Chapter 6: Pressure
The alley behind Rico's Auto was colder than usual.
Fire cracked in the rusted barrel, but it didn't give warmth—just flickering shadows and the smell of burning receipts and old boxes. Three figures stood around it like ghosts in the smoke.
Ace didn't speak for a long time. He sat with his elbows on his knees, hood up, eyes fixed on the fire as if it had insulted his mother.
Flip stood near the wall, holding a dripping bag of frozen peas to the side of his jaw. A faint bruise colored the skin under one eye. He looked like he wanted to disappear into the bricks.
Maddox, calm as always, leaned against a stack of busted tires and chewed his toothpick like it was the only thing keeping him from smiling.
Finally, Ace broke the silence.
"Twice."
Just that one word, sharp as a snapped bone.
Flip swallowed, but didn't answer. He'd learned last time that Ace preferred silence over excuses.
"Twice you chased this kid," Ace continued, low and level. "Twice you got outplayed."
Flip shifted. "Boss, he didn't fight this time. He just ran. We didn't even touch him."
Ace's head turned slowly, just enough to let Flip feel the weight of his glare.
"He ran because he didn't have to fight," Ace said. "Because he knew how that would go. That's not cowardice. That's calculation."
He stood.
And when Ace stood, even Maddox straightened a little.
"He looked at you," Ace said, pacing now, slow and tight. "He looked at three of my guys. Judged the angle. Measured the risks. And chose to vanish."
Ace raised his voice—not a shout, but loud enough to cut the alley like a whip.
"That kid didn't escape. He made a call."
Flip nodded, eyes fixed on the oil-stained ground.
"And the first time?" Ace continued, gesturing wide. "He dropped Tone, spun Dune like a top, didn't even break a sweat. All of it clean. Quick. No wasted moves."
He paused in front of the fire barrel, then slammed a crowbar into the rim.
CLANG.
Flip jumped.
Ace didn't stop.
"No bragging. No threats. No finishing shots. He just… left. Walked away like we weren't worth his time."
Maddox spit the toothpick into the fire. "If he's that good, boss, maybe we should just let him be."
Ace looked at him.
"Let him be?"
Maddox shrugged. "He's not causing problems. Not tagging turf. Not moving product. Maybe he's just some weird loner."
Ace's smile came slow and sharp. "Then how come everyone's talking about him?"
He gestured toward the open alley. "The kids on the corner? The ones outside the bodega? They've been whispering. About the 'quiet kid who moves like a ghost.' The one who made River Street look sloppy."
Flip flinched again.
Ace pointed at him now. "You know what that means?"
Flip hesitated. "That… we looked weak?"
"No." Ace's tone dipped lower. "It means someone like that? Alone. Broke. Skilled. Invisible. That's the kind of person who doesn't stay alone for long."
He walked back to his chair, pulled out a small black lockbox, and popped the latch.
Inside: clean bills. Bundles of twenties and fifties, stacked and fresh.
He held one envelope out to Maddox.
"I don't want payback," he said. "I want ownership."
Maddox raised a brow. "You want to recruit him?"
Ace nodded. "Kid like that doesn't belong fixing busted laptops in a deli backroom. He's got instincts. Restraint. And if he's this good already?" He snapped the envelope shut. "I want to see what happens when he's working for us."
Flip blinked. "You think he'll go for it? We… tried to mug him."
Ace chuckled softly. "And now we offer him respect."
He walked forward and handed the envelope to Maddox. "Start small. No threats. No pressure. Just opportunity. A steady gig. Cash. Safe jobs. He'll take the bait."
Then he turned to Flip.
"And you. He knows your face. You'll be the one to deliver the message."
Flip paled. "Boss—he might swing on me. Or run. Or worse."
Ace leaned in close. "Then you smile. You nod. You hand him the envelope."
His voice dropped low.
"And if he refuses?" His smile twisted, mean and certain. "Then we show him what it really means to be alone in this city."
(Flip's POV)
Flip had never felt so out of place inside a café.
The smell of burnt espresso and sticky floor cleaner didn't mix well with nerves. A bell over the door had jingled behind him like a warning when he entered, and the bored barista gave him a once-over that screamed "don't steal anything."
In the corner, past a half-dead potted plant and a broken printer someone had dumped like a dying pet, sat Aria Saputra.
Quiet.
Focused.
There was a desktop tower cracked open on the table like a frog in biology class, parts strewn in tidy rows. Aria worked with slow, careful movements, like he wasn't in a rush to fix it, just to understand it. Flip watched for a few seconds longer than he meant to. The kid didn't look dangerous. He looked… focused. Small. Calm.
But Flip had seen what he did to Tone. He still flinched when he remembered the way Aria had moved—efficient, surgical. Not angry. Not wild.
Just better.
Flip wiped his hands on his jeans and walked over.
