Chapter 9: No One Come to Save Me
The jacket didn't fit.
Too broad in the shoulders, fabric smelling faintly of cigarettes and engine grease. Aria kept the sleeves rolled once, hands in his pockets, collar up. Looked like he was running errands, maybe doing inventory. Nothing that said problem.
He walked through the back door of the barbershop like he'd done it a hundred times before.
No one stopped him.
No one looked twice.
He didn't belong there.
But he moved like he did—and that was enough.
---
The hallway was dim and narrow. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the cheap kind that made everything look jaundiced. A mop bucket sat by the wall, half-full and untouched. A stack of towels slouched on a chair in the corner.
There were voices faintly up front—laughter, scissors, the gentle murmur of clippers at work.
No one noticed the back.
That was the mistake.
---
Aria moved past the vending machine with the blinking "E3" error and paused at the chipped blue door near the end of the hall.
The office.
No sign. No camera.
He took a breath.
Glanced over his shoulder once.
Still no movement.
He turned the knob slowly.
It wasn't locked.
That was his first confirmation.
He slipped inside and shut the door behind him with a soft click.
---
The office was small. No window. A desk covered in receipts. An old desktop tower that looked like it hadn't been booted up since MySpace died.
But he wasn't here for any of that.
The safe sat under the desk.
Old. Steel. Digital keypad with the corner scratched where someone kept missing the first button.
Aria dropped to a crouch and unzipped the pouch from inside his jacket. The tools rattled softly—too loud in the silence. He winced.
Screwdriver. Hook probe. Flashlight taped over with red cellophane. A burner phone. Black gloves.
Nine minutes. That's all he gave himself.
---
He started unscrewing the panel on the safe's side. The first screw was stripped.
Of course it was.
He grit his teeth. Switched to a smaller head. No luck.
He adjusted his grip, bent lower, and tried again.
Click.
Loosened.
Eight minutes.
His breathing stayed shallow, controlled.
The hallway outside was still quiet, but every tick of the second hand on the desk clock felt like a footstep. Like a countdown.
He worked faster.
The code came next.
He'd watched it from a high angle once—over Cal's shoulder. Took him three visits to get the digits. Six to be sure of the order.
He typed them in slow.
6 – 2 – 4 – 9.
Beep.
Nothing.
His stomach dropped.
He reset.
Tried again.
6 – 2 – 4 – 9.
Click.
The safe opened.
He didn't celebrate.
He didn't breathe.
He just looked.
---
Bundles of envelopes. Not all cash—some were just movement slips. Inventory, names, fake IDs, address numbers, weird shorthand that probably meant everything if you were in the loop.
He didn't touch the top layer.
He pulled out half the stash—just enough to matter, not enough to set off full alarms.
Then from his jacket, he pulled out a folded piece of printer paper.
Plain, centered block letters.
> Check the tapes.
He wedged the phone behind the stacks—tiny, old, already recording audio.
Then he closed the safe, set the dial back, tightened the screws fast but not sloppy, and stood.
Four minutes left.
He opened the office door just a crack. Listened.
Nothing.
A burst of laughter came from the front—someone must've cracked a joke in the chair.
He stepped out, walked down the hallway the way he came, eyes forward, posture relaxed.
Passed the mop bucket.
Passed the vending machine.
Hit the back door.
Opened it slow.
Out into the alley.
And gone.
---
Aria was cold, tired, and deeply regretting crawling out of a storm drain.
His left sock was soaked. He wasn't sure if the smell on his jacket was garbage water or his own stress. Probably both.
He crouched low behind a stack of dumpsters behind the East Lot warehouse and wiped his hands on his pants. That didn't help either.
"Yup," he muttered. "Definitely the glamorous life."
Midnight hit like a bad joke. Wind cut sideways through the alley, and all the streetlights on this block looked half-dead. Perfect place to get stabbed. Even better for breaking into things.
He peeked through the chain-link fence, eyes on the fake plumbing van parked near the loading dock. The logo was off-center. Cheap vinyl job. Probably thought it made them look clever.
He moved quick. Under the fence. Past the pallets. Kept low.
No dogs. No guards.
One guy up top smoking a cigarette like it was the only thing keeping him alive. No patrol. No motion lights.
They were relaxed.
Too relaxed.
Aria reached the back of the van, pulled out the bolt cutters—ones he bought off a dude named Junior who sold tools out of a shopping cart—and snapped the padlock off.
It fell to the pavement with a soft clink. He froze.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No alarms.
He blew out a breath and opened the doors.
---
Inside: boxes. Too neat. Labels that screamed fake. One near the back read "Janitorial Overflow," which made him snort. The crate was sealed tighter than any mop bucket had a right to be.
