Elsewhere in London, forces were moving.
Capari slouched in the passenger seat of the matte black Range Rover, one arm hanging out the open window despite the evening chill. At twenty-three, he carried himself with the casual confidence of someone who'd seen too much, too young. His face—handsome but hardened—was half-illuminated by the passing streetlights, throwing his sharp features into stark relief.
"Circle around again," he instructed the driver, eyes scanning the side streets of Harlesden with practiced precision. "Them man make moves quick, but they got patterns."
Beside him, Dyno nodded, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against the steering wheel. "We been round three times already. Man's probably ghosted."
"One more," Capari insisted, rolling his window up against the drizzle that had started to fall. "Jordan said they ran this way."
The SUV turned slowly down another residential street, its tinted windows concealing the four other men in the back—all silent, all alert, all carrying. Capari hadn't wanted to bring the whole squad, but when gangs was involved, you moved carefully or you didn't move at all.
"Hold up," Dyno murmured, slowing as they approached a group of youths huddled under a shop awning. "You know them man?"
Capari leaned forward, studying the faces. "Nah. But they might know something."
He rolled down his window further as Dyno pulled alongside the group. The young men tensed visibly, eyes darting to the vehicle with immediate suspicion.
"Yo," Capari called out, keeping his voice casual. "Anyone seen MGZ tonight?"
Wariness shifted into something harder—recognition, perhaps, or caution. One of them—barely eighteen, with a fresh haircut and nervous eyes—stepped forward slightly.
"Who's asking?"
"A friend of yours, for now." Capari replied, watching their reactions closely.
A flicker of understanding passed between them. The one who'd spoken shook his head. "They gone already. Bout an hour ago."
"Gone where?"
A shrug. "Dunno. But they was heated, saying something about some Bush boys."
Capari nodded, sliding a fifty-pound note out the window. "Safe for the info."
The young man took it without comment, stepping back to rejoin his friends as the Range Rover pulled away.
"So we missed them," Dyno concluded, turning toward the main road.
"Looks like." Capari pulled out his phone, typing a quick message to Amias. WHERE YOU AT?
The response came seconds later: STUDIO.
Capari considered this, then made a decision. "Head to that office building off Lads. The one with the studio on the fifth floor."
Dyno raised an eyebrow but complied, changing course without comment. Twenty minutes later, they pulled up across from the sleek glass building..
"Text him we're outside," Capari instructed, settling back to wait.
As Dyno sent the message, Capari's eyes were drawn to movement at the building's entrance. A group emerged into the night—Amias among them, walking alongside a girl with long braids. Even from this distance, the body language between them was unmistakable.
"Well, well," Capari murmured, watching as the girl laughed at something Amias said, her hand brushing his arm with deliberate casualness. "Little cuz been busy."
They observed as the girl joined a waiting group of friends, exchanging a final look with Amias before they headed in opposite directions. Amias approached the Range Rover, his walk carrying confidence that wasn't there the last time Capari had seen him.
The back door opened, and Amias climbed in, bringing with him the lingering scent of expensive perfume.
"Safe, fam," he greeted them, accepting Capari's extended hand with a dap, followed by the others in the car.
"You good?" Capari asked, twisting in his seat to face him. He reached over, ruffling Amias' hair with rough affection. "Still rocking the baby curls, I see."
Amias ducked away from the gesture, but he was smiling. "Man, don't start."
"So?" Capari prompted, as Dyno pulled away from the curb. "Apanii's gone ghost. We swept the area but no sign."
Amias' expression darkened immediately, the lighthearted mood evaporating.
"Tyler and Jordan are home. Tyler's nose is busted but nothing serious." Amias studied his older cousin closely.
"This ain't random, you know that, right? MGZ doesn't just bump into people."
"I know," Amias sighed, slumping against the leather seat. "Been on sight with him since..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. Mason's death hung between them—unspoken but ever-present.
"So what you been up to tonight?" Capari asked, deliberately changing the subject. "Besides chatting up that ting."
Amias looked startled, then slightly embarrassed. "That's just Temi. From school."
"Right," Capari said, unconvinced. "Just Temi who had you looking all geeked up."
"Whatever," Amias muttered, though his expression gave him away. "Anyway, I've been getting into music. Made my first proper track. We were supposed to film a video for it tonight with Jordan's cousin, but..."
"But what?"
"Not feeling it. Not without Tyler."
Capari made a dismissive sound, shaking his head. "What did I tell you? Be about your business. If you was gonna make a video tonight, then you do it."
"Tyler's nose is all bandaged up," Amias protested. "It wouldn't look right."
Capari pulled out his phone, punching in a number and putting it on speaker. Jordan answered on the third ring, his voice cautious.
"Yeah?"
"You and Tyler pull up by the studio at midnight," Capari instructed without preamble. "Bring your cousin with the camera."
"What—"
"Just do it," Capari cut him off, then ended the call. He turned back to Amias. "Problem solved."
Amias looked torn between gratitude and resistance. "I was actually planning to get my hair done tonight. This place some people recommended."
"That girl?" Capari asked, eyebrows raised. "That's what you two were talking about? Hair?"
Something flickered across Amias' face—a memory, perhaps, that brought heat to his cheeks despite his attempt to appear unbothered. In his mind, he thought: We did a lot more than just talk.
