Roman's POV.
The rain in the city didn't fall; it punished. It turned the asphalt of the South Side into a slick, black mirror. I pulled my hood lower, my fingers frozen as I gripped the handles of the grocery bags. Two gallons of milk. A carton of eggs. A box of cheap cereal. It was my birthday. Sixteen. My mother was waiting in our basement apartment with a single candle and a smile that always looked like it was about to break.
I was halfway across the intersection when the lights blinded me. They weren't the soft, yellow light of a streetlamp. They were the aggressive, piercing high-beams of a silver Mercedes. The engine didn't just run; it roared. It was a predatory sound that belonged to a driver who didn't care about speed limits or the kids who lived in the "wrong" zip code.
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