He popped it open with the crowbar.
And there they were.
Guns.
Neatly packed. Foam-lined. Like they were waiting for a promo shoot.
No fingerprints. No dust.
Definitely not mop-related.
He leaned in, grabbed the spray can from his bag, and wrote inside the crate lid in white, shaky block letters:
> Too easy.
He took a photo. Flash off. Click silent. No filters.
Just proof.
Then he slid the lid halfway back on, not fully sealed. Let it look... rushed.
He pulled out the burner phone and set the timer—photo queued to send to a rival number. One he'd gotten through a side chat in a web café. Maybe Queens side. Maybe deeper. Either way, someone who'd hate Ace enough to make noise.
Not theft. Just a message.
The kind that starts whispers in the wrong rooms.
---
He slipped back out the truck, tucked the broken lock behind the back wheel, kicked some trash over the spot where his cutters scuffed the asphalt.
Then he disappeared.
No run. No panic.
Just a kid with wet shoes, freezing fingers, and a plan that might actually work.
---
Ten minutes later, Aria was parked on a bench behind the rec center, arms around his knees. His hoodie was damp. His stomach hadn't stopped growling since 9PM.
But there was a tiny smile on his face.
Not smug.
Not heroic.
Just… relieved.
The fuse was lit.
Let them feel the smoke.
---
(Ace's POV)
The burner phone buzzed once.
Ace didn't answer right away. He stood still, leaning over the desk in the back office, cigarette burning between two fingers, ash curled long and trembling.
The phone buzzed again.
He answered.
Didn't say a word.
A voice came through the other end. Loud. Familiar. Way too fucking smug.
"Ay, Ace. Man, I just had to call you."
Silence.
"You see the photo yet? Nah, of course you did. You probably choked on your fuckin' coffee when it popped up."
Still silence.
"I mean—damn. That shit's brutal. Guns wide open, not a lock in sight. And that little note? Too easy? Oof."
The guy laughed.
Like a real laugh. The kind that hits your spine.
"I swear, I didn't even know you still had turf in that part of Queens. Thought you retired or some shit. Letting fuckin' kids in through the side door now?"
Ace didn't move.
"Oh! My bad—was this, like, a new strategy? You training high school interns? Let 'em break in, take pictures, tag your crates—just for experience?"
More laughter. Someone in the background chuckled too.
"Yo, one of my guys thought it was a fake. Said, 'No way Ace lets someone clown him like that.'"
A pause.
"But nah. That shit was real. Your spot. Your guns. Your fuckin' name lookin' like a punchline."
Another chuckle.
"Just callin' to say—thanks, man. Been a shitty week. That picture made it better."
Click.
Ace ended the call.
---
For five full seconds, he stood in silence.
Then the cigarette hit the floor.
And so did the chair.
He grabbed it with both hands and slammed it against the wall, splintering the leg. Again. Again.
The desk next. Papers everywhere. Drawer yanked so hard it snapped. The lamp shattered across the floor.
He kicked the filing cabinet. Then again. And again.
Metal bent. Blood dotted his knuckles.
---
The door opened. Maddox stepped in, quiet.
Didn't say anything.
Just watched.
Ace's chest rose and fell like a fucking engine misfiring.
"They laughed," he growled. "That bastard fucking laughed."
Maddox didn't move.
Ace turned to him, voice low and shaking.
"They're sending that photo around like it's a fuckin' joke. My crate. My guns. Some spray paint tag like I'm a fuckin' clown."
His hand slammed the wall. Hard.
"And the kid who did it?"
He looked around the room now, face red, teeth grinding.
"Aria. That little shit. Walked in like a ghost, walked out without a fuckin' scratch."
The door creaked again. Rico, Lenny, Tone stepped in, staying back.
"Two hits," Ace growled. "One week. First the money, now the stash. And he ain't even hiding. He's showing off."
He kicked the broken chair aside.
"I want his name everywhere. School. Home. Friends. I want faces. I want fuckin' blood."
"You see him?" he pointed at all of them, voice rising.
"You don't talk."
"You don't grab."
"You don't wait."
"You put him down."
Silence.
Then Ace added, dead serious:
"You don't bring him back."
"You fuckin' end him."
---
(Aria's POV)
The first punch hit harder than Aria expected.
He stumbled back, caught himself on the alley wall, and spat blood onto the ground.
Rico grinned. "Not so smart now, huh?"
Aria wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "Still smarter than you."
Tone didn't wait. He came in swinging, wild and loud, trying to corner Aria between a trash bin and the wall. Aria ducked the first swing, caught the second in the ribs, and twisted.
