The acrid stench of spray paint lingered in the air as Anthony's eyes locked onto the brick wall of the school building. His jaw clenched, veins pulsing at his temples as he read the cryptic message scrawled in angry red letters:

"The snake's friend lies still six feet under, his blood the price of a few milli milli and his girl. Does the snake sleep peacefully, or does guilt keep him awake at night?"

Anthony's mind reeled, struggling to decipher the accusation hidden within the enigmatic words. His fingers curled into fists, knuckles hardening. The acrid scent of rage, fear, and confusion mingled with the smell of spray paint.

He realized that sometimes the hardest person to face is yourself, especially when the writing is quite literally on the wall.

He whirled to face Bullet, his young second-in-command who hovered nearby, anxiety etched across his features. Anthony's voice came out as a guttural growl, "Who is this Afefe, Bullet? WHO THE FUCK IS SHE??"

Bullet flinched, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "I don't know, Agaba," he stammered, using Anthony's street name. Bullet had been with Anthony since freshman year, loyal to a fault, but often overwhelmed by the weight of their world. "But calm down, we are trying all we can to—"

In a flash, Anthony's hand shot out, fingers twisting into Bullet's collar. He yanked the younger man close, spittle flying as he snarled, "Even a toddler in kindergarten can try a little harder than this!"

Bullet's eyes widened, fear replacing the anxiety. Around them, the other gang members shifted uneasily, a palpable tension crackling through the air. Some averted their gazes, while others watched with a mix of trepidation and barely concealed irritation.

Anthony released Bullet with a shove, his dark eyes scanning the faces of his crew. "What the fuck is wrong with all of you?" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the brick walls. "Did I recruit imbeciles?"

The gang members exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them. Some seemed cowed by Anthony's outburst, while others bristled at the insult, resentment simmering just beneath the surface.

"Fix this," Anthony thundered, his command brooking no argument. The gang scattered like startled pigeons, eager to escape their leader's wrath. As they dispersed, Anthony's voice rang out once more, "And somebody find a way to clean this shit!"

Left alone, Anthony turned back to the graffiti, his mind churning. The cryptic message taunted him, hinting at buried secrets and a past he thought long forgotten. Who was Afefe? And more importantly, who knew enough about his history to level such an accusation?

As twilight settled over the schoolyard like a weighted blanket, Anthony stood frozen before the spray-painted accusation. The air felt thick with unseen eyes, and a familiar spark of fear flickered in his chest – a sensation that was becoming alarmingly frequent lately.

He pulled out his phone, its glow illuminating his face in the growing darkness. Scrolling through his contacts was like flipping through pages of complicated history. Each name carried a weight, a story, a potential lifeline in this mess. His thumb hovered over Funi's name, and a laugh escaped him – a sound caught somewhere between a sob and a sneer.

"The universe's sick joke," he muttered, staring at her contact information like it was both salvation and damnation.

Memory has a funny way of reconstructing itself to fit our needs. In Anthony's mind, the past reshaped itself into a narrative he could live with. Yes, Kel had been his best friend once. The three of them – Anthony, Kel, and Funi – had been as inseparable as the primary colors. But life isn't a perfect painting, and sometimes the colors bleed.

Kel, always with his nose in a book or working extra shifts. Noble, perhaps, but at what cost? Anthony's jaw clenched as he remembered Funi's lonely nights, her wistful sighs when plans were cancelled. In his mind, love should be all-consuming, present – not an abstract concept built on future promises.

"She deserved better," Anthony whispered to himself, the words a mantra he'd repeated countless times. "Someone who truly saw her worth."

But even as he said it, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered: And that someone was you? The question hung in the air, unanswered, as the last traces of sunlight faded from the sky.

The memory of that fateful night came rushing back, as vivid as if it were yesterday. His phone, buzzing at 11 PM. Funi's name on the screen, unexpected and thrilling. Her voice, slurred with alcohol and thick with tears, reaching out to him of all people.

