Jack stepped out of the diner, closing the door behind him, midnight summer air enveloping his form. He had done everything—devoured his burger and fries, swigged a tall glass of water in five gulps, paid, got out of there—all within a span of about ten minutes.

    He didn't want to stay any longer.

    The man in the suit creeped him out, that's for sure. The stranger had made no order, no word, no movement, but sat there by the counter in silence, his gaze locked upon him.

    It didn't seem right—how everyone else didn't seem to notice. But Jack noticed things.

    Bob, the waiter with the potbelly, hadn't offered to take the man's order since he entered the diner.

    Martha, the other employee on night shift duty, came into the diner panting, her attempt to retrieve payment from the mess of a couple unsuccessful. She never gave the man as much as a fleeting glance, paying him no mind the entire time. Although if she did ignore him on purpose, Jack thought, he found no reason to blame her—he looked creepy as hell.

And there was the skinny, college-aged boy who went staggering into the diner, intoxicated, liquor stains and dirt on his shirt. He held on to a particular stool—the one where the man in the suit sat—for support. Yet he too didn't seem to notice, as his arm shot straight out to grasp the countertop, his arm barely an inch away from the man's shoulder, his hand nearly touching the hook of the cane. Then, rising from the boy's guts and out of his mouth, vomit spilled out onto the floor, right below the man's polished black leather shoes. Jack blinked, wanting to get rid of the mental picture. Having to see that while he munched on his burger and fries made him want to leave all the more.

    He had to admit, fear made him observant.

    Just as it did when the diner door swung open.

    Jack had not gone far yet, when his ears caught the sound of footfalls stepping out onto the concrete pavement, a cane tapping against the ground. His sight turned towards the diner door, hoping for the best, fearing the worst.

    The door closed behind the man in the black suit and sunglasses. Jack flitted his eyes towards the sidewalk ahead, and dug his hand into his jeans pocket, only to retrieve nothing. Great, he thought. He had forgotten his phone at home. Left it plugged into a charger, he remembered now. He remembered not getting an Uber to downtown that night; he remembered how he had to wait for almost an hour by the bus stop before a cab appeared. Great, just great. His feet began to take longer strides, then, farther away from the glare of neon lights, into the shadows of these somber minutes after midnight.

    He could feel his heart pound against his chest. But he had to play calm, keep a straight face. Walking faster wouldn't help but make fear evident, he knew that. If this man intended something sinister, Jack wished to give him no satisfaction—until he could hail a cab and head straight home, that was his plan.

    Jack went on walking. With each step, with each turn, the man in the suit followed, the sound of his footsteps and the tapping of his cane stalking his every movement. Jack didn't dare to look back—the rhythm lurking behind him was enough to make him cautious—and kept his vision ahead, searching fervently for any passing cab.

    A few minutes had gone since Jack left the diner, yet the streets remained dead empty, no sight of any cars speeding down the road, lifeless streetlights illuminating the path before him. He could still hear the man's footfalls patterning after his every step. He had no actual certainty of this man's intentions, but if this were to go on any longer, or if the worst were to happen, he was ready to defend himself, even if that meant getting into some trouble. He knew how to fight. He had the skills. He could handle this.

    He could handle this.

    Just then, a pair of headlights came to view, bright orbs amidst the dark. Jack stopped in his tracks, and held a hand up into the air, hoping to be seen, praying for an escape. The car ran down the road, closer each second to him, lights brighter as they pierced through the shadows, music louder as it approached.

    "Hey," Jack called out, waving a hand beneath the streetlight. "Hey!"

    The car now came to full view, but, to Jack's disappointment, it was no cab—but a wrecked, unattractive private car. Loud electronic music and strange-smelling smoke egressed out rolled-down windows. Jack, at moment's notice, dodged a bottle of beer that came hurtling towards him, liquor staining his gray hoodie, glass crashing to fragments against the wall behind. One of the guys in the backseat, drunk, called out an undesirable name. Then the car sped further down the road and out of sight, noise fading into the distance.

    "Idiots," Jack muttered under his breath.

