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He turned.

He was confused at first. Then he recognized me. The fear crept in, but he tried to pretend it wasn’t fear.

“Yo—who the fuck are you?”

I didn’t answer.

I crossed the room in three steps. I slammed him into the wall hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs. His phone hit the floor and skidded under the bed.

He gasped, hands scrambling.

I grabbed his collar and lifted just enough to keep his feet from settling.

“Rule one,” I said calmly, “don’t touch what doesn’t belong to you.”

He tried to swing.

But that was a bad decision.

I let go with one hand and drove my elbow into his ribs. He folded with a sharp, ugly sound and dropped to his knees.

I stepped back and let him breathe just enough to stay conscious.

This wasn’t about pain.

It was about memory.

“You've been around Kenya,” I continued. “You thought proximity meant access.”

He coughed, shaking his head.

“Rule two, keep your mouth shut or I’ll make sure it’s wired closed.”

I kicked his leg out from under him, and he hit the floor hard, cheek cracking against the tile.

I crouched down, so he had to look at me.

“Don’t look at my girl,” I said. “Don’t speak to my fuckin girl.”

I stood and dragged him up by the back of his shirt, spun him, and shoved him face-first onto his bed. I pressed my knee into his spine

He started crying then.

“Please, man,” he said. “I promise– I promise to leave her alone.”

“I know you will,” I said. “That’s why you're still breathing.”

“You’re gonna change schools,” I told him. “Quietly. Quickly. No goodbye tour. No explanations.”

He nodded fast.

“You’re gonna forget her name,” I continued. “You’re gonna forget her face. And if I hear even a whisper that you remembered wrong…”

I let the sentence hang.

He sobbed harder.

I stood, straightened my hoodie, and stepped back.