Anthony's grip tightened on the phone. He could still hear the vulnerability in her voice, the way she'd said his name as if he were a lifeline. In that moment, all his carefully constructed rationalizations had crystallized into a single, burning certainty: this was meant to be.

"Fate," he murmured, the word heavy with the weight of all that followed.

But as he stood there, the accusatory graffiti looming behind him, doubt began to creep in. Had it truly been fate? Or had he simply seized an opportunity, twisting circumstances to fit his desires? The line between destiny and manipulation blurred, leaving Anthony standing on uncertain ground.

His finger hovered over Funi's name, trembling slightly. To call her now would be to open Pandora's box, to confront the tangled mess of love, betrayal, and guilt that had led him to this moment. Yet the temptation lingered, a siren song of what might have been – and what still could be, if he could only silence the ghosts of the past.

Anthony's reverie was interrupted by the vibration of his phone. Glancing at the screen, he saw "Hidden Number" flashing once again. A frustrated growl escaped his lips as he shoved the device back into his pocket, muttering, "Oh for fuck's sake."

With both hands thrust deep into his pockets, he began to stroll along the concrete pathway that snaked behind the school's imposing library. The setting sun cast long shadows across the immaculately trimmed grass, creating a stark contrast with the memories that flooded Anthony's mind.

His eyes fell upon the concrete chairs scattered across the lawn. Each one seemed to hold a ghost of the past, echoes of laughter and whispered conversations. How many times had he, Kel, and Funi lounged there, their lives so intricately intertwined? Sometimes it had been just him and Kel, brothers in all but blood. Other times, just him and Funi, harmless in her point of view but stolen moments to him that he now realized had been the seeds of something far more complicated.

Anthony's feet carried him to one particular chair, and he found himself sinking onto its cool surface. His mind drifted back to a pivotal moment years ago, when a younger, more earnest Kel had approached him, eyes bright with excitement.

"I've met someone, Anthony," Kel had said, his voice filled with a mix of wonder and nervousness. "I think... I think I'm falling for her."

The memory of that conversation sent a sharp pang through Anthony's chest. Little had Kel known that he was describing a girl Anthony had encountered two years earlier at summer camp. Funi – vivacious, captivating Funi – had been a fleeting presence in Anthony's life, leaving an indelible mark before disappearing without a trace.

"Fate," Anthony whispered, the word carrying a weight of irony and bitterness. Once again, the universe had seemed to conspire, bringing Funi back into his orbit through the most unexpected means.

As the last rays of sunlight faded, casting the school grounds in twilight, Anthony remained motionless. The hidden number caller, the mysterious Afefe, the damning graffiti – all of it swirled around him, a tempest of consequences born from that fateful moment when "fate" had seemingly handed him a second chance with Funi.

But as the darkness deepened, a chilling question took root in Anthony's mind: Had he truly been following fate's design, or had he become the architect of his own downfall, piece by calculated piece?

Anthony's solitary reflection was suddenly interrupted. A presence materialized beside him, settling onto the concrete bench with a casual grace that belied its significance. As he turned, recognition dawned, sending a chill down his spine.

The man, clearly in his fifties, exuded an aura of power and wealth that was impossible to ignore. His attire was deceptively simple - a black turtleneck paired with blue jeans - but Anthony's trained eye caught the subtle markers of extreme luxury. The Nike sneakers on the man's feet were unlike any Anthony had ever seen, clearly custom-made and likely one-of-a-kind.

But it was the scent that truly announced the man's status. The cologne that wafted through the air was so exquisitely expensive that Anthony found himself thinking it could easily cover the cost of a house. This was not just wealth, but wealth so extreme it bordered on the absurd.

As the man crossed his legs with deliberate slowness, Anthony felt a chill run down his spine.

The man's voice, when it came, was soft yet filled with unmistakable authority. "Agaba, I don't like to be ignored," he stated, his eyes boring into Anthony's with an intensity that brooked no argument.

In that moment, Anthony realized that sometimes the scariest monsters aren't the ones hiding under your bed, but the ones sitting next to you in broad nightlight, wearing custom Nikes and smelling like liquid gold.

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