Fighting Chance 3

Zain kept his eyes locked on the man’s phone. The guy was too busy talking, one hand waving like he was in the middle of some deep conversation, the other twirling a fork through his food. 

His plate was still full. Barely touched. Good.

First thing he learned about New York City today was that people here were kinda jerks. From the cop to those older wannabe gangsters outside the bodega, to the guy sitting in front of him who pretty much pushed him out of his way when he asked for the time a few minutes ago.

Just dickheads, one and all.

So, because of that, he didn’t really feel all that bad about what he was about to do.

Zain breathed in slow, let his shoulders drop. Look normal. No sudden movements. People only noticed what looked out of place, and right now? He was just another kid hanging around outside a restaurant, waiting on someone. 

Nobody gave a damn.

The man set his phone down, reached for his drink.

Zain moved.

Fast. Smooth. Not even a moment’s hesitation. One second, the phone was sitting next to the guy’s plate. Next thing he knew, it was in Zain’s hoodie pocket.

And he was gone.

Feet hit pavement as quick as he could, rhythm steady, slipping into the flow of the crowd before his brain even caught up. His heart kicked up a little, but the rush was already fading. No yelling behind him. No sound of a chair scraping back, no sudden footsteps picking up speed.

Easy.

The flip-phone sat solid in his palm—cheap plastic, scuffed-up screen, buttons stiff as hell. Not like I care. He didn’t. It was a phone. That was the only thing that mattered right now..

He ducked into an alley, flipping the blue clamshell open.  The screen buzzed, blue light flickering to life against his palm.  

First thing—date check.

March 1st, 2011. 4:42 PM

Right date. Well, it had been February 28th the last time he checked but that was literally last night, so that was normal.

Still really didn’t mean much, though.

His gut had been screaming that something was off ever since he dropped out of the damn sky, and checking a date wasn’t about to fix that. But he didn’t have time to sit here and let his brain spiral. Handle what’s in front of you.

His fingers moved before the thought was even finished.

He punched in his mom’s number.

It rang.

Once.

Then a beep. “We’re sorry. The number you have dialed is not in service.”

Zain blinked. What? He pulled the phone away from his ear and stared, unsure what he was hearing. That d… That doesn’t make any sense, though. His heart pounded a bit faster in his chest as he swallowed down any sense of panic or fear, only shaky confusion left for him to wrestle down. I… I don’t. 

No. Focus, Zain. You got this.

He redialed.

“We’re sorry. Th-”

The same message repeated nearly made him drop the flipphone, his fingers going halfway numb as he tried to keep it together.

Instead, his thumb pressed harder into the phone like that was gonna change something. Maybe she changed numbers. Maybe he hit the wrong button. Maybe—

He didn’t panic, didn’t let himself freak. Let’s try…. Dad’s. Yeah, Dad. He didn’t waste another second, punching in the number he knew by heart.

Not in service.

He swallowed, jaw clenching, as his fingers moved quick before he could panic, pushing in a third number. Grandma’s landline.

Three rings.

Then—click.

His heart rose in his chest as the sound of the phone being picked up hit his ears a- “Yeah, you’ve reached Columbia Tech Repair. This is Jeremy. How can I help you?”

Zain’s mouth went dry as his heart dropped right back down to his stomach, where it didn’t belong. “…Sorry, wrong number.”

He snapped the phone shut, staring at nothing as he just sat there, slumped against the alley wall, the word feeling like it had fallen away from beneath his feet. What.

His body felt weird. Too light. Like every single part of him was almost asleep or… just numb.

No, think. There were other options. This just… It just had to be a weird glitch with the phone system, right? Right.

He tried again. Different numbers. Friends. Neighbors. Teachers. Somebody.

Nothing. Wrong numbers. Disconnected lines. People who had never even heard of them. Like his family just…  didn’t exist. 

By the tenth try, his hands shook. Just a little. Enough to piss him off. The phone felt wrong in his grip, buttons too stiff, like it wasn’t meant to be in his hands. Like nothing was. His chest was tight. Not just buzzing—wrong. 

Off. 

Something was off.