"Shanelle in Ladbroke Grove," Amias said instead, avoiding the question. "Supposedly the best."
Capari checked his watch. "It's late, but let's see."
He gave Dyno new directions, and they headed toward Ladbroke Grove, the other boys in the car lighting up spliffs as soon as they were mobile. The smoke filled the interior, but no one seemed to mind—it was just part of the routine.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up outside a small shop wedged between a convenience store and a tailor. The sign—"HairCombs"—was still illuminated despite the late hour, though the place looked mostly empty.
"We'll wait," Capari said as Amias climbed out. "Don't be long."
Inside, the salon was quiet, the chairs empty except for one where a middle-aged woman was sweeping up hair clippings. She looked up as the bell over the door announced Amias' arrival.
"We're closed," she said automatically, then glanced at the clock. "Well, almost. I said I'd do one more customer, but they haven't shown."
"Your Shanelle?" Amias asked, approaching the counter.
"That's me," she confirmed, setting aside her broom. "But like I said, I'm wrapping up for the night."
"How much to do cornrows?" Amias asked, undeterred.
Shanelle sighed, the weariness of a long day evident in her posture. "Look, it's late. Come back tomorrow—"
"How much?" Amias repeated.
She studied him for a moment, then relented slightly. "Depends on the style, but around a hundred."
Amias didn't hesitate. He pulled out his wallet, extracted three crisp notes, and placed them on the counter.
"I need it for tonight," he said simply.
Shanelle looked at the money, then at Amias, clearly weighing her options. After a pause, she reached for the notes.
"Alright," she said, resignation mingling with pragmatism in her voice.
Shanelle gestured to the chair as Amias settled in, catching his reflection in the mirror.
"You've got good hair," Shanelle observed, running her fingers through his curls with professional assessment. "Thick, healthy. Been growing it a while?"
"Since I was thirteen," Amias replied. "Almost four years now."
Shanelle raised her eyebrows. "So you're what—sixteen, seventeen?"
"Seventeen in about a week and some days," he said, momentarily surprised by how soon his birthday was. With everything happening lately, he'd barely thought about it.
She draped a cape around his shoulders, securing it at the neck. "And you want cornrows? You sure about that?"
Something in her tone made him pause. "That's what I was told would look good. Why, you don't think so?"
Shanelle shrugged, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "Every kid in London's walking around with cornrows. Your hair's long enough for something more interesting. Could do some nice braids, maybe with a pattern. Would suit your face better."
Amias considered this. "What kind of pattern?"
"I was thinking something clean across the sides, maybe some designs near the temple." She demonstrated with her fingers, tracing lines along his scalp. "Nothing too flashy, but distinctive."
He nodded slowly. "Alright. I trust you."
A small smile touched her lips as she reached for a spray bottle. "Good choice. Don't let people talk you into things. Make these decisions for yourself."
"I'll keep that in mind," Amias said quietly.
As she began sectioning his hair, he pulled out his phone, scrolling absently through messages. Tyler had texted that his nose wasn't broken, just bruised. Small mercies.
"So what's got you out getting your hair done this late on a weeknight?" Shanelle asked, her fingers working deftly through his hair. "Special occasion?"
Amias hesitated. "Making a music video tonight."
"Oh?" Her interest seemed genuine. "You an artist?"
"Starting to be," he admitted. "Just recorded my first proper track."
Shanelle nodded approvingly. "That's good. Creative outlet. What kind of music?"
"I suppose rap or drill, mainly. But trying to put my own spin on it I guess."
Her hands were gentle but confident as she applied product to his hair. "Music's been good to my family. My brother used to produce, back in the day. Different scene then, of course."
Amias relaxed slightly as they settled into conversation. There was something calming about Shanelle's presence—practical, no-nonsense, but kind.
"How's life been treating you otherwise?" she asked. "You seem like you've got a lot on your mind."
He shrugged, careful not to disrupt her work. "Life's changing pretty fast lately. Had a situation today, but nothing serious."
"Hmm," she hummed noncommittally, not pushing for details he clearly wasn't offering. "That's how it goes at your age. One day flows into the next, then suddenly everything's different."
"Exactly that," Amias agreed, surprised by how accurately she'd captured the feeling.
As she worked, Shanelle asked about his family. The questions were casual, conversational, but somehow easier to answer than when others asked.
"It's just me and my mum," he told her. "Been that way since I was eleven."
"Your dad around at all?"
"In the States. Texas. We lived there when I was younger."
"America?" Shanelle said with interest. "That's where I'm from originally. New York, though, not Texas. How'd you end up here?"
"Mum's family is all here. Dad... there was a situation. Mum cut ties, brought me back to London."
She nodded, understanding in her eyes. "Family's important. Good you've got people here."
"Better connected with my family here than I ever was with my dad's side, I think its the reason why my mom moved back to London in the first place, family." Amias admitted. There was something about Shanelle that made it easy to talk—perhaps because she worked with such calm focus, not pressing or judging.
"So how'd you hear about my shop?" she asked, changing the subject as she began the intricate work of braiding.
"This girl Temi recommended you. Said you're the best."
Shanelle's hands paused momentarily. "Temi? My daughter Temi?"
Amias's heart dropped to his stomach. He went completely still, mind racing. "Your daughter