The streets were quieter now.
Blaze had gone ghost. The tension had cooled.
But CJ's chest was louder than ever—and it wasn't beats.
It was her.
Shantel.
---
Late Afternoon – Rooftop Again
CJ was alone on the rooftop where they usually rehearsed. The city glowed soft gold under a sleepy sky. He flipped open his notebook, but the words wouldn't come.
For once, he wasn't thinking about battles.
He was thinking about her sketchbook.
And that line she dropped days ago...
> "You ever write about love?"
That question had haunted him like a hook with no beat.
Behind him, soft footsteps.
He turned—Shantel. In jeans, a loose sweatshirt, and that fire-in-her-eyes calm. Her braids tied back. A folded paper in her hand.
"I figured you'd be here," she said, walking toward him.
"You got GPS on me or something?" CJ grinned.
"Nah. Just rhythm. I can feel your vibe even from blocks away."
She sat beside him. The silence was comfortable, like a slow song after a dance floor banger.
She handed him the folded page.
CJ opened it. Neat cursive. A verse.
> "He speaks like thunder, walks like prayer,
But writes with hands that've known despair.
I watched him rise, verse by verse—
A boy with fire, fighting curse…"
CJ blinked. "You… wrote this?"
Shantel nodded, quiet. "I don't show many people. But I thought… if I ever wrote about love, it'd sound like that."
His throat dried. "Is that—about me?"
She met his eyes, unblinking. "Who else writes about pain like it's holy?"
---
The Confession Freestyle
CJ stood. No beat. Just his voice.
> "She draws with grace, speaks in peace,
When she laughs, my doubts all cease.
I faced the street, I faced the flame—
But only her smile ever changed the game…"
Shantel looked up, stunned, cheeks glowing in the sunset.
Then she whispered, "CJ…"
He leaned in just slightly, heart thumping louder than any bass.
"I don't wanna write about heartbreak someday," he said. "So if you're not ready, I'll wait. But if you are…"
She interrupted with a soft smile—and took his hand.
"I've been ready."
---
Final Lines
Down below, the city still moved.
People still hustled. Trouble still brewed.
But up here?
There was peace.
There was possibility.
There was poetry.
And maybe, just maybe—love.