I am. Are you David? Lo'mont's friend?"

"Yes, mon, I am. Been waiting for you in the parking lot, you know. Come on, hurry up, get those bags in the car."

The trunk popped with a heavy *clu-chunk.* Josiah grabbed his suitcase and carried it back. David climbed out — tall, lanky, in a red shirt and floral shorts with sandals — and met him at the trunk.

Josiah paused, glancing for permission before loading it in. "Would be odd if I got the wrong car, huh?" he said, smiling.

David huffed something like a smile back, shifted a few things around, then stepped back. "Alright."

Josiah loaded the suitcase, shut the trunk, and climbed into the back seat as David returned to the driver's side.

---

The car pulled off, quiet, until they reached the heart of the city — neon on nearly every building. Diners, drugstores, hotels, surf shops, billboards trimmed in blue, violet, yellow, red, colors sliding past the window. He'd never seen anything like it — maybe a carnival back home, but not like this, not at night. He couldn't speak to whatever happened in a city like this after dark, but the colors were beautiful. He watched, silent, like a kid, head tilted stiffly toward the glass.

Minutes passed — building after building wrapped in light, people spilling in and out of bars and diners, the kind of scene he'd only ever seen on T.V. Nothing like rural Maryland. Still, something familiar stirred under it all, a sense that the world ran deeper than what he was seeing. The radio played something Jamaican-inspired, a funky rap beat — *badder den dem, badder den dem* — and the night was anything but quiet. He kept his bittersweet awe intact, not blind to what bars and parties usually came with, but not in a place to judge either. A new world he'd never been in.

Eventually the car slowed at an intersection, swerved into a hotel parking lot, and rocked to a stop near the entrance.

"Okay, we are here," David said, shifting into park.

Josiah's heart skipped. He knew what he was supposed to do — just not how, not here, not for the first time. *What if I mess it up?* He drowned the thought, undid his seatbelt, and felt a strange pressure to make this worth David's time — sensing his tiredness, whether it was just his manner or something more. He didn't want to ask outright and risk being turned down out of instinct. Better to just be upfront about it — maybe offer some cash, a thought that suddenly outweighed even the nerves about checking in.

He sat a moment longer. David got out first, which finally shook him loose. He opened his door, shut it behind him, and rounded the car as the trunk popped.

"Alright, man," David said, hand braced on the open trunk. "Make sure you get all your stuff, yeah?"

---

Later, Josiah stepped into the elevator with his key, having paid for the weekend — embarrassed at how nervous he'd been over something so simple, though the humor of it took the edge off. He looked composed on the outside; inside, it was all quiet negotiation.

The elevator opened onto sand-colored walls and red doors, a hallway lit by hanging lanterns and twin strips of light along the ceiling, a plush gray carpet dotted with old stains. He found his room — 234, in silver numbers — and let himself in.

---

The next morning: gray blankets, white pillows, suitcases untouched and stacked by the table. He was still in yesterday's clothes.

He groaned awake, immediately thinking of the meeting. Traffic noise drifted in from outside.

"What time is it? Am I late? Hope not. If I am — well, it was nice. Just get up," he muttered to himself, then flopped back onto his face.

He didn't get up. Not for a while.

Ten minutes later he was standing, catching a whiff of himself and wincing. "Definitely," he muttered.

The shower ran a few minutes later. He dressed in the same clothes, fixed his hair with nothing but water, let his curls settle on their own. His stomach growled — he had no food, and wondered when the diner meeting actually was.

He grabbed his phone: 11 25 AM, April 27th, 2024. Three notifications.

> **Lo'mont:** Good morning man, hey ill be over soon around 12:00. We change the diner for breakfast, we going to moonlite, a good place.

> **Lo'mont:** we changing the diner, its now the one across the street from you. It's called moonlite. We planning for 12 30 PM.

He scoffed, half-amused, half-skeptical. "*We?* Who's *we?* He's got something planned, I bet. This is new." He pulled up the browser, searched *Moonlite diner Miami restaurant,* and found it — a classic-style place, four stars, known for onion rings and pizza.

He chuckled, rolling with it. "Alright, bud. Moonlite it is. Guess I'll find out who's showing up too. Probably a football friend, or... something. Shouldn't matter much. Time away's better right now, especially since I don't think I'm going to the N.F.L. Didn't really want to anyway." He shook the thought off before it could pull him under.

