The city did not calm down after the funeral.
It hardened.
Yellow tape stayed up longer than usual, fluttering in the heat like a warning nobody bothered to take down. Shell casings were collected, logged, bagged, then quietly photographed again by people who weren't on the official roster. Blood stains were scrubbed from the street before sunset, but the memory of them stayed, clinging to the cracks in the pavement like something unfinished.
Everyone felt it.
Not panic. Not shock.
Pressure.
The kind that didn't explode right away, but bent steel slowly until it snapped without warning.
By noon the same day, the funeral footage was already looping on every local channel. Not the bodies. Not the blood. Just the moment before it all went wrong. The crowd packed tight. The casket being carried. Andre Gatewood stepping into frame like gravity itself had shifted.
The cameras loved that part.
They froze his face mid-step, mid-breath, mid-expression, and let the city decide what it meant.
Was that grief.
Was that anger.
Was that guilt.
Nobody agreed, but nobody stopped watching.
The anchor's voice stayed calm, practiced, detached.
"…what police are calling a targeted attack during the funeral of a known Eastside associate. Authorities have not confirmed suspects, but sources indicate this may be part of an ongoing gang conflict—"
The word gang did a lot of work.
It flattened nuance.
It erased hierarchy.
It made everything easier to sell.
Inside City Hall, the mayor watched the broadcast with the sound muted, jaw tight. His phone vibrated nonstop on the desk. Police union reps. Donors. A state senator asking why this wasn't under control yet.
He turned to the police chief without looking at him.
"I want names," the mayor said. "By tonight."
The chief cleared his throat. "We don't have—"
"I don't care what you don't have," the mayor interrupted. "I care what the public thinks we don't have."
He finally turned.
"And right now, they think we're losing."
The chief nodded stiffly.
They always did this part wrong, but it never stopped them from trying again.
Detective Harris hadn't slept.
Not because he couldn't, but because sleep felt irresponsible when the city was rearranging itself without permission.
He stood in the precinct's evidence room staring at a board that had grown messier overnight. Photos overlapped. Strings crossed. Names circled in red and blue, some with question marks, some with lines slashed through them.
Mateo's photo sat dead center now.
Not because Harris thought Mateo mattered more than the others, but because the city had decided he did.
Lopez leaned against the doorway sipping burnt coffee. "Media wants a statement."
Harris didn't look up. "They can wait."
"They won't."
"They never do."
Lopez sighed and stepped closer, studying the board. "Funeral attack wasn't sloppy."
"No," Harris agreed. "That's what bothers me."
He pointed to a photo from the scene. Four blurred figures. Masks. Rifles held too steady to be random.
"Street guys spray," Harris continued. "They don't count rounds. They don't move in formation. They panic."
"So who were they," Lopez asked.
Harris rubbed his face. "People trying not to be seen."
Lopez frowned. "Southside?"
Harris hesitated.
"That's what everyone's saying," Lopez added.
"That's why I don't like it," Harris replied.
He moved to another photo. A single shell casing near a curb, glinting in the sun.
"Someone wanted that found," Harris said. "Or they didn't care if it was."
Lopez crossed her arms. "Which one scares you more."
Harris didn't answer right away.
Because the truth was both did.
Across town, Andre Gatewood sat in his office with the blinds half closed, watching shadows crawl across the floor like they were alive.
His phone had stopped buzzing an hour ago.
That worried him more than the calls.
Silence meant decisions had been made without him.
Torian stood near the window, chain-smoking, hands shaking just enough to be noticeable.
"They closing streets," Torian said. "Checkpoints going up."
Andre nodded. "Expected."
"Police asking questions," Torian continued. "About the funeral. About Mateo. About you."
Andre's voice was calm. "They always ask about me."
Torian swallowed. "This time it's different."
Andre finally looked at him.
"Yes," he said. "This time they think I'm predictable."
Torian frowned. "Ain't that bad?"
Andre stood and walked to the desk, tapping the map once.
"Predictable men get boxed in," he said. "Then they get removed."
Torian shifted. "Cartel already moving. Lost two stash houses last night."
Andre's jaw tightened, but his voice didn't rise.
"They're not punishing me," he said. "They're testing me."
Torian hesitated. "And Southside."
Andre's eyes sharpened. "What about them."
"They still quiet."
Andre smiled thinly.
