The street never sleeps—it just breathes slow, in time with the hum of neon and the distant rumble of engines. This is the block where every wall has a story, every handshake means something, and silence is the loudest sound you’ll ever hear.
Drilling starts before dawn. Not the kind that builds houses—this is the drill of the streets: sharp, staccato, unforgiving. Words cut deeper than blades here. A disrespect, a crossed line, a deal gone wrong—all spark that cold, sharp rhythm. Someone gets pushed too far, someone loses a friend, someone’s name gets spoken wrong, and suddenly the air fills with warnings: posts, stares, messages passed through locked doors and side alleys. Everyone knows it’s coming, but no one says it out loud.
Getbacks aren’t about glory. They’re about balance—broken scales someone thinks they have to fix. It might be a flash of lights down the wrong end of the road, a sudden shift in who stands where, or words turned to action when patience runs dry. It’s messy, it’s heavy, and it never ends the way anyone hopes. One act leads to another, and soon you’re not fighting for what you started with—you’re fighting just to not be the one left behind.
They laid him on the slope where the road bends, right where everyone passed every day. Not a fancy grave—just a slab of polished stone, his name carved deep, dates short, and a line someone scrawled underneath: We don’t forget. Flowers came first, then candles that burned through the night, then scarves in their colours, hand tags, little things only people from the block would understand. Before long, that patch of ground wasn’t just stone anymore—it was a mark. A line drawn in the asphalt.
That’s when it changed. Before, it was words, clashes, quick bursts down alleyways. Now, crossing that line wasn’t just stepping on pavement—it was stepping on him. The monument became the front line. If you’re on this side, you guard it like it’s your own blood. If you’re on the other, you see it as a taunt standing right in your path. Every time someone tries to push through, it flares up—shoves, chases, things thrown, warnings blaring from phones. No one backs down, because backing down feels like disrespecting the name on the stone.
Everyone knew how the first hit went down. The lad they lost hadn’t even seen it coming—some kid barely sixteen, handed the work by older heads, told he’d get a slap on the wrist, told judges go easy on youth. They’d used him like a shield, like a tool, and walked away clean while that stone went up on the corner.
This side didn’t scream, didn’t rush in blind. They sat quiet, and the coldest kind of plan settled in. If they play by those rules, we play by those rules too. One afternoon, outside the college gates, one of their own pulled the young attacker aside—quiet, quick, no witnesses. He didn’t hurt him. Just took his blazer, his tie, the badge stitched on the pocket, even his bag. Left him shivering in a hoodie down an alley, and walked straight back out wearing the uniform like he belonged there.
Next morning, he slipped right past the gates, past teachers, past lads from the opposing crew who nodded like he was just another face. He found the kid in the canteen, sat laughing with his mates, thinking he was untouchable—thinking being young made him safe. It was fast, sharp, and by the time anyone moved, he was gone. Nowhere was off-limits anymore.
Weeks rolled by like nothing ever happened. The shouting stopped. The patrols faded. Everyone said the dust had settled—that the score was even, it was done. Kai, the one who’d ordered and planned it all, breathed easy for the first time in months. No one had traced it back to him. He thought he’d got away with it all.
That night he sat up in an old bando off the main road, just him and his oldest mate Nitti. A crate of drinks sat between them. Weeks before, Kai had poured acid into one bottle, hidden it away for his own protection—told himself he’d never use it unless he had no choice. In the relief of thinking it was all over, he’d forgotten which one it was.
They laughed, clinked cans, talked like they were back before any of it started. “We’re clear,” Kai said. “No one’s coming. We won.”
Nitti reached down, grabbed a bottle at random, cracked it open, took a long drink.
It happened in a heartbeat. One second laughing, the next doubled over, screaming—searing, tearing pain from throat to gut. Kai froze as his mate crumpled, the very thing he’d kept to protect himself melting the only person who’d ever stood by him.
They got Nitti to hospital fast, but the damage was total. He died before sunrise.
At first it looked like a terrible accident. But police traced the residue, the lies unravelled, and everything came out: the hit, the kid, the uniform, the school, and the bottle he’d tampered with. Elders and families saw it plain—he’d played with fire, used children, and thought he could outrun every consequence.
Kai stood trial, found guilty on all counts, and got a long sentence. Locked away behind concrete, all he has left is the echo of that scream, and the truth no one escapes: when you build your life on the drill, sooner or later it turns on you.
On the corner, the monument still stands. No one cheers for winners here. They just know—violence never balances the scales. It only adds more names to the stone. Has it stopped... NEVER.. RIP to all the fallen soldiers.