    Still in fear, he glanced at the stretch of pavement to his right, where he remembered to have last caught a glimpse of the stranger. But there was no man, no suit, no pair of sunglasses—just an empty dimly lit concrete path in the dead of night, silence swimming in his ears.

    Jack heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe the man wasn't following him after all, he thought. Or maybe him calling out to the car might have done the trick to scare him away. The reason no longer mattered to him. The man was gone, that was all that mattered.

    He turned around, took a step forward. Then his eyes caught sight of a polished black beam swinging towards the side of his head. Jack quickly lowered himself, the cane failing to strike anything. And when the beam had swept through the air above his head, Jack, in a second of a heartbeat, rose to his full height. Like a flash of lightning, he shot a jab straight to the man's gut, before a fist blew against the stranger's temple. The cane slipped from his hands, and the man in the suit fell to the ground, an arm clutching his stomach, a hand holding the side of his head.

    Jack wasted no time. He ran past the man's fetal form, and shot off into the distance. For a second, he glanced back. The man was already on his feet, picking up his cane, faster than he had expected. Jack sprinted on, heart pounding against his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins, the stranger quickly trailing behind.

While the world lay asleep, two figures darted down streets. A predator without mercy, a prey desperate for an escape. But Jack found no other way than to run straight ahead, to sprint straight down an endless road—until he caught sight of a mouth leading straight into the shadows. His feet moved all the more faster, and he turned, and slid into a narrow alley. But the stranger had seen him, and followed him in.

    In the darkness, Jack ran. In the shadows, his soul cried out in silence for salvation, pleaded for a miracle. But then the world was asleep, and no soul was awake to care.

    Or so he thought.

    Jack turned before coming into contact with a chain-link fence. But his form collided with another, a beam of light dropping onto the rough concrete floor.

    "Hey, watch it," said another teenage boy, quickly grabbing his phone from the ground.

    Despite the dark, Jack recognized him. A boy a little taller than he was, standing an inch shy of six feet; brown skin, his bones arranged into a stocky frame, a mess of black hair atop shaved sides. Jack had seen him around school, knew him to be trouble. But, at a time as grave as this, none of the rumors mattered.

    Jack grasped Damien's shoulder. "Look, man, you've got to help me."

    "Got no time," responded Damien, shoving Jack's hand away. "I've—" But he said nothing after that, after his eyes caught sight of a man in a suit, his eyes behind dark lenses, a cane in hand.

    Damien looked back, but Jack had already seen the second figure sauntering towards them—a man in a three-piece, a pair of sunglasses, a triumphant smile stretching across his pale face.

    So fate had decided to play its wicked game of Double Trouble.

    Jack swore under his breath. Great, just great.

    The boys scanned the area, searched for an escape. Two dangerous men walking over to them, walls around—save a chain-link fence. Damien turned the flashlight off, pocketed his phone. His eyes then met Jack's, and Jack seemed to have thought the same, exchanging knowing looks with him. There was no need to speak.

    Damien and Jack held onto metal wires, hoisted themselves up, climbed over the fence, dropped onto the ground on the other side. Then they sprinted down the sidewalk, across the empty road—two strangers running close behind—and darted straight into a labyrinth of cars. The boys made their way through, shooting past rows of cars, shifting round corners, slipping through gaps. Damien had parked his Cruiser at the far back of the parking lot, and he swore in silence, scolded himself that he should have parked it closer to the entrance. But what was done was done, and all they could do was move fast: find the car, get in, drive out the parking lot. He kept his sights ahead, his pace quick, then he saw it—a dark red FJ Cruiser motionless on a corner.

    There it was.

    Jack noticed Damien's sudden increment of pace, how Damien's eyes were fixed on the car a distance away. He followed suit.

    Damien's hand dug into his pocket, produced his car keys. At the press of a button, he heard something click within the Cruiser. They were close now, just a couple meters more, but the men behind them were fast, and time was no one's friend.