"That's not loyalty," he said. "That's calculation."
On the Southside, calculation was exactly what filled the room.
The cleaners were open but empty, lights low, music off. It looked abandoned from the outside, which was the point.
Big Head sat at the table with a ledger open in front of him. Not money. Movement. Names written lightly in pencil, some crossed out, others circled.
Murk stood nearby, arms folded.
"Police pressure rising," Murk said. "Checkpoints near Andre's territory. Patrols doubled."
Big Head nodded. "Good."
Jack frowned. "Good for who."
"For us," Big Head said. "Pressure makes people sloppy. Sloppy people talk."
Psycho leaned back in a chair, balancing it on two legs. "Andre already talking."
Big Head looked up. "How."
"Through Torian," Psycho replied. "Drinking more. Running his mouth."
Big Head closed the ledger slowly.
"Torian isn't the problem," he said. "Torian is the symptom."
Jack tilted his head. "Of what."
"Fear," Big Head replied. "Andre's."
Silence settled in.
Big Head stood and walked to the back room, pulling aside a curtain to reveal a small monitor showing live feeds from various street cameras.
Funeral footage replayed on one screen.
Andre frozen mid-step.
Big Head studied it.
"He didn't plan for that," Big Head said quietly. "You can see it."
Murk nodded. "He thought the chaos would work for him."
"It did," Big Head replied. "Just not the way he wanted."
Lo felt the pressure differently.
It wasn't loud.
It was the way her phone didn't ring when it should have.
The way familiar faces avoided her eyes.
The way she started checking reflections in glass without realizing she was doing it.
She stood at the bus stop pretending to scroll through messages she hadn't received. Across the street, Psycho leaned against a pole, posture relaxed, eyes alert. Farther down, Rob's car sat with the engine off.
She didn't acknowledge them.
They didn't acknowledge her.
Protection without conversation.
Control without explanation.
A police cruiser slowed as it passed, the officer inside glancing at her longer than necessary.
Her stomach tightened.
She was part of the story now, whether anyone said her name out loud or not.
Back at City Hall, the police chief stood before a room full of people who wanted results more than truth.
"We are forming a task force," he announced. "Focused on the Eastside-Southside conflict."
Reporters leaned forward.
"Is Andre Gatewood a suspect," one shouted.
The chief paused just long enough to be noticed.
"We are exploring all avenues," he said.
That pause would be replayed a hundred times.
Andre's name would be printed in bold.
And somewhere between speculation and certainty, a target would solidify.
Late that night, Rafael received a call he'd been expecting.
He listened without interrupting, eyes on the city below.
"Yes," he said finally. "Pressure is good."
He ended the call and turned to the man behind him.
"They're forming a task force," the man said.
Rafael nodded. "They always do."
"And Andre."
Rafael's expression remained calm. "Andre is useful while he's loud."
"And when he's not."
Rafael looked back out at the city.
"Then someone else will be."
By the time the city went to sleep, nothing had actually happened.
No arrests.
No declarations.
No public enemy named officially.
But lines had shifted.
The police were moving.
The cartel was watching.
Andre was bleeding territory.
Southside was invisible.
Lo was no longer untouchable.
And the pressure had found its shape.
It wrapped around the city slowly, tightening just enough to promise that when something finally broke
It wouldn't be accidental.
Pressure does not break things all at once.
It works inward.
Andre Gatewood learned that the night after the funeral, when the phone finally rang again.
Not a burner.
Not a runner.
Not one of his men checking in out of fear.
A number he did not have saved.
Andre let it ring three times before answering.
"Talk," he said.
Silence came first. Then breathing. Controlled. Measured. Someone making sure Andre knew they were not rushed.
"You lost another house," the voice said calmly.
Andre did not ask which one. He already knew.
"Yes," Andre replied.
"And you lost two men," the voice continued. "Not soldiers. Managers."
Andre's jaw tightened slightly. "You calling to update me."
"I'm calling to measure you," the voice said.
Andre smiled faintly. "Then you got your answer."
A pause.
"You're still standing," the voice said. "That's noted."
The call ended.
Andre set the phone down slowly.
That had not been a threat.
That had been a test.
And tests meant expectations.
Behind him, Torian stood near the bar pouring another drink he did not need. His hands shook just enough to spill a drop on the counter.
"They calling you now," Torian said. "That ain't good."