He could go back to the cop. Demand help. That’s what they were supposed to do, right?

Then his mind snapped back to the look on the guy’s face. The tone in his voice.

Like Zain wasn’t even a person.

Like he wasn’t worth a second glance.

Yeah. No.

The burner creaked under his grip.

Who else? What else? His jaw hurt as he grit his teeth together, harder and tighter than his dentist would ever be happy with. But what else was he supposed to—

Church.

Zain locked onto the memory, latched onto it like a lifeline. A couple blocks back—a church, just a few blocks back, he had seen it. One of those spots that was all about charity, they handed out free meals, let people crash if they had nowhere else. 

There was no doubt they’d let him use their phone.

Had to, right? If they’d feed me, they wouldn’t mind.

He shoved the clamshell deepinto his hoodie pocket and started walking, quick but steady, like he had somewhere to be. Like he wasn’t a kid with no clue where he was, no clue where to go, no clue how to make any of this make sense.

Short walk. Should’ve been easy.

But every step itched.

He didn’t run. Didn’t change pace. But he walked straight into the church, pushing the door open like he’d been planning to come here all along.

The air inside hit different.

Warm. Heavy. Thick with candle wax and something else, something that was almost like flowers, but what did he know? The quiet pressed in on him like a wall, cutting off the city noise in one step.

Zane exhaled, rolling his shoulders back, forcing the tension out of them. 

Nobody was following him.

Clearly.

Probably.

Near the front, an older white woman looked up from where she was sorting a stack of pamphlets. Definitely past iddle-aged, with the big white hair tucked back, and the deep wrinkles on her soft face.

Soft smile, too. The kind that looked like it had never been mean a day in her life.

Her eyes flicked to him, quick scan—hoodie, posture, the way he hadn’t moved further in. “You need some help, hon?”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The warm light should have felt comforting but it somehow only made the lump in his throat feel larger.

Zain steps inside, breath still shallow from the walk, from everything. His clothes were a mess—dirty hoodie, torn capris, sneakers scuffed to hell. Even with his face wiped clean of grime and muck from napkins he’d picked up from outside restaurant tables, Zain knew He didn’t belong here. 

He felt it in his bones.

But the woman from the front? She smiled at him like she didn’t care about any of that. Late 50s, maybe early 60s, big white hair like a cloud, soft eyes like she’s seen too many kids like him before.

“You alright, sweetie?”

Zain swallowed, nodding at her question. “Yeah…” His throat was tight no matter how much he tried to make the words come out smooth. He didn’t want to think about how ridiculous this all was, how much he was straight lying to himself, just bullshitting that this would work out better than the stolen clamshell in his pocket, “Yeah. Just… uh. You got a phone I can use?”

She hesitated, just for a second. Then, “Of course, honey.”

She led him to a back office—small, quiet. Wooden desk, old books, a crucifix on the wall. Phone sitting right there. A landline.

Safe.

Zain picked it up. For the third time today, the thirteen-year-old dialed his mom’s number. Slower this time, hoping, almost praying th-

“We’re sorry, the number you have dialed—”

He hung up. Try again, man.

Same thing.

Dad’s number. Same thing.

Grandma’s. Same.

By the fourth time, the woman couldn’t help but frown, the expression odd on her face like she wasn’t used to it. “Are you sure you got the right number?”

Zain forced a shrug, his fingers gripping the phone tighter. “Yeah. Must be a signal thing.”

She gave him a look. The kind of look adults give when they know you’re lying but don’t wanna call you out on it yet. “You need a place to stay, hon?”

He almost said yes. Almost. But his gut twisted before the words could leave his mouth, no matter how much they wanted to escape.

The lady was nice.

But that was exactly the problem.

She was nice.

Too nice. The kind of nice that makes other people start asking questions. The kind of nice that calls people. The kind of nice that would get him stuck in a foster home because he’s lost in New York and his family’s numbers are all disconnected.

Zain didn’t need that.

Not yet. Not till I find out what’s going on here.

He forced a grin instead. “Nah, I got people nearby.”

The lie rolled off his tongue too easy.