"Yo," he said, voice low.
No reaction. Aria had earbuds in. The cheap kind, one side frayed.
Flip hesitated. Then waved slightly. "Uh… Aria?"
Aria looked up slowly. Calm gaze. Not surprised. Just waiting.
Flip cleared his throat. "Right. Uh, I'm Flip. You might remember me from... the alley. Uh, twice."
Nothing. Just silence.
Flip took it as permission to keep going. "Look, man, I know we got off on the wrong foot. Or, like… both feet. Kinda stomped on 'em."
Still nothing.
"I'm not here to fight," he added quickly. "Seriously. I'm solo. No crew. I just… I got something for you."
He reached carefully into his pocket and pulled out the envelope. Thick. Clean. No sketchy bills. No notes scrawled in blood.
He held it out like it might explode.
"My boss—Ace—he saw what you did. Both times. And he's not mad. He's…" Flip tried to find the word. "Impressed. Said you've got skills. Said you move like you know how the fight ends before it starts."
A flicker. Aria's eyes narrowed slightly.
"He wants to offer you something better," Flip continued. "Not threats. Not muscle. Real work. Jobs you pick. Cash. Safe. Steady."
He laid the envelope gently on the edge of the table.
Aria stared at it.
Flip waited. A beat. Then two. Then—
"No."
Just one word. Sharp and cold enough to cut the air.
Flip blinked. "What?"
Aria finally spoke, slow and flat. "No. I'm not interested."
Flip stepped back a little. "Hey, man, I'm just the messenger here. You don't gotta decide now. You can think—"
"No," Aria said again, firmer this time. "You came into a public place. Alone. That means your boss isn't ready to pull the trigger yet. He wants to play nice."
He pushed the envelope back with a single finger. "So here's me playing nice back: I'm not for sale."
Flip stared.
Aria leaned back in his chair, finally setting the screwdriver down. "You tell Ace I don't do crews. I don't do favors. And I don't owe anyone anything."
Flip opened his mouth, then closed it. He hadn't been prepped for this. Ace had been so sure—everyone wants money. But this kid? This kid looked at cash like it was napkin trash.
"I'll… I'll tell him," Flip muttered.
"Good," Aria said, already turning back to the machine. "And if he sends someone else next time, tell him to make sure they bring better shoes."
Flip blinked. "Shoes?"
Aria didn't look up. "Harder to run when they're cheap."
Flip stood there for a second longer, then turned and walked out—faster than he meant to. The bell over the café door jingled again as he left, this time like a warning.
The walk back to Rico's felt like the longest in Flip's life.
He wasn't limping, but it felt like he should be. His legs moved slow, heavy, every step echoing the same thought in his head:
"He said no."
Two words.
Simple. Quiet.
But Flip knew what that meant in Ace's world. You didn't say no. Not to an offer. Not when it came gift-wrapped with a smile and money. Not when it was Ace doing the offering.
The sun had already dipped behind the rooftops, and Queens was starting to settle into that cold, streetlamp orange glow. Kids heading home. Stores locking up. Shadows growing longer.
So was Flip's dread.
By the time he reached the shop, his throat was dry.
He knocked twice on the side door, then let himself in. The back office was already dark, lit only by a single yellow bulb and the glow from the cracked window. The smell of grease and cigarette smoke clung to everything like mold.
Ace was standing at the worktable, sleeves rolled, knuckles pressed against the edge like he was trying to hold the whole building together with just tension. He didn't look up when Flip walked in.
"Talk."
Flip stepped carefully into the room. "I found him. Delivered the offer. Just like you said."
A long pause.
"And?"
Flip swallowed. "He said no."
Nothing.
Flip continued. "Pushed the envelope back. Didn't even open it. Said… he's not for sale."
Still no reaction.
"He also said he doesn't owe anyone. Doesn't do crews. Said you sent me because you weren't ready to make a real move."
That got something.
Ace straightened.
Not fast. Not violent. Just deliberate—like a man who'd finally decided to flip the chessboard.
Flip rushed to soften the blow. "Boss, he wasn't disrespectful. Wasn't loud. Just calm. Quiet. Like he already knew how it would go."
Ace turned slowly. His face was blank—but the kind of blank that meant the fire was behind the walls, not gone.
"He turned me down."
Flip hesitated. "Yeah."
"He made me look weak."
"Boss—no one saw, I swear—"
Ace moved.
It wasn't a hit. It wasn't a shout. It was worse.
He slammed both hands onto the table with a bang so sharp the tools rattled in their trays. Flip jumped. A wrench hit the floor and spun in a slow, uneven circle.
"He looked me in the face," Ace hissed, "through you—and said no. Like I'm just another nobody asking for favors."
Flip said nothing. There was no safe word here.
Ace stepped closer, shadows carving hard lines across his face. "Do you know what happens when people say no to me?"
