Rise of the Street King

Chapter 33: A Love’s Glimpse

The city slept uneasily. Smoke from the burned bodies still clung to the night air, mixing with the sour stench of sewage and charcoal stoves. Every alleyway whispered Razor’s bounty, every shadow felt sharper, every door carried eyes that weren’t meant to see.

Jayden moved like a ghost through it all, keeping Tariq’s weight against his side. The man was bleeding badly, and though he kept his teeth clenched, Jayden felt every tremor in his friend’s body.

“You should’ve let me take that cut,” Jayden muttered, jaw tight.

“And let Razor win?” Tariq rasped, his grin stubborn even in pain. “Not a chance.”

Jayden didn’t answer. He scanned the streets. The safehouse was compromised. Malikah was strong, but she couldn’t fight off a whole city while Tariq bled out in a cot. They needed someone with skills they didn’t have. Someone who could heal, someone who wasn’t already marked by the bounty.

The thought of trust burned. But if he didn’t move, Tariq would die.

They reached the back of a crumbling apartment block. The door they approached was painted with fading green, a color Jayden remembered from years ago. He hesitated, his hand hovering before he knocked.

Tariq noticed. “You know this place?”

Jayden nodded once. “She was… different.”

The door creaked open before he knocked. A figure stood in the dim light: a young woman, no older than him, with dark braids pulled into a knot and eyes that seemed too calm for the chaos outside. She wore a faded scarf around her shoulders, and in her hands was a lantern.

Her gaze swept over him, then landed on Tariq. Without hesitation, she said, “Bring him inside.”

Jayden’s guard shot up. “You don’t even know who we are.”

Her lips curved, not quite a smile, more like an acknowledgment. “The streets are shouting your name, Jayden. Half the city wants your head. If you’re knocking on my door, you must be desperate. That makes you honest, for once.”

He stiffened, but before he could speak, Tariq groaned. The woman tilted her head. “We don’t have time for pride. Inside. Now.”

Jayden carried Tariq in.

The room smelled of herbs, wood smoke, and ink. Papers littered a table in the corner—sketches, notes, maps of the slums. Jars of dried plants lined the shelves. She laid Tariq on a worn mattress, rolling up his shirt with practiced hands.

Jayden hovered like a wolf, knife still in hand. “Who are you?”

“Amara,” she replied simply, pulling out a needle and thread. “Hold him down. This is going to hurt.”

Tariq laughed bitterly. “Lady, I’ve been stabbed more times than I’ve eaten good meals.”

She ignored him and pressed cloth into his wound. Tariq roared, muscles straining. Jayden pinned his shoulders while Amara worked, her hands swift and steady.

Jayden studied her closely. There was no fear in her movements, no tremble in her voice. Just focus. In a world where most flinched at blood, she leaned into it.

When she finished stitching, she washed her hands in a basin, then looked at Jayden. “He’ll live. If you keep moving him, he won’t.”

Jayden nodded, finally lowering his knife.

Hours passed. Tariq slept, breathing rough but steady. Malikah sat near the door, pistol across her lap, distrust etched across her face. Jayden remained by the window, eyes scanning the street below.

Amara moved quietly, grinding herbs, mixing them with water, pouring the mixture into a cracked cup. She carried it over and offered it to Jayden.

“For him. Pain relief.”

Jayden studied the cup, then her. “Poison would be easier.”

Her brow arched. “If I wanted you dead, Jayden, you’d never have made it through my door.”

He held her gaze a long moment before taking the cup. Setting it aside for Tariq, he asked, “Why help us? You know the bounty. Anyone who feeds me risks their life.”

Her expression didn’t change, but her words were sharp. “And what kind of life is worth living if all you do is bow to the strongest hand?”

Jayden blinked. No one spoke to him like that anymore. People either feared him or plotted against him. She did neither.

“You don’t even know me,” he said quietly.

Her eyes softened, though her voice stayed steady. “I know you grew up in these streets. I know you’ve been cutting your way through them ever since. I know your sister still lines up for bread. And I know you haven’t learned that power isn’t about how many men you bury.”

The words hit harder than a blade. Jayden leaned back against the wall, silent.

Later that night, Jayden stepped outside, needing air. The moon hung low, pale against the smoke-stained sky. His chest ached not from wounds, but from something harder to name.

Amara followed, her steps quiet. She stood beside him, arms folded against the cold.

“You’re carrying too much,” she said.

He smirked faintly. “What do you know about it?”

She glanced at him, eyes catching the moonlight. “Enough to see you’re building an empire on broken bones. But broken things don’t hold weight forever.”

Jayden’s smile faded. “Then tell me what holds weight?”

Her answer was soft, almost a whisper. “Hope. And people who still believe in it.”

For a moment, Jayden forgot the bounty, the knives in the dark, even Razor’s shadow. Standing there, he saw something he hadn’t in years: a glimpse of what it meant to fight for more than survival.

But before he could speak, the sound of footsteps echoed from the alley. Too many. Too fast.

Jayden’s hand went to his knife. Amara’s eyes sharpened. “They followed you.”

The shadows spilled forward three men, armed and eager, their eyes hungry with Razor’s promise.

Jayden stepped forward, blade ready. But before he moved, Amara’s hand caught his arm.

“Don’t fight loud,” she whispered. “The whole block will wake.”

Then, to his shock, she pulled a small vial from her scarf and tossed it into the dirt. Smoke erupted, thick and choking. The attackers coughed, blinded. Jayden didn’t hesitate he drove his knife through the first throat, tore the blade free, and shoved the second into the wall. The third stumbled, swinging blindly, only to collapse as Amara smashed a brick against his skull.

The alley fell silent again, smoke curling upward. Jayden stared at her, chest heaving.

She looked back calmly, wiping dust from her hands. “What?”

“You just killed a man with a brick.”

Amara’s lips curved into that almost-smile again. “Better than letting him kill you.”

For the first time in a long while, Jayden didn’t know what to say.

They dragged the bodies to a sewer grate, rolling them in. When Jayden straightened, Amara stood watching him, her scarf loose around her shoulders, her expression unreadable.

“You can’t stay here long,” she said. “Every fight makes noise. Every noise brings more hunters.”

Jayden stepped closer. “Why are you helping me?”

She met his eyes steadily. “Because I don’t want the streets to belong to Razor.”

“And you think I’m better?”

Her silence was sharper than any answer. Then she turned and walked back inside, leaving him with a question burning hotter than his wounds.

By dawn, Tariq stirred, groaning from the pain. Jayden stayed at his side. Amara brought more herbs, her hands brushing Jayden’s for the briefest second. His heart stuttered before he pulled away, masking it with a cough.

She noticed. He knew she did. But she said nothing.

Instead, she simply told him, “If you’re going to rule these streets, learn what they actually need.”

Jayden stared at her. And for the first time, ruling felt like something more than blood....

As Jayden prepares to move Tariq before Razor’s hunters track them again, he hears whispers from the street below: Amara’s name spoken alongside his. Razor’s spies already know she’s helping him. By saving him, she’s painted a target on herself and Jayden realizes too late that her life is now bound to his war.