Today wasn't about that. It was about being here for his friend.

He locked the door behind him and stepped out into blinding, baby-blue skies and a beating sun — definitely not Maryland. Cars passed, people in summer clothes he could only half-recognize. He kept his coat on anyway, too stubborn to complain, figuring he'd just sweat through it.

---

A car pulled up. Josiah glanced over but didn't move yet, unsure if it was for him.

A six-foot-five, heavily muscled Black man stepped out — cornrows pulled into a ponytail, buzzed sides, a wide grin. Black t-shirt under a punk-style leather jacket, tight black jeans, vibrant red-and-white high-tops.

Josiah's eyes went wide, frozen for a second, taking in the new version of his old friend.

"Ayyy, Josiah!!" Lo'mont called, waving big as he closed the distance.

"Uh — hey, Lo'mont??"

"Sure is. Don't remember me?"

"I remember what you used to look like. Gosh — you definitely grew." Josiah laughed, nervous.

Lo'mont raised a hand for a dap. Josiah caught it instinctively, felt the strong grip, the same familiar clammy palm. His eyes sharpened with instinct. "You okay?" he asked, stoic but laced with something gentler — like a wall trying to say *I care* without lowering itself.

"Yeah, man, I'm fine — great!" Lo'mont answered, a little too practiced.

Josiah squinted, protective, but let it go, softening. "Alright, man. Good to finally see you again. Missed ya, Green Mile." He said it with a teasing, brotherly warmth.

Lo'mont laughed hard, throwing an arm around Josiah's shoulders. Josiah flinched — reined it into a barely-there shiver so it wouldn't register as rejection — and let the touch stay, if not exactly relax into it. He smiled anyway.

Lo'mont guided him to the car. "Man, we got a big day tonight — partying, drinking, and most importantly, the N.F.L."

---

They drove to a classic '90s diner called Blue Moonlite — checkerboard floors, red booths along the windows. A woman sat waiting at a table, and something about her struck Josiah as familiar. He stopped short, hesitating.

Lo'mont walked ahead with a knowing grin, glancing between the two of them.

She was still on her phone, a mug beside her.

"Hey, Cali — guess who's here?!" Lo'mont called.

She looked up, glanced at Lo'mont, then caught sight of Josiah frozen near the entrance. She smiled knowingly and went back to her phone.

Josiah huffed a disbelieving smile, shot Lo'mont a mock glare — which Lo'mont returned with a grin — then rolled his eyes, heart settling, and crossed to sit across from them both.

"So this was the surprise, Lo'mont?" he said, amused.

Nia looked up, smiling, glancing expectantly at Lo'mont.

"Sure was," Lo'mont said. "Wanted my best friends with me for the biggest moment of my life."

Nia laughed. "Ya, he told me out the blue too. Years of quiet, then suddenly — 'hey Cals, need you here.'" She nudged him affectionately.

Lo'mont rubbed the back of his head, sheepish. "Yeah..."

Josiah just smiled, watching them with a warm, bittersweet ache.

"So how you been, stranger?" Nia teased.

Josiah's brows lifted, caught off guard. "Stranger — ah, guess I deserve that. Yeah, just been dealing with stuff. Once we all stopped talking, figured everyone got busy. Just... respected the space."

*[Section trimmed for pacing]*

"Yeah — my agent or a team could call anytime," Lo'mont said, phone gripped tight, nerves showing through the smile.

Nia noticed, glanced at Josiah with a knowing look, then cleared her throat and smiled. "Well, let's make the wait worth it, huh?" She reached for her menu. "Now that y'all finally showed up, we can order."

Josiah smiled, shoulders finally loosening as he watched his two nervous friends. It was going to be alright, he thought, and leaned back.

"Hey — you still remember camp, back in high school?" he asked Lo'mont.

"Oooh, I remember!" Nia teased, grinning.

Lo'mont covered his face, shaking his head, blushing.

"Too much to talk about?" Josiah asked, eyes soft.

*[Section trimmed for pacing]*

The waiter arrived with a practiced smile, pad in hand. "Anything I can get you all?"

"Eggs and biscuits, please," Nia said.

*[Time skip — a few hours later]*

Lo'mont hung up a call as Nia returned from the restroom.

"Nothing new. No news yet," he said.

