I didn't go to the address.
Not that night.
I folded the paper carefully and tucked it into my pocket like a secret I wasn't ready to spend. Some doors didn't need to be opened immediately. Some needed time to understand why they existed in the first place.
The city seemed to respect that decision.
For once, nobody followed me.
---
The next morning, I woke earlier than usual. The house was quiet except for the faint sound of my mother moving around in the kitchen. I joined her, sitting at the small table like I used to when I was younger.
She glanced at me. "You didn't sleep well."
"I slept," I said. "Just not deeply."
She nodded like she understood more than she let on. "When your mind grows faster than your life, sleep becomes shallow."
I smiled faintly. "You should write books."
She laughed. "I already did. You're one of them."
That hit harder than I expected.
---
I stepped outside later and found Kemi waiting near the gate, leaning on his bike.
"You're early," I said.
"So are you," he replied. "That's how I know something is wrong."
"Nothing's wrong," I said.
He raised an eyebrow. "Jay, if 'nothing' was a person, it would be the most suspicious one alive."
We rode together for a while, the wind doing most of the talking.
"Remember when we said we'd leave this place one day?" Kemi asked.
"I remember."
"Do you still want that?"
I thought about the city. The watchers. Zara. The lines that couldn't be erased.
"I want to understand it first," I said.
Kemi nodded slowly. "Just don't let understanding turn into a cage."
---
I met Zara later that afternoon. She looked lighter somehow, like she had decided to stop carrying something that wasn't hers.
"You didn't go," she said.
I blinked. "How did you—"
"I could tell," she said. "Your eyes would be different."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Both," she replied. "It means you're choosing yourself. But it also means the city won't rush you anymore."
"What does that mean?"
"It means when things come, they'll come heavier."
We sat quietly for a while.
"Jay," she said softly, "do you ever feel like we're standing between two versions of our lives?"
"All the time."
She smiled sadly. "I don't want to lose the version where we still talk like this."
"You won't," I said quickly.
She looked at me. "Promise carefully."
I swallowed. "I promise honestly."
That seemed to satisfy her.
---
That evening, Nia appeared again—this time without warning.
"You didn't go," she said, not accusing, just observing.
"I wasn't ready."
She nodded. "Good."
"That's it?"
"People who rush toward power usually misunderstand it," she said. "You hesitated. That means you're listening."
"Listening to what?"
"To the part of yourself that still asks questions."
She handed me something small this time. A key.
"No address?" I asked.
"Not yet."
"What does it open?"
She smiled faintly. "That depends on who you are when you use it."
---
On my way home, I noticed the watcher again—the same man from before. This time, he stood closer.
"You're patient," he said.
"I'm cautious."
He nodded approvingly. "Good trait."
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Someone who believes the city needs people who think before they move."
"And Malik?"
"He believes in movement," the man replied. "We believe in balance."
That word lingered.
Balance.
He stepped back into the crowd, gone as easily as he appeared.
---
At home, I sat on my bed, the folded paper in one hand, the key in the other.
Two paths.
Neither forced.
Both waiting.
I thought about my mother's words. Kemi's warning. Zara's hope.
And I realized something important:
The city wasn't testing my strength.
It was testing my intent.
I placed both items on the table, turned off the light, and lay down.
Tomorrow, I would choose.
Not because I was afraid.
But because I finally understood that the most dangerous thing in this city wasn't violence or power—
It was becoming someone you didn't recognize.