The garage smelled like old oil and winter coming early.
Malik Carver had the hood of Miss Lena's '98 Buick up, flashlight between his teeth, grease up to his elbows.
3:17 a.m.
West End never really slept, but this hour it pretended.
Only the hum of the sodium streetlight outside, flickering like it was tired too.
He tightened the alternator belt one last turn.
Miss Lena had been riding on prayers and duct tape for three months.
She'd slipped him a twenty and a plate earlier, said "Don't stay too late, baby. These streets got teeth after midnight."
He smiled, said "Yes ma'am," same as always.
Malik didn't argue with elders.
He fixed things. Cars. Leaky faucets. Broken hearts when he could.
Never fought back.
Not once.
That was the rule he'd made after Dad got locked up for swinging on a cop who had it coming.
"Keep your hands clean, boy," Mom had whispered on her last good day.
So he did.
Amina—his little sister, nine going on thirty—sat on an overturned five-gallon bucket swinging her legs, watching him like he was magic.
"You gonna make it purr again, Malik?"
"Yeah, Lil Bit. Gonna purr like a kitten."
She grinned, the gap in her front teeth shining under the single bulb.
Amina was all he had left.
Miss Lena helped, sure, but it was Malik who got up at 5 a.m. for school drop-off, who checked homework, who held her when the nightmares came.
She was the only piece of Mom still walking around.
The only reason he got out of bed some mornings.
If anything happened to her…
He didn't let the thought finish.
Outside, the night was thick.
Cold enough that breath hung in the air like ghosts.
Somewhere down the block, somebody's pit bull barked once, sharp, then thought better of it.
Then the headlights swept across the open bay door.
Two sets.
Low, slow.
Malik knew the sound before he saw the car.
Old Impala, primer gray, exhaust rattling like loose bones.
He wiped his hands on a rag that had given up being clean years ago.
"Amina. Inside. Now."
Voice low. Calm.
But his heart was already hammering.
She heard the change in it, hopped off the bucket, scampered toward the side door that led to Miss Lena's back porch.
The Impala rolled to a stop right in front of the garage.
Doors opened.
Three guys stepped out.
Hoods up.
One had a red bandana tied loose around his neck.
Malik recognized the walk.
Little theater kids from two blocks over.
Thought they were hard because they ran with the 79th Street set now.
But this wasn't random.
Word had gotten around that Malik fixed cars for free – for the old folks, the single moms, the ones who couldn't pay.
It made him soft in their eyes.
And on the West End, being soft got you tested.
They wanted to prove something.
To him.
To the block.
To themselves.
Red Bandana lifted his chin.
"Yo, what's the word Carver? Heard you the neighborhood handyman. Fixing shit for free like some kind of saint."
Malik didn't answer right away.
He stepped out from under the hood, rag still in hand.
Tall. Shoulders that carried too much for nineteen years.
Eyes that looked tired even when he smiled.
"I fix Miss Lena's car. That's it."
Red Bandana laughed, short and ugly.
"Nah, fam. You fix everybody's ride, don't charge nobody. That sounds like charity to me. And charity…now that's taxable."
The other two snickered.
One pulled a Glock from his waistband, casual, like he was checking the time.
Red Bandana nodded toward the Buick.
"So we here to collect. Or maybe we just ventilate this old rust bucket and call it even."
Malik's stomach dropped.
The gun wasn't pointed at him.
Yet.
But Amina was still on the porch, door half-open, frozen in place by the voices.
Her eyes wide, peeking out.
Too close.
Way too close.
"Man, leave it. Just take this twenty Miss Lena gave me. We straight?"
Malik's voice is steady.
But inside, panic was building.
Red Bandana shook his head.
"Nah. We bout to make an example. Soft niggas like you? Y'all the reason the block weak."
A long pause then "BANG" the first shot cracked the night open.
Straight at the Buick.
Windshield spiderwebbed.
Amina screamed from the porch – high, raw, the sound of pure terror.
Red Bandana turned the gun toward the sound.
Toward her.
"Shut that kid up."
Everything inside Malik snapped.
Amina.
His baby sister.
The one who still crawled into his bed when thunder came.
The one who drew him pictures of superheroes with his face.
The one who asked him every night if Mom was watching from heaven.
No.
Not her.
Not like this.
He ran.
Legs pumping, heart exploding, lungs burning.
The porch was fifteen feet away.
Ten.
Eight.
But the gun was swinging faster.
Red Bandana's finger tightening.
Malik wasn't going to make it.
He saw it clear as day.
The bullet leaving the barrel.
Amina's small body jerking.
Blood on the porch steps.
The scream cutting off forever.
No no no no no—
He fought it.
Fought the hopelessness clawing up his throat like bile.
Fought the voice in his head screaming you're too slow, always too slow.
Fought the memory of Mom's last breath, Dad's handcuffs, every time he'd swallowed his anger and let the world win.
Not today.
Not her.
Please God not her.
A roar tore out of him – raw, animal, something he didn't know he had in him.
He threw himself forward, arms reaching, every muscle screaming.
The distance closed.
Five feet.
Three.
The gun barked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times in a row.
Time fractured.
The bullets left the barrel.
Malik saw them clearly.
Saw the muzzle flash light up Red Bandana's face.
Saw Amina's mouth open in a scream that never came out.
But the bullets…
They stopped.
Just hung there.
Frozen in the air like ugly metal snowflakes.
Spinning slow.
Catching the streetlight.
Forty-seven pieces of death that suddenly forgot how to fly.
Malik crashed into the porch railing, arms wrapping around Amina, pulling her down behind him.
His chest heaving.
Tears burning hot on his cheeks.
He didn't even know he was crying.
Amina clung to him, face buried in his shirt, shaking.
"Malik… what just happened?"
He couldn't speak.
He could only hold her.
Feel her small heart hammering against his ribs.
Alive.
Across the street, phone cameras were out.
Red Bandana stared at the frozen bullets like he'd seen the devil himself.
Then they dropped.
All at once.
Clattered to the concrete.
The Impala peeled out.
Sirens already coming.
Malik stayed on his knees.
Holding Amina.
All he knew was the cold creeping up his spine, and the way the streetlight flickered like it was trying to tell him something.
Something big was coming.
And it's coming fast.