"They're calling just to raise your blood pressure," Nia said, frowning.

"...Well, the draft's not till ten. It's six. We should head to the big wheel before it's too late."

"The what?" Josiah asked.

"You'll figure it out," Nia said, smirking.

Josiah turned to Lo'mont. "You gonna be alright, man? Whatever happens tonight, you did the work you could on that field. Now you just wait. Don't overthink it."

Lo'mont glanced out the window, conflicted, then back. "Yeah. You're right."

The waiter returned. "How's everything? Need anything?"

"We're heading out — can I get the check?" Lo'mont asked.

"Of course, I'll be right back."

Josiah spoke up before she could turn away. "Oh — excuse me, ma'am?"

She paused. "Sorry, yes?"

"It's okay," he said, sheepish. "Could I get an order to go, actually?"

"Sure — separate check, or add it to the existing one?"

Josiah glanced at the others, found no objection. "I'll pay for it — add it to the existing one, please. And could I get a burrito to go?"

She nodded, scribbling. "Alright, that all?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'll be right back with that. Take care, everyone." She walked off.

Lo'mont laughed. "Still hungry? Thought you said you were full."

"Is it for later?" Nia asked.

"Yeah — for the hotel, my 'just in case,'" Josiah said, chuckling. "But y'all head to the car if you want, I'll cover the bill. Anyone got cash for a tip?"

"Not on me," Nia said.

"Yeah — boy's waiting in the car anyway," Lo'mont said, digging through his wallet — rare, phone set down on the table for once — and pulled out a twenty, handing it to Nia, who passed it to Josiah.

Josiah looked it over, smiling warmly.

Nia stood, pulling her jacket on. "Come on, superstar."

Lo'mont chuckled, following. "Alright, alright — I *am* the man of the evening, after all."

She rolled her eyes, affectionate. "Yeah, yeah. Still just the same geek to me."

Lo'mont laughed, glancing back. "Thanks, Jay. We'll meet you in the car."

"Yeah, don't take too long," Nia added, teasing, as they headed for the door.

Josiah watched them go, something almost precious in the sight. The door swung shut behind them.

He checked his balance — $14. Not enough. He dug into savings — $456 — and pulled $50, leaving $406.

He glanced at the A.T.M near the counter. The waiter was leaning against it, scrolling her phone. Figuring she'd be a while, he walked over, and without quite thinking about it, withdrew $64 — his old jersey number, his favorite.

He smiled faintly, then softened into something more melancholy — football, his team back in Maryland wanting something from him he couldn't give. He tucked the cash away, turned back toward the booth, and caught sight of a limo parked out front through the window. *Someone fancy showing up?* He shrugged it off and settled back into the booth, chewing his lip, waiting.

The waiter returned a few minutes later with a foam to-go box and the check.

"There you go, sir. Anything else?"

He glanced at the box, then her, managing a small smile despite the weight still sitting on his shoulders. "No, ma'am, that's it. Pay up front?"

"Yes, or I can take it now."

"Oh — yes, please, thank you." He found the receipt — $54.95 — and handed her three twenties. "Don't need the change."

"Alright, I'll get this settled. Take care, sir."

As she turned to go, he stood abruptly. "Oh — ma'am?"

She turned back. "Yes?"

He held out a folded bill between his fingers. "This is for you."

"Oh — for me? Thank you!"

He nodded, smiling, and walked out with his to-go box, chest a little lighter.

---

Outside, night had fallen, the limo still parked out front. Lo'mont's car sat empty up ahead. Something about the limo pulled at him, but he walked past it toward the car anyway. Halfway there, a door opened behind him — the limo door.

"Hey, over here, Josiah!" Lo'mont called, waving him over.

Surprised, Josiah climbed in — cool air, a cooler box stocked with wine, soda, and water between the seats. The limo pulled out onto the street.

"How? When'd you get the limo?" Josiah asked.

"Last night. Rented it just for tonight," Lo'mont said. "We'll celebrate with drinks after the draft."

"I don't drink," Josiah said. "But yeah — thanks for inviting us. Been nice, catching up with my old pals."

David steered the limo into a carnival parking lot, pulling up near the entrance booth.

"Alright, we're here — remember, we've got until [this time], then it's off to the draft meeting. Cool? Let's hurry and have some fun!" Nia said.