Andre turned. "Nothing about this is good."
Torian laughed nervously. "At least they still talking. Means you alive."
Andre studied him.
Torian had always been useful because he wanted approval. Men like that ran hard when they felt seen. But approval turned into fear quickly when pressure showed up. And fear loosened mouths.
"Torian," Andre said quietly.
Torian looked up. "Yeah."
"Who you talk to today."
Torian froze just long enough to be noticeable.
"Just checking on people," he said. "Making sure nobody folding."
Andre took a step closer.
"Names."
Torian swallowed. "Just family. A couple old connects."
Andre's eyes stayed on him. "You didn't talk to police."
Torian shook his head quickly. "Never."
Andre nodded once.
He did not believe him.
But belief was not required yet.
Across town, Detective Harris sat in an unmarked car watching Torian's apartment building.
He had not planned on it. The address had come from a half drunk informant who wanted protection before offering information. Harris did not promise anything. He never did.
He watched Torian stumble out onto the balcony, phone pressed to his ear, pacing.
Lopez sat in the passenger seat, notebook closed.
"That him," she said.
Harris nodded. "That's him."
"You think he cracks."
Harris watched Torian laugh too loud at something said on the other end of the line.
"He already has," Harris replied.
They didn't move.
Not yet.
Sometimes pressure worked best when people forgot they were being watched.
On the Southside, Big Head listened to Murk read off updates.
"Torian talking again," Murk said. "Different numbers. Same pattern."
Big Head leaned back in his chair. "Fear accelerates habits."
Jack frowned. "Andre notice yet."
"He notices everything," Big Head replied. "That doesn't mean he can stop it."
Psycho paced slowly. "Police task force official now."
Big Head nodded. "Expected."
"And cartel still trimming Andre," Murk added.
"Yes," Big Head said. "They're shrinking his options."
Jack hesitated. "Where does that leave us."
Big Head looked at the wall where the map had been folded away.
"In the middle," he said. "Which is the most dangerous place if you don't control it."
Lo did not sleep.
She lay on top of her covers listening to the city breathe through the walls. Sirens came and went. Helicopters passed overhead. Somewhere nearby, a door slammed hard enough to echo.
Her phone sat face down on the nightstand.
She did not check it.
She did not want to know if someone else had learned her number.
In the morning, she moved carefully.
Different route to work. Sunglasses even though the sky was gray. She noticed everything now. Reflections. Footsteps. Cars idling too long.
At a red light, she saw Andre's SUV pass through the intersection two lanes over.
Their eyes did not meet.
But the distance felt intentional.
Protection was becoming a cage.
At City Hall, the task force briefing filled a room meant for half as many people.
Maps were projected. Photos passed around. Names spoken carefully.
Andre Gatewood's name came up more than any other.
"We don't have enough to move on him," one officer said.
"Yet," another added.
Harris watched from the back.
"They're pushing him toward a mistake," he said quietly to Lopez.
"And if he doesn't make one."
Harris exhaled. "Then someone around him will."
That night, Torian made his mistake.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't loud.
It was careless.
A call placed from a phone he should have burned weeks ago. A conversation held too close to an open window. A sentence that started with "I heard Andre's planning to…"
That sentence never finished.
Because Harris's phone buzzed.
And for the first time since Mateo died, something concrete landed.
Andre felt it shift before anyone told him.
The way his phone stopped ringing again. The way Torian did not answer. The way silence pressed instead of settled.
Andre stood at the window and stared out at the city.
Pressure had stopped testing.
It had started choosing.
The knock came at two in the morning.
Not loud.
Not rushed.
The kind of knock that assumed it would be answered.
Torian stared at the door from the couch, phone in his hand, television muted, heart already sprinting. He had been expecting something all night. A call. A threat. Andre's voice. Anything that would tell him where the line was.
This was worse.
He stood slowly, every step measured, and checked the peephole.
Two men. Plain clothes. Calm posture. Badges already out, not flashed, just visible enough to remove doubt.
He opened the door.
Detective Harris spoke first. "Torian White."
Torian nodded. "Yeah."
"We need to talk."
Torian stepped back. He did not ask about warrants. He did not ask about rights. Fear had already decided what his mouth would not.
Inside the apartment, the air smelled like alcohol and panic. Harris noticed the half packed bag near the door. Lopez noticed the second phone on the counter.