She looks at him and Zin knew she would have believed him just as much if she said that trees were made of candy. “Alright, hon.” But she lets him go anyway.

“Thank you, ma’am.” He walked out of the church and didn’t look back.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The sun dipped low, carving long shadows between buildings, bleeding orange across the skyline in a way that would’ve probably been much prettier if the city didn’t feel so ugly. New York buzzed, restless, full of life—except it still felt empty. 

Or maybe that was just him. 

He tilted his head to the side, nodding slightly. Probably is just me.

Maybe it was just the way his skin itched, the way his body couldn’t decide if it wanted to move or stop or collapse.

The young teenager walked fast, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, head down as he tried to keep it all together. He didn’t run. Running was dumb, first of all, unless you had an actual reason. 

Running made people focus on you. Running made people think you had something to run from. Running made you look suspicious. He didn’t need that.

Really didn’t.

He already had too many problems, and right now, his brain was still playing catch-up with all of them.

It just didn’t make sense. No home. No family. No answers and no way to get them.

No way this is real.

He dug his fingers into his arms, nails pressing deep, grounding himself in something—anything. If he stopped moving, it’d all hit at once. No way he was letting that happen.

Then—voices.

They were low, accented, clipped. Zain heard the sound of feet scuffing against pavement and he slowed his own pace as he tried to figure out where it was coming from. Tilted his head just enough to listen.

There. Around the corner.

Zain edged up, slow, eyes cutting past the bricks.

Five men. Masks up. Black hoodies. 

One guy backed against the wall on his knees—suit, nice watch, hands clasped together like he was praying, mouth moving fast. Sounded nervous. Pleading.

A mugging. Or a gang thing. Or—

A shift. A movement too clean, too practiced.

A knife flashed.

Zain’s brain stalled.

One second the guy was upright. The next—

A sound. Like water hitting the pavement. But different, lighter, sharper

The suit crumpled in place and fell over completely as his body twitched. Then didn’t.

Zain’s heart dropped right back down into his stomach as the teenager sucked in a sharp breath.

One of them turned.

Head tilted.

Shit.

A word. Japanese. Snapped out sharp.

Zain didn’t need a translation.

He ran.

Footsteps slammed pavement behind him. Fast. Too fast.

His heart slammed harder, pounding against his ribs like it was trying to break out. He tore down the alley, shoulder checking a dumpster, legs moving before his brain could even process the holy shit, holy shit, holy shit still rattling inside his skull.

They were gaining.

He hit the sidewalk, didn’t slow.

Traffic blurred past. Honks, yells—he didn’t stop. Didn’t think.

A trash can—he vaulted it. A group of people—shoulder slipped between, kept moving.

A gap in traffic.

Zain didn’t hesitate.

He bolted through it. Horns screamed. A car tore past his back, air dragging against his hoodie, close enough that if he had flinched the wrong way—

Didn’t think about that.

A food cart—grabbed the edge, yanked it down. It crashed behind him, landing hard as half a dozen voices shouted and screamed in a staggered chorus. He still didn’t look back.

A cop car. Right ahead. No time to think.

Zain jumped.

Hands slammed against the hood. Pushed up. Legs tucked. Over. Landed. Rolled. Kept going.

No hesitation. No second guesses. Just motion. Just get away.

Footsteps behind him—

Gone.

Maybe.

He didn’t trust it. These guys were professional assassins.

He spotted an open window, third story of a boarded-up building. Didn’t think. Just leaped.

Fingers caught the ledge. Body slammed against brick. Arms screamed. He kicked a foot up, scrambled, hauled himself inside.

With a crash that could have been softer as he cursed at himself internally, he collapsed against the ground of the unlit abandoned room and kept his breath low and tight, Dust swirled in the dim light as his breath hitched, chest heaving, for the second time in two nights.

He listened.

Nothing.

No voices. No footsteps. No shadow moving against the window.

Gone.

For now.

His head dropped against the wall. His fingers twitched, still locked in tight fists. His pulse was still in his throat, hammering like it didn’t get the memo that they were safe.

Slowly, he exhaled. Dragged a hand down his face.

What the hell is wrong with this city?

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Dojo Points: 0