The first black SUV eased into the narrow street, its glossy surface catching sunlight reflected off cracked pavement and brick buildings that hadn’t seen fresh paint in decades.
A second vehicle followed, then a third. The low hum of engines alone was enough to stop conversations mid-sentence. In that corner of East Cleveland, luxury cars never appeared without cause—and causes usually meant power, trouble, or both.
Inside a cramped studio apartment, Felicity Brown stood motionless, fingers gripping the edge of a thin curtain that functioned as both a door and a boundary to the shared hallway. The room still smelled of fried peppers and rice, remnants of the modest dinner she’d eaten after finishing another exhausting double shift. Her black-and-white diner uniform clung uncomfortably to her skin, damp with sweat, while her feet ached from hours of standing for wages that barely covered rent.
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“Who’s here?” someone asked.
“Is it the police?” another voice whispered.
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