Suspended

The highway stretched gray and endless. Raul drove while The Fighter stared out the passenger window, watching the landscape shift from anonymous sprawl to something he recognized in his bones.

Detroit emerged slowly. Not announced, not triumphant. Just... there.

They'd flown from Lyon to New York, then driven. Twelve hours with Raul's chatter filling the silence, his careful avoidance of anything that mattered. Now, crossing into the city limits, even Raul had gone quiet.

The buildings rose like broken teeth. Factories with shattered windows. Houses with plywood covering what used to see. Empty lots where grass pushed through concrete, reclaiming what humans had surrendered.

The Fighter pressed his forehead against the window. Cold glass. Solid. Real.

The ruins had become postcards. People came to photograph them, to document decay like it was beautiful instead of loss. He'd seen a few articles —"Urban Exploration in America's Forgotten Cities." His city, reduced to aesthetic.

But it wasn't dead. A corner store with bright awnings. Kids on bikes weaving through a parking lot. Murals refusing to fade on walls that refused to crumble.

Breathing. Barely. But breathing.

Raul turned onto a familiar street. The Fighter's hands clenched.

Raul pulled over in front of a house that had once been blue. Now it was something else—paint peeling like sunburned skin, porch sagging, one window boarded. But the lawn was mowed. Someone still cared.

Not his house. He'd never go back to his house. But close enough to smell it.

Raul's jaw worked. Then he nodded. "Text me. Anywhere. Anytime."

The car door closed with a sound that felt too final. The Fighter stood on the cracked sidewalk, hands in his jacket pockets, while Raul's taillights disappeared around the corner.

The silence pressed in.

Not silence. The city hummed—distant traffic, wind through empty buildings, a dog barking streets away. But quiet in a way that made his heartbeat loud.

He started walking.

His feet knew the route. Past the corner where he'd stolen candy. Past the lot with the basketball hoop that had no net. Past the alley where he'd learned to make himself small.

The ghosts were patient. They'd waited.

A community center skeleton stood three blocks down. Roof caved years ago. Vines crawling up the walls, saplings pushing through foundation. Nature taking back what had been abandoned.

A mural covered one intact wall—faces of the neighborhood in colors too bright for the gray. He recognized Mrs. Patterson. The twins from Elena's grade. A boy he'd trained with, before—

He kept walking.

The houses narrowed. Got closer. More intimate with their decay. Some still lived in—curtains, cars, lives continuing despite everything. Others stood hollow. Doors hanging open like mouths.

He stopped.

Didn't mean to. His feet just stopped.

The house was small. Had been green, maybe. The windows were dark but intact. The porch had collapsed on one side. The door was closed but the lock was broken—he could see the splintered wood from here.

Not his house.

Close enough.

His hand found a telephone pole. Rough wood bit into his palm. Present. Now. Not then.

The question had no end. How long can you run? How long until the glitter stops working? How long before you're just that kid again, hiding?

A car passed. Slowed. An older woman glanced at him with that Detroit look—recognition without acknowledgment. She'd seen people standing on corners, staring at nothing. She knew better than to ask.

The car turned. Disappeared.

The Fighter pushed off the pole. Kept walking.

Three blocks later: the park.

Not much. A few acres of grass, playground equipment held together by rust and habit, a basketball court with nets that actually existed.

Kids were playing. Their shouts cut through the quiet like light through water.

He sat on a bench at the edge. Far enough not to intrude.

Watched.

One kid—ten, maybe—had something. The way he moved, the footwork, the focus when he went for a shot. That hunger to be good at something because being good meant mattering.

The kid missed. Swore. Tried again.

The Fighter's chest tightened.

The Fighter stared at the question.

He was sitting on a bench in Detroit watching kids play basketball while his sister fell apart. Twenty-eight years old and still flinching at memory. Still running from a city that had shaped him into something both resilient and broken.

He typed: Need another hour.

The Fighter almost smiled. Put the phone away.

The kid made his shot. His friends cheered. For one moment, the world was just basketball and sunlight and simple joy.

The Fighter stood. Walked to the fence.

The Fighter nodded. Started to turn away.

The Fighter stopped. Looked back at the kid standing there, basketball under one arm, hope naked on his face.

The words died in his throat. Because what right did he have? He'd left. Run. Built a life somewhere else while Detroit stayed exactly where it was.

He walked away. Back to the bench.

The advice felt hollow. He'd spent twelve years running and still ended up right here, staring at ghosts.

His heart jumped. First text in three days.

Detroit. Taking care of some stuff. You okay?

Dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared.

The world tilted.

What? Why?

His hands went cold.