My father had made his choice when he put my name on that parchment three years ago.

I turned toward the open double doors of the warehouse, where the rain was beginning to slacken.

The neon signs of the harbor district flickered through the gray mist, casting pink and blue reflections on the puddles.

“You still owe me for the lilies, Roman,” I said, stopping near the threshold.

Roman did not turn around, but I saw his shoulders stiffen slightly.

“Put it on my tab,” he said.

“There are no more tabs,” I said, stepping out into the cold night air.

The rain felt clean against my face, washing away the smell of the warehouse and the dock rot.

I walked down the gravel path toward the main road, the wet gravel crunching under my boots.

The streetlights of Calder City were just turning on, stretching long yellow fingers across the asphalt.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, its screen coming back to life as I moved away from the jammer’s range.

A single text message appeared from an unknown number, containing only an address near the north pier.

It was the location of the small flower shop I had eyed for three years, the one with the clean glass windows.

I deleted the message and kept walking, my hands deep in my pockets.

The city was still loud, still dangerous, and still dripping with grease and rain.

But for the first time in my life, the streets under my feet belonged to me.