    Both boys proceeded to either side, grabbed hold, pulled the doors open, slipped in, closed—almost slammed—the doors shut. The car clicked again, this time to lock, then roared to life, headlights glaring ahead. From the outside, fists banged against the driver's seat window, startling Damien. The other stranger then appeared a short distance away, raising a long blade into the air above, ready to strike.

    "Drive," yelled Jack.

    Damien pulled the lever, pressed a foot onto the gas pedal. The car moved forward, swerved to the right. Fists ceased to strike glass. The man with the blade threw himself to the side, avoiding the impact. Damien drove fast ahead, made a turn to the left, out of the parking lot, and down the empty street.

    Jack let out a breath in relief. "Man, that—that was crazy," he said, raising an arm, using his sleeve to wipe the sweat off his forehead.

    Damien nodded, exhausted. "Tell me about it." He glanced at Jack setting his backpack on his lap, and shifted his eyes back on the road. Dark hair, tan skin, his athletic built—he recognized Jack, knew him to be a jock. But just to make sure—

    "I've seen you around school," said Damien, his hand draped over the steering wheel, some rock song neither of them knew playing out on the radio. Jack transferred his glance to Damien, his hands buckling in the seatbelt. "You're Gerald, right?"

    "Close. It's Jerardo, actually," Jack said, leaning back against the leather seat.

    "Jerardo Forster?"

    "That's me," confirmed Jack. "But call me Jack. It's weird when someone calls me Jerardo." He paused, then added, "Seems like you've heard about me." His mouth curved into a smug grin.

    "I have," said Damien. "You're in the basketball team, the third former who made the winning shot last season."

    "Whoosh." Jack threw his hands into the air, mocking a shot.

    "You've got some skills, man," said Damien, "and I don't just mean the court. I've heard you're famous—and even more infamous—with the ladies."

    "What can I say? I've got the charm," Jack said, shifting his eyes to the window, watching midnight streets run past his view. "And as far as I've heard, you're infamous yourself."

    Damien kept his eyes on the road.

    "Damien Bautista," continued Jack, "not your stereotypical Asian, incoming fifth former, one of the infamous troublemakers of Ravenwood Academy."

    "Anything else you've heard?" asked Damien. In the dark, he began to smile.

    "I've heard what you and your gang did last year, one of your many shenanigans. You guys set off the fire alarm, didn't you? Now that was chaos. The sirens went on like hell broke loose, and the sprinklers went off everywhere, and the whole school panicked like crazy. Man, you guys got in-school suspension and detention for a month."

    "You got that right," said Damien. He chuckled. "Good times."

    "Notorious," muttered Jack. He turned his sights to Damien. "Hey. Since I'm technically on your car"—he paused for a couple of seconds—"and we've got those psychos on the loose, would it be all right if you give me a ride home?"

    "I'm cool with that," said Damien. "Just tell me how to get there."

    "Go right," directed Jack, when they came to an intersection.

    "What are you doing out so late?" asked Damien, pulling the steering wheel, the Cruiser turning right. "Drinking? I smell beer."

    "Oh, this?" said Jack, his hand running down the stain on his hoodie. "It's not what it looks like. I don't drink."

    Damien cocked an eyebrow. Jack noticed.

    "Okay. Maybe occasionally. But I swear I wasn't out drinking tonight," he defended. "Some idiot threw an open bottle of beer at me, and here's the masterpiece."

    Damien chuckled. "Dude must be drunk as hell."

    "Mom's gonna kill me when she sees this," said Jack. "You know, moms and their assumptions."

    "True that," said Damien, suppressing a laugh.

    "I was in the gym tonight," said Jack, looking out the window. Then his eyes shifted over to Damien's calm countenance, the corners of his mouth turning up. "And what about you? Out in the city at midnight, the smell of smoke and weed and beer all over you. There's no denying you were up to no good."

    "Well done, Captain Obvious. You caught me," said Damien, sarcasm dripping from his words. "I was with my friends, hanging out in one of the clubs downtown. I'd rather have Brendan's friend sneak us into some college summer party than take another second at home, with my parents going all World War One Hundred at each other. Just because of some stupid flight delay." He let out a humorless chuckle, exhausted from the day's events. "And because my stupid dad sold our old house, he doesn't have a place to stay when he's here, so he's staying with us tonight 'to save some cash'."