They both noticed everything.
At Andre's office, the city finally stopped pretending.
Three hours passed without word from Torian. No check in. No response. No signal.
Andre stood motionless, hands braced against the desk, eyes locked on the map as if staring hard enough might force the pieces to return where they belonged.
"They got him," Andre said quietly.
No one argued.
The lieutenant shifted his weight. "You want us to move."
Andre straightened slowly.
"No," he said. "That's what they want."
His phone buzzed.
One message.
Unknown number.
They're talking to him.
Andre exhaled through his nose.
Pressure had found a seam.
Across the city, Big Head read the same update from a different angle.
"Torian picked up," Murk said.
Jack leaned forward. "By who."
"Detectives," Murk replied. "Not the dirty ones."
Psycho smiled faintly. "That's even worse for Andre."
Big Head nodded. "Because now he doesn't know what's being said."
Rob's voice came through the speaker. "Andre's people scrambling. Quiet scrambling."
Big Head closed his eyes briefly.
The city had crossed from reaction into consequence.
Lo stood at the sink staring at her reflection when the text came through.
Unknown number.
Stay inside tonight.
She didn't reply.
She didn't need to ask who it was from.
The warning sat heavy in her chest, not because it was new, but because it was confirmation. The invisible lines around her life were tightening.
At the precinct, Torian sat under fluorescent lights that buzzed just enough to irritate.
Harris leaned back in his chair. Lopez stood near the wall, arms crossed, watching Torian's hands.
"You look tired," Harris said.
Torian laughed weakly. "Long week."
"It's been a long month," Harris replied. "People dying. Blocks burning. Funerals turning into crime scenes."
Torian swallowed.
"We're not here to pin everything on you," Harris continued. "We're here because you know things."
"I don't know nothing," Torian said quickly.
Lopez stepped forward. "You know who killed Mateo."
Torian's mouth opened. Closed.
Harris watched it happen.
"You know who benefits from Andre taking the blame," Harris said.
Torian shook his head. "I don't want no problems."
Harris leaned in slightly. "You already have them."
Silence stretched.
Torian stared at the table like it might offer instructions.
At the cleaners, Big Head felt the weight shift again.
"Police leaning," Jack said. "Media asking questions now."
"Good," Big Head replied. "Noise moves cover."
"And Andre," Murk asked.
Big Head opened his eyes. "Andre will tighten."
As if summoned, Andre did exactly that.
By dawn, his remaining lieutenants were called in. Phones confiscated. Routes changed. Safe houses rotated.
Control reasserted by force.
But force could not touch doubt.
Andre stood in the center of the room, voice calm, expression hard.
"Someone is leaking," he said.
Eyes shifted. Breathing changed.
Andre pointed at one man. "You."
The man stiffened. "Boss."
"Leave," Andre said.
No one spoke as the man exited.
Andre looked at the rest. "If the police know what they know, it's because someone helped them."
He let that settle.
"We will find it," he continued. "And when we do, there will be no more conversations."
The city felt it.
The way cars reversed out of blocks they used to own. The way men avoided eye contact. The way fear changed shape from loud to silent.
Rafael watched the tightening from a distance.
"He's bleeding inward now," one of his men said.
Rafael nodded. "That's when men make real mistakes."
"And Southside."
Rafael paused. "They're still quiet."
"That worries you."
"No," Rafael replied. "That impresses me."
Lo sat on her couch with the lights off, phone in her hand, watching the screen glow without unlocking it.
Outside, a car idled. Moved on. Another passed.
She realized then that she was no longer waiting for something to happen.
Something was already happening around her.
At the precinct, Torian finally spoke.
Not loudly.
Not fully.
But enough.
Names. Patterns. Times.
Harris listened without interrupting.
When it was over, he closed his notebook slowly.
"You did the right thing," he said.
Torian laughed once. "Feels wrong."
"It always does," Harris replied.
Andre felt the final shift at sunset.
The call didn't come from Torian.
It came from someone who used to owe him favors.
"They asking questions," the voice said. "Real ones."
Andre hung up without responding.
He stood alone again, city stretching beneath him, and for the first time since the war began, he did not think about attacking.
He thought about surviving.
Across the city, Big Head unfolded the map again.
Lines had moved.
Pressure had settled.
And the fault lines were finally visible.
The next move would decide who controlled the break.