They stepped out into the fairgrounds — noise, screaming from distant rides, the fence line marking the edge of the carnival. They headed for the game booths, Nia leading the way.

*[Fun on rides and games]*

Eventually the time came. They rushed to the bathrooms to change, laughing.

"Hurry up, y'all — change and let's get there before we're late!"

Lo'mont and Josiah changed into suits, Nia into a dress. They regrouped outside.

"Looking sharp, Lo'mont," Josiah said.

"You too. This suit's from my grandparents."

Then Nia stepped out in a stunning pink dress. Lo'mont's eyes went wide, visibly floored. Josiah gave it a brief, respectful glance before returning his focus to her face, clearing his throat.

"You look beautiful," Lo'mont said.

"Nice fit, Nia. Classy," Josiah added.

"Yeah — thanks," she said.

Lo'mont was still staring. Josiah rolled his eyes and stepped ahead. "Yeah, so — ready?"

"Yeah, sure. Not much time left."

They jogged to the limo and headed for the draft.

---

The limo pulled up outside the venue. Josiah stepped out first, holding the door.

"This is it. It's gonna be okay, Lo'mont — win or lose. Deep breaths."

They went inside, found their seats. The announcer called pick after pick — but Lo'mont's name never came. By the end, he sat deflated. Josiah said nothing, torn between wanting to offer the right words and not finding any.

They filed out, Josiah holding the door again as they headed for the limo.

"We still have the party. We can chill out there — it's not too late to make it."

The drive was quiet and uncomfortable, cutting away from the city and into the wooded outskirts of Miami, toward Michael's estate.

---

They passed through the front gate, down a long tree-lined road toward a mansion the size of a football field. Cars lined the grass on either side. Ahead, groups of people stood scattered across the yard with red cups, drifting in and out of the front door near the grand garage — decorations, beer tables, trash cans, conversation everywhere.

The limo parked out front.

"We're here. Ready to be responsible?" Josiah said, half a laugh, a flicker of real concern behind it.

They climbed out as the limo pulled off to park in the grass. David got pulled aside for an autograph almost immediately. Within the hour, Josiah had lost the others in the crowd.

He wandered, searching, until he found them near the backyard, where Michael Blackwell was playing a set on an improvised stage. Josiah stopped to listen.

Eventually the group reconnected, admiring the cars on display, and eventually asked Michael if they could take one out on the track. Lo'mont pushed Josiah to go for it. Michael allowed it, a little awkwardly, and let Josiah pick a car — he chose the Mustang, starting it slow and careful before pulling it onto the track.

Soon other cars joined in, the track turning into free racing. Josiah got caught up in the speed.

*(Josiah's P.O.V

Mid-race, a car swerved past him. He cut the wheel to avoid it and clipped the guardrail instead — the impact sent the car jolting, then flipping. Time seemed to stretch. Glass shattered outward. He gripped the wheel, staring through the shattered windshield, one thought cutting through everything: *where are my friends.*

The car hit the ground in a crunch of metal and torn grass, bouncing and rolling at least four times before its momentum finally gave out — upside down, wheels spinning, smoke curling from somewhere underneath.

He heard panicked voices closing in.

Hanging upside down against the seatbelt, he registered the smell of something leaking, the cold air rushing in, the crackle of fire starting somewhere. Pain, dulling senses, consciousness slipping.

He watched the crowd shift — a rush of people running toward the wreck, horrified — and then, just as fast, the panic dissolving into something almost celebratory, like nothing had happened. They turned and walked back to their cars. Lo'mont. Nia.

A man's voice carried faintly, announcing something he couldn't make out.

The last thing he saw before the dark took him was Michael, arms open, addressing the crowd as they walked away.

Then something in his chest and mind broke open, his eyes fighting to stay open a moment longer before losing.

The end.

---

**A couple of notes for you before you send this along:**

- Nia is called "California"/"Cali" once at her intro, then "Nia" everywhere after — I standardized to Nia throughout, but flag it in case you meant them as two different people or want "California" as her actual name.

- A few scene transitions (the dorm-packing scene, the carnival, some of the diner dialogue) were left as bracketed placeholders in your draft — I kept them marked rather than inventing content that's yours to write.

- I smoothed sentence structure, fixed tense drift, and tightened some repeated beats, but didn't touch plot, dialogue content, or character voice.

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