You’d been staring out the grimy window for twenty minutes, watching the scenery decay. Nice houses gave way to strip malls, then to boarded-up shops, then to nothing but concrete barriers and the constant roar of traffic you couldn’t see.

The driver called out the stop in a bored monotone. “Heights Loop.”

The doors hissed open. The air that hit you was warm, thick with exhaust and the distant smell of something burning. Not wood. Plastic.

The bus loop was a cracked concrete oval under buzzing yellow streetlights. A few people loitered near a bench, their faces shadowed by hoods. They watched you without watching you, a skill everyone here seemed to have.

Across the loop stood the buildings. Red brick, three stories tall, lined up in a row that seemed to go on forever. Building A, closest to the loop, had a few lights on. Further down, past D and E, the windows got darker.

Your duffel bag felt heavy on your shoulder. Your phone buzzed—a text from your mom.

As you passed the courtyard, a basketball thumped rhythmically against the pavement. Then a voice, loud and smooth, cut through the evening hum.