It hurt.
Bad.
But he didn't stop.
He slammed his shoulder into Tone's chest, drove him back, and dropped him with a quick elbow to the side of the head.
Then Rico rushed in.
They grappled. No clean hits. Just shoving, cursing, limbs tangled. Aria caught Rico's wrist and slammed him face-first into the wall, hard enough that the guy dropped.
One kid ran.
The other froze, then followed.
Aria stood there for a second, chest rising and falling, hand shaking.
He looked down at Rico, who was still groaning, half-conscious on the pavement.
"Tell Ace," he muttered, "I'm not done."
Then he kept walking.
---
Two blocks later, under the overpass, it happened again.
Five guys this time.
Bigger.
Older.
They didn't waste time talking.
Aria barely had a chance to square up before one of them rushed him with a pipe.
He dodged the swing, but not the follow-up—someone clipped the side of his head. His vision blinked white.
He moved anyway.
Fist to ribs. Knee to thigh. Someone punched him in the back. He dropped, rolled, bit down a groan, and swung low—caught one guy in the ankle and brought him down with him.
There were no clean wins here.
Just moments.
Openings.
Desperation.
By the time he dropped the last one with a half-wild headbutt and two ugly punches, he was shaking.
Blood on his lip. His hoodie torn. Breath shallow.
But his legs still worked.
So he kept going.
---
There was a third fight somewhere between the corner store and the auto yard.
He didn't remember most of it.
Too fast. Too loud. Too many hands.
But he walked away.
Barely.
Now, limping, shoulders heavy, blood drying on his chin—he stood across the street from the barbershop.
Ace's shop.
The lights were on.
And someone inside was watching.
---
Aria crossed the street, jaw clenched, heart punching at his ribs. He'd made it through too much tonight to turn back now. His legs hurt. His arm was stiff. The blood on his shirt was half-dry and sticky.
The barbershop lights were on. He was twenty feet away.
Then Maddox stepped into view.
Just him. No gun. No words at first.
He stood on the sidewalk between Aria and the door like a wall that had been waiting all night.
Aria slowed, stopped a few feet from him. Said nothing for a second. Then:
"You gonna try to stop me?"
Maddox nodded once.
"I don't want to."
"But you will."
Another nod.
"You serious right now?" Aria asked. "After everything?"
Maddox didn't flinch. "You keep walking, Ace is gonna put you in the ground."
"That's his plan."
"You're bleeding already."
"Then I'm warmed up."
---
No more talking.
Aria threw the first punch.
Maddox blocked it. Quick. Clean.
He jabbed back—fast hit to the ribs. Aria winced, but didn't back off. Swung again. Missed. Maddox shoved him hard in the chest, sent him stumbling into the side of a parked car.
"Go home," Maddox said.
Aria pushed off the hood, wiped blood from his nose. "I don't have one."
Then he charged.
---
They crashed together. Fists. Elbows. Shoulders. They both knew how to fight. No wasted motion. No fancy tricks. Just raw movement. Maddox moved better. He hit cleaner. But Aria wouldn't stay down.
Maddox caught him in the face. Aria dropped to one knee.
Maddox stepped forward—too close.
Aria lunged, grabbed his leg, yanked. Maddox fell hard.
Aria was on him before he could roll—fists flying. Two punches landed before Maddox blocked the third, twisted his hips, threw Aria off.
They both got up slow. Breathing loud. Limbs heavy.
"I told you I'd put you down," Maddox muttered.
"I've been down," Aria snapped, "and I'm still here."
---
Maddox hit him again.
Straight to the gut. Aria doubled over.
Maddox went for the knockout—hook aimed for the side of Aria's head.
Aria ducked, slammed his shoulder into Maddox's chest. Drove him backward. Got him off balance.
He threw a punch into Maddox's ribs. Another.
Maddox dropped to a knee.
Aria raised his fist—
And something hit him from behind.
Hard.
---
Everything inside him froze.
His knees gave out.
He hit the ground face-first.
Couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
There was no warning.
Just pain and the sound of metal against bone.
---
A boot stepped next to his head.
Ace.
Crowbar in hand.
No smirk. No jokes.
Just tired eyes and fury buried underneath.
"You just don't fucking quit," Ace muttered.
He crouched. Grabbed Aria by the back of the hoodie and yanked him up halfway.
"You could've stayed quiet. Could've stayed forgotten."
Aria didn't answer. Couldn't. He was half-conscious, blinking slow.
Ace stood again.
Raised the crowbar.
Behind them, Maddox didn't move.
Just sat on the sidewalk, breathing hard, blood on his lip.
Watching.