Chapter 21: Bronx Lockdown The blare of the sirens was getting closer. I didn’t wait to see flashing lights. I just jumped into Rich’s passenger seat. He was already peeling out before I slammed the door shut. “You had to go nuclear, huh?” he said, more exasperated than angry. I shrugged. Demitra’s name flashed again on my phone. I ignored it. She was cool and all, but I needed to deal with this first. Rich weaved through traffic like he was auditioning for a Fast & Furious sequel. Horns blared, tires screeched, but he didn't even flinch. "Gotta ditch anyone who might be tailing us," he explained, cutting off a yellow cab. "Tailing us? You think the cops care that much about a broken phone and some spilled coffee?" "It's not just the cops, Jim. It's Briarwood, it's the media, it’s Duke. Everyone's gonna have an opinion on this shitshow. Best to lay low till I can figure out the damage control." I knew he was right. Still, the thought of running felt…wrong. Like I was admitting defeat. "Where are we even going?" "Somewhere safe. Somewhere no one would think to look." The "somewhere safe" turned out to be a five-story walk-up in the South Bronx. The building looked like it hadn't been painted since the '70s, and the air smelled vaguely of weed and stale pizza. "Seriously, this is it?" I asked, trying to keep the disbelief out of my voice. Rich cut the engine. "Relax, it's a safe house. I use it for clients who need to disappear for a while. Cops don't even know it exists." "You have multiple safe houses?" He shrugged, not answering the question. Instead he just opened his car door. "Just stay inside, don't talk to anyone, and don't even think about leaving. I’ll call you when I have a handle on things.” He paused, looking at me with a grim expression. “And for Christ’s sake, Jim, stay out of trouble.” I watched him drive off, the sound of his car fading into the city noise. I took a deep breath and headed inside. The lobby was dimly lit and smelled like mothballs. A busted intercom hung lopsided on the wall. The apartment was on the fourth floor. The stairs creaked with every step I took, and I could hear snippets of conversations through the thin walls – Spanish music, a shouting match, a baby crying. Rich had given me a key, just one key. I let myself in, the door groaning as it swung open. The apartment was small, maybe 600 square feet. A living room with a worn-out couch and a dusty TV, a tiny kitchen with a fridge that hummed loudly, and a cramped bedroom with a double bed. The place was clean, but sterile. Like no one had ever actually *lived* here. It had that vacant, temporary feel of a hotel room, but without the mini-bar. I walked over to the window and looked out. The view wasn't exactly inspiring – a narrow street lined with parked cars, a bodega across the way, and a row of identical brick buildings stretching into the distance. I could see the faint glimmer of the Manhattan skyline, a distant reminder of everything I was missing. I sat down on the couch, sinking into the worn cushions. The silence was deafening, broken only by the hum of the fridge and the distant wail of a siren. I pulled out my phone, then remembered it was currently a shattered mess on a café floor. I ran a hand over my face, trying to process everything that had happened. One minute, I was the golden boy, Duke-bound, on top of the world. The next, I was hiding out in a Bronx safe house, wanted for vandalism. It was Valeria’s fault, all of it. Her and that fucking Miguel. The rage started to bubble up again, hot and violent. I wanted to punch something, break something, scream until my throat was raw. But I couldn't. I was trapped. I got up and started pacing, the small apartment feeling even smaller with every step. I needed to do something, anything, to release the pent-up energy. Push-ups? Jumping jacks? Anything was better than sitting here stewing in my own anger. I dropped to the floor and started doing push-ups, fast and hard. Ten, twenty, thirty…my arms started to burn, but I kept going. Forty, fifty…sweat dripped onto the dusty floor. I pushed myself until my muscles were screaming, until I couldn't do another rep. Then I collapsed onto the floor, gasping for breath. It helped, a little. But the anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface. It was like a fire that wouldn't go out, no matter how much I tried to smother it. I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was practically empty – a six-pack of water, a carton of orange juice, and a half-eaten container of takeout. I grabbed a water bottle and twisted off the cap, chugging half of it in one go. I needed to call someone. Talk to someone. But who? My parents would freak. Greg would probably tell me I was an idiot. Kenny and Zion would try to be supportive, but they wouldn't really understand. Demitra…she would listen. She would be calm and understanding, and she wouldn't judge me. But calling Demitra felt like crossing a line. Like admitting that I needed her, that I couldn't handle things on my own. And besides, wasn't she probably pissed that I'd ignored her calls earlier? I closed my eyes, trying to block out the noise, the anger, the loneliness. Dr. Klein's voice echoed in my head: *Mindfulness, Jim. Focus on the present moment. Find your center.* Easy for him to say. He wasn't stuck in a dingy apartment in the Bronx, his life in shambles. I walked back to the window and stared out at the city. The sun was starting to set, casting long shadows across the buildings. The sky was a swirl of orange and purple, a beautiful contrast to the grimy reality below. Even from here, I could feel the energy of the city, the constant pulse of life. People going to work, going home, falling in love, getting their hearts broken. All the dramas and triumphs and tragedies playing out on a million different stages. And I was stuck here, on the sidelines, watching it all from a distance. Duke. The NBA. All the dreams I'd worked so hard for…were they all going to slip away because of one stupid mistake? One moment of rage? I thought about Valeria, her face contorted with anger and surprise as the coffee splattered across the café. I thought about Miguel, sputtering and choking, his eyes wide with shock. For a moment, I felt a flicker of satisfaction. They deserved it. They deserved to feel the same pain I was feeling. But then the guilt washed over me, heavy and suffocating. What had I done? Who had I become? I was supposed to be better than this. I was supposed to be the one who rose above the drama, who stayed focused on his goals. Instead, I had let my emotions control me, and now I was paying the price. The city lights started to twinkle on, one by one, like tiny stars against the darkening sky. Each light represented a life, a story, a possibility. And I was trapped here, in this cage, with nothing but my own thoughts to keep me company. I turned away from the window, the loneliness pressing down on me like a physical weight. The Duke cage. I traded one cage for another. A cage of expectations, a cage of pressure, a cage of my own making. I stared out the window