Flip opened his mouth. Ace didn't wait.
"They disappear. They lose things. They get reminded that this city doesn't care about fair. It cares about control."
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a lighter—cheap plastic, chipped paint—and flicked it once.
A tiny flame.
Then he dropped the envelope Flip had tried to deliver into a rusted coffee can on the desk and lit the corner.
The bills caught fast. Crackled. Curled.
Flip watched in silence as over a hundred dollars turned to ash.
Ace stared into the flame like it was speaking directly to him.
"I gave him a chance," he said. "I don't do that. Not often. I tried respect. He threw it back in my face."
He crushed the lighter in his hand and tossed the remains into the trash.
"Fine," he said. "He wants to stay solo? Then let's see how long he survives without the goodwill of the street."
He turned to Flip, voice low and razor-sharp.
"Find out where he eats. Who helps him. What shelter he's using. Find out everyone he talks to."
"Boss—"
"No more gifts," Ace growled. "We make him uncomfortable. Let jobs fall through. Let things go missing. Let people get nervous around him."
Flip nodded, pale. "You want it quiet?"
"Quiet," Ace snapped. "Like rot in the walls. No warnings. No fire. Just slow collapse."
He stepped forward again, eyes now inches from Flip's.
"If he wants to say no to me, then I want him to feel it in his bones. I want him waking up wondering what went wrong, day after day, until the only option left…"
He smiled now. Cold and final.
"…is crawling back to me."
(Aria's Pov)
It started like rust.
Quiet. Slow. Almost invisible.
One missed message. One client who forgot to call back. A shop that used to leave the back door open now suddenly locked it during the day. Nobody said anything to his face. There were no slurs, no confrontations.
Just silence.
A spreading, calculated silence.
By the third day, Aria started counting the losses.
The tutoring gig with the twins on 69th? Gone. Their mom "found someone else." The delivery work from the corner store? Canceled—"schedule change," they said. Even Manny, the gruff old tech guy who paid in cash and apathy, told him not to come around for a bit.
"Nothing personal, kid. Just need to keep things… smooth."
Smooth.
That word stuck in his chest like a needle.
At the shelter, Sister Reina didn't make eye contact when she handed him the chore list. He always volunteered for trash duty, early shift. No questions. But today?
"You don't have to clean anymore. It's already assigned."
No smile. No kindness. Just that same low tension in her voice like she'd seen his name on a warning and didn't know how to ask if it was true.
Even his space at school started to feel colder.
Bri talked less. Zeke was buried in his schematics. Liyana still watched him—but her eyes had changed. Not suspicious. Not fearful. Just… distant.
And maybe it was nothing.
Or maybe they heard something.
A whisper here. A question there.
It didn't take much to isolate someone. Not when the world already treated you like an extra in the background.
He ate lunch alone by Thursday.
Not by choice—just… no one filled the seat next to him.
No one said "you can't sit here."
But they didn't say "hey" either.
It was cold that week.
Autumn in New York wasn't poetic—it was dry winds that slipped through thin jackets and turned breath to smoke. Aria sat on the cracked bench outside the library with his hoodie pulled tight around him, watching leaves scatter like gossip in the wind.
He hadn't had a paying job in four days.
His MetroCard had one ride left. Maybe two, if he squeezed it between machines.
He had seven dollars and thirty-eight cents in his wallet and three packets of ramen back at the shelter.
That wasn't the part that scared him.
It was how fast it all changed.
A week ago, people knew him. Trusted him. Called him smart, helpful, sharp. Those compliments used to build him.
Now?
Now they avoided his eyes. They hesitated mid-sentence. Even strangers seemed to step around him, like something about his presence made them second-guess whatever they were going to say.
He'd seen this before.
Back in his old life. The way a group could decide someone didn't belong without ever admitting it. The way institutions didn't push—they just pulled away. The way warmth was replaced by space. By friction. By apathy.
He leaned back against the cold bench, watching breath curl from his nose.
This wasn't an accident.
This was deliberate.
Someone was turning the world around him just slightly against him. Nothing loud. Just enough to unravel the routine. Kill momentum. Starve the day.
He thought of the envelope Flip had left.
Thought of the look on his face when Aria pushed it back.
He hadn't been angry. He hadn't even looked surprised.
Just… resigned.
Like he knew how this played out.
Like Ace had played this game before.
It was Thursday, October 25th.
Halloween decorations clung to storefronts with scotch tape and wind damage. Kids talked about costumes. Someone mentioned "the new iPod Touch." Someone else argued about Guitar Hero.
In six months, a man named Tony Stark would be dragged out of a cave in Afghanistan, and the world would start to change in ways nobody could imagine.
But right now?
Aria was just a boy with an empty phone, frozen fingers, and a quiet war closing in around him.
And no one coming to help.