The afternoon sun hit Speed's face as he walked down the street.
His AirPods were in, Spotify playing something upbeat and energetic. He'd scrolled through his playlists for exactly three seconds before picking the first thing that came up—speed was more important than the song selection. Get to the store, get back, take the pills, sleep. Simple. Clean. Achievable.
The neighborhood was waking up. It was that time of day when people were starting to come home from work, when the streets transitioned from morning quiet to afternoon life. Speed had walked these blocks a thousand times. He knew the rhythm of them the way other people knew the layout of their homes.
He passed the corner store first.
A random pedestrian—older guy in a work shirt, someone Speed had seen around but didn't actually know—spotted him from halfway down the block.
"Yo, what's up Speed!"
Speed turned, raised his hand in a wave, let his smile come naturally. This was easy. This was the part of the day that made sense.
"Just chilling, just chilling!" Speed called back, matching the guy's energy without breaking stride.
That was the thing about being known in your own neighborhood—you didn't have to try. The respect was already there. The recognition was already earned. He kept walking.
Two blocks down, he passed a basketball court where a crew of guys were running pickup. One of them saw Speed coming and immediately started hollering.
"Yo, you streaming today? Let's hop on and kill some motherfuckers!"
Speed grinned. Basketball guy had been trying to get him to play for months. There was something Miles Morales about this—the way the neighborhood adopted him, the way people felt like they could just ask him for things because he was theirs.
"Alright, alright!" Speed shouted back. "But I gotta run some errands first!"
The guys laughed. Speed kept moving, his pace steady, his energy infectious even at a distance. That was the thing about streaming for so long—you learned how to carry your energy like a weapon. You learned how to make people feel seen from across a street.
The breakdancers were out on the next block.
Speed spotted them first—three guys in a circle on the sidewalk, one of them spinning on his back while the other two clapped out a rhythm. The music coming from their portable speaker was loud and infectious. Speed stopped. Not because he had time to stop, but because some things demanded witness.
"Yo!" Speed called out, walking over. "What's up! How y'all doing?"
The spinning breakdancer stopped mid-rotation, his momentum killing gracefully. He popped up, breathless, recognizing Speed instantly.
"Yo, how's the channel going?" the breakdancer asked.
"Man, we just growing, you know!" Speed said, and he meant it. It wasn't bravado—it was just the truth of his situation. The channel had taken off. His community had lifted him up. And now his community was everywhere in the neighborhood, part of the fabric of his daily life.
They dapped up. Speed moved on.
Three blocks now. The energy was building. Not in Speed, but around him—the sense that he was moving through a space that loved him, that was happy to see him, that recognized him as something important. Not a celebrity in the way celebrities were important, but important the way neighborhood legends were important. The way people who mattered to their community were important.
He passed a basketball court where guys were playing pickup. One of them called out immediately.
"Yo Speed, you playing?"
Speed laughed, keeping his stride. He didn't break for this one, but his voice carried back strong.
"Nah man, I'm kinda into soccer now. Cristiano Ronaldo, bro!"
Another player shouted back without missing a beat:
"Man, Messi way better!"
Speed turned, walking backward for a few steps, waving them off but grinning the whole time.
"Nah, I can't believe y'all!" he called.
He turned back around and kept walking. The sun was still warm. His AirPods were still playing. He had a mission—get to the store, get the stuff, get home, take the pills, sleep. But right now, walking through his neighborhood in the afternoon, greeting people who recognized him, people he mattered to, it didn't feel like he was rushing.
It felt like he was home.
Every block had someone. Every intersection had a face that lit up when they spotted him. This was what it meant to be the King of Ohio—not ruling from on high, but walking among your subjects, being known by them, being cared for by them. Being part of the texture of the place itself.
He was five blocks from his apartment now. The 7-Eleven was close. Everything was close. Nothing would stop him.
Then he passed the bus stop.
It was a regular Tuesday afternoon. People were waiting for the next bus. A group of kids—maybe eight, maybe ten, ranging from maybe eight years old to twelve—were clustered around the bench, laughing about something, doing that thing kids did where they were completely absorbed in their own little universe.
Speed wasn't paying attention to them. He was focused on the 7-Eleven now, mentally rehearsing the list: Fiji water, check. Sleeping pills, check. In and out. Thirty minutes, back home, try the cure.
Then one of the kids looked up.
His eyes went wide. Wide like he'd just spotted something impossible. Something miraculous. Something that couldn't possibly be real but was definitely real because it was right there in front of him.
"YO, THAT'S SPEED!"
The moment froze.
Every kid at that bus stop turned. Every single one of them. And the second they confirmed what the first kid had seen, they moved.
All of them. At once.
"SPEED! SPEED! SPEED!"
They started charging.