    Behind Damien's nonchalant demeanor a fire raged within. Jack saw through his facade. He turned his sights back over to the window, and said, "Must be hard, man."

    "I don't need your pity," said Damien.

    "You never needed pity in the first place," said Jack. "But I'm guessing you need a bit of some good ol' empathy. Left."

    Damien followed, drove on, said nothing.

    "I needed some air, too," Jack confided, "somewhere away from home."

    Damien flitted his eyes to the boy on the passenger seat, and turned back to the road. Jack noticed he had caught his attention.

    "Let's say Mom and Pops weren't so pleased with me last year. Despite that winning shot, despite the glory, I wasn't doing so well academically." He paused for a couple of seconds, and sighed. "Then started the sermon: 'Jack, how are you going to stay in the basketball team if you don't keep your grades up?' 'How are you going to keep your scholarship?' 'What about college?'"

    "Didn't know you're a scholar," interjected Damien.

    "Well, our family doesn't have much," explained Jack. "Right."

    Damien kept his eyes on the road, his hands turning the steering wheel, yet he wondered—Jack didn't seem like it; he didn't look the part. He always radiated some sort of confidence, as if nothing existed to hold him down.

    "It's cool, man. Only a few people know," said Jack, noticing Damien's bewilderment. "I don't talk much about it. I don't want any pity."

    "So how'd you end up all the way in the gym?" asked Damien.

    "I told you, I needed a break. My parents took their time with that hell of a sermon. Man, I swear, that didn't feel like it was ever going to end. Then I got sick of it, told them I needed some time alone to, you know, chill, calm down, before my temper gets the best of me again. So I grabbed my backpack from my room, and headed out, and hit the gym."

    "Guess we've got our own problems to deal with, huh?"

    Jack chuckled. "You can say that."

    In the shadows of the small hours of the morning, Damien noticed that they had left the urban labyrinth behind—far away from the buildings, the streetlights, and the noise—and found his car running down a winding highway, trees lining either side, paths leading deep into the unknown. This was the edge of the city.

    "You live far," Damien commented.

    "Tell me about it," said Jack. "Took me a while before a cab to downtown appeared." Just then they sped past a bus stop, a glowing shape against the dark silhouettes of trees. "We're near," he added.

    For a couple of minutes, the Cruiser went on gliding down the highway, the only car at this time and place, until the boys caught sight of it—a typical-sized, whitewashed house on the roadside, almost in the middle of nowhere.

    "This is me," announced Jack, as the car came to a halt at the curb, in front of the house. His hand went on to unbuckle the seatbelt. Then he looked at Damien, and smiled a genuine smile. "Thanks for the ride home," he said, "and saving me. I owe you—big time."

    "No prob," said Damien. There was a click, and the car doors unlocked. "If I said psychos in black suits chased me last night, at least I've got someone who'd believe me."

    Jack laughed. "Yeah, you've got a witness."

    The door to the passenger seat opened, and before Jack could even step out, Damien said, "Hey, Jack." Jack turned to Damien, expectant. Damien stretched a hand forward, his fingers wrapped round his iPhone. "Let's hang out sometime."

    Jack dug his hand into his pocket, only to pull it out again, empty-handed. "Left my phone at home," he explained, glancing at the whitewashed house, up at the lightless attic window. "Anyway"—he turned back to Damien, his mouth curving into a smile—"I'll be looking forward to that," he said, receiving Damien's phone in one hand. He typed his number in, handed Damien's phone back to him.

    "Call me, babe," Jack teased, in a high-pitched voice, giving Damien a wink.

    Damien chuckled. "I have a girlfriend."

    "Me too, bruh." Jack stepped out of the Cruiser, onto the pavement. "Or something like that. We're getting there. Jokes aside, let's hang out sometime before school starts."

    Damien nodded. Then Jack closed the door.

    In the shadows, he watched Damien's car speed down the highway, until the glow from the dark red shape vanished into the night.