The shortcuts home from school always came with big risks. Miami's backstreets were dangerous; trouble always lurked in Little Havana's back streets. The humid air clung to Andres like a heavy, wet blanket as he ran through the back alleys behind Calle Ocho. The distant thump of music, the muffled echo of shouting voices, and traffic filled the night, but none of it eased the uneasy prickle at the back of Andres's neck.

  He hadn't wanted to take this route home, especially after what happened behind Club Midnight a week ago. But today's trouble with Chad had left him walking home later than usual, and the main streets were crowded with weekday traffic. His ribs still hurt from Chad's elbow during lunch, and the girl, seeing the strange shadow movement beneath his desk earlier, had drawn too much attention. He couldn't afford any more slip?ups. (The girl gasping had nothing to do with the shadow; it was just Andres's anxiety.)

  As Andres turned the corner behind Luna's Bodega, he froze.

  A black and gold GTO sat parked in the shadows, headlights off but engine quietly rumbling. Four guys leaned against the car, their faces hidden beneath caps and low hoods. Blue?and?white bandanas tied around their arms and belts caught the dim light—unmistakable symbols of the Voodoo Boys.

  Andres's stomach dropped. He knew those colors. He knew those faces.

  And they knew him.

  "Look who finally came back," one of the Voodoo Boys said, his voice low and amused. I told you this fool would come back this way.

  Andres's pulse spiked. He instinctively turned to retreat, but another figure stepped into the alley behind him, blocking the exit. The man's silhouette was unmistakable—tall, broad?shouldered, dreadlocks tied back, a silver crossroads pendant resting against his chest.

  Marcel Baptiste.

  The Bokor himself.

  Andres's breath caught. Marcel wasn't just here by chance. They had been waiting for him.

  Marcel stepped forward, his shadow drifting across Andres, his calm, cold gaze locking onto Andres with unsettling precision. "You took your time returning, petit voleur."

  "I didn't steal anything," Andres said quickly, his voice tight. "I told you before—the bag was already empty."

  Marcel's expression didn't change. "You expect me to believe that? You disappear into thin air the night my product goes missing, and now you stroll through my alley like nothing happened."

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  One of the men cracked his knuckles. Another shifted his weight, blocking the only clear exit. They weren't improvising—they were positioned. Prepared.

  They had planned this.

  "I'm just passing through," Andres said as he stepped forward, making sure to stay in Marcel's shadow, though the words felt useless. He adjusted his headphones out of habit, but the music felt impossibly far away.

  "Passing through?" Marcel repeated softly. "No, boy. Tonight, you answer for what you took."

  Andres's hands clenched. His breathing grew shallow. His gaze darted around the alley—no way out except maybe climbing the towering stack of crates against the wall.

  "I said I'm not looking for trouble," he muttered.

  Marcel's eyes narrowed. "Trouble isn't something you look for. It's something that finds you."

  Marcel steps closer to Andres, and the alley seems to shrink around Andres. The air thickened with tension. The shadows around Andres flickered, stretching as if stirred by an invisible breeze.

  Panic surged through him—and with it, something colder, sharper, instinctive.

  His eyes shot toward the rooftop above him. He hadn't tried reaching that far since the night behind Club Midnight. But he doesn't really have a choice.

  His chest tightened as he focused down hard, pouring every bit of his fear and desperation into the thought. His connection to the rooftop shadows felt far away and unstable, like reaching for a hand just out of reach.

  The world compressed, an unbearable pressure squeezing him like a vise. Cold emptiness rushed through him, his senses dulling as the shadows swallowed him whole. To Marcel and his boys, it looked like Andres had faded into the shadows.

  Andres, with his heart thumping and the blood pounding in his ear, stumbled forward, seeing stars. When his vision cleared, he was crouched on the rooftop, gasping for breath, legs trembling beneath him.

  "What the fuck? Where did he go?" one of the Voodoo Boys yelled.

  Andres stumbled and crouched low, his sweat?soaked hands pressed down on the tar?paper roof of the bodega. Andres fought hard to steady his breathing. The cold emptiness in his chest lingered, sharper and heavier than before.

  Peeking over the edge, he saw the Voodoo boys moving around in confusion. Marcel stood still, scanning the alley with narrowed eyes, his calm cracking just slightly.

  "He didn't run," Marcel muttered. "He vanished. Just like last time."

  Andres needed something to throw them off. Across from the rooftop, a streetlight cast long shadows onto the walls of the adjacent buildings.

  He reached out with trembling fingers. The darkness responded faintly. He shaped the shadows into the outline of his own figure, making it sprint down the opposite end of the alley. The effort made Andres's stomach turn and make his vision swim, but it worked—the self-shadow mimicked his movement, darting away with unnatural speed.

  "There!" one of them shouted, already chasing the phantom.

  "Go," Marcel ordered, his voice sharp. "He can't escape twice."

  As they disappeared, Andres collapsed onto the roof face-first from exhaustion. The adrenaline drained out of him all at once. His entire body ached, and the taste of iron filled his mouth. Every breath felt like fire, but the thrill of what he'd done lingered—he'd not only escaped, he'd used his power in a way he hadn't imagined before.

  The elation faded quickly as exhaustion settled in. Andres's powers weren't just draining—they were dangerous. He couldn't afford to push himself like this again.

  As the cool night breeze swept over him, Andres looked out at the Miami skyline. The city felt bigger, darker, and more alive than ever.

  And somewhere below, Marcel Baptiste was still hunting him.