Chapter 8: 6

The rooftop felt like a death sentence. The icy wind bit at my face as I crouched behind a ventilation unit, pressing my injured shoulder to stem the bleeding. Below me, the men in the alley shouted and cursed, their voices carrying up through the stillness.

I had no way out.

But then I spotted it—a second building just a few feet away, its rooftop slightly lower than the one I was on. My heart raced as I considered the jump.

"You don’t have a choice," I whispered to myself, gritting my teeth.

Pushing through the pain, I scrambled to my feet and backed up a few steps. My shoulder screamed in protest as I prepared for the leap. Taking a deep breath, I sprinted forward, my feet pounding against the roof.

When I jumped, time seemed to slow.

The cold air whipped around me, and for a moment, I felt weightless. Then my feet hit the other roof—barely. I stumbled forward, landing hard on my knees and scraping my palms against the rough surface. Pain shot through my body, but I was alive.

I couldn’t stop.

Crawling to the edge of the second building, I spotted a metal fire escape. It was rusted and precarious, but it was my only way down.

The climb was agonizing. Every pull on the ladder sent jolts of pain through my shoulder, but I forced myself to keep going. The men below were still shouting, their flashlights scanning the alley, but they hadn’t noticed me yet.

By the time my feet touched the ground, my legs felt like jelly. I pressed myself against the wall of the building, my breath coming in shallow gasps. I didn’t wait to see if they were still searching.

I ran.

---

Hours later, I sat on a cold bench under a flickering streetlight, clutching Derek’s letter in my trembling hands. Blood smeared the edges, but it was still legible.

The words swirled in my mind, over and over again. *“Trust him.”*

Nicco.

The man I had called hours ago, who had dismissed me as quickly as I’d dialed. He was supposed to help me. That’s what Derek had written. But why would Nicco, of all people, be the answer? He hadn’t even known I existed back in high school. He’d been quiet, almost brooding, always hanging out with Derek like they shared some secret code.

I unfolded the letter for the hundredth time, my eyes scanning the familiar lines, searching for something I had missed.

And that’s when I saw it.

At the very bottom, in the faintest ink, was an address.

I blinked, holding the paper closer to the dim light. How had I missed this before? My stomach twisted as I traced the scrawled words. It wasn’t just any address. It was *The Hangout.*

Derek’s old hideout.

I could hear his voice as if he were standing beside me, telling me stories about the abandoned warehouse where he and Nicco had spent so many nights. It had been their sanctuary, their fortress against the world.

My heart sank as reality hit me. There was no way it could still be abandoned. That was years ago.

But I didn’t have a choice.

I folded the letter carefully and shoved it back into my jacket pocket. The walk to the address was slow and painful, every step sending a jolt of agony through my shoulder.

When I turned the corner and saw the building, I froze.

This wasn’t *The Hangout* I remembered from Derek’s stories.

Bright neon lights flickered against the brick facade, and a polished sign above the entrance read *The Hangout* in sleek, modern lettering. A line of people, dressed like they belonged in some glossy magazine, snaked around the block, waiting to be let inside. Music pulsed from behind the doors, its rhythm pounding in my ears like a second heartbeat.

I stood there, stunned. This can’t be the place.

But it was. The address matched exactly, down to the faint graffiti on the corner of the building that Derek used to describe so vividly. My chest tightened as I stared at the transformation, unsure of what to do next.

I forced myself forward, keeping my head down as I approached the entrance. A massive bouncer stood by the door, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the crowd.

He saw me coming before I even opened my mouth. “You lost?”

“I’m here to see Nicco,” I said, my voice barely audible.

The name seemed to catch his attention, but his expression didn’t soften. “Nicco doesn’t take walk-ins.”

“Please,” I pressed. “Tell him it’s about Derek. Derek Moore.”

His brow furrowed. For a moment, he didn’t move, and I worried he might throw me out on the spot. But then he spoke into a small radio clipped to his jacket. After a brief exchange, he opened the door and gestured for me to follow him.

Inside, the noise was deafening. The bass from the music vibrated through the floor, and the air was thick with perfume, sweat, and alcohol. I kept my eyes on the bouncer’s back as he led me through the crowd, past plush booths and a packed dance floor.

The hallway he led me down was quieter, the walls lined with framed photos and dim lighting. At the end of the hall, he knocked twice on a door.

“Come in,” a voice called.

The door opened to reveal a room that was both lavish and sparse—a sleek desk, a leather couch, and a single lamp casting a warm glow. Nicco sat behind the desk, his sharp features shadowed by the dim light.

I hadn’t seen him in years, but he looked the same—only harder. His quiet presence back in high school had been magnetic, but now there was an edge to him that sent a chill down my spine.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice cold and even.

“I didn’t have a choice,” I replied, pulling Derek’s letter from my jacket. “Derek sent me here.”

Nicco’s jaw tightened. “Derek’s dead.”

“I know,” I said, my voice breaking. “But he wrote this before he died. He said you’d help me.”

Nicco leaned back in his chair, studying me with those same unreadable eyes I remembered from years ago. For a moment, I thought he might dismiss me entirely.

“You’ve got five minutes,” he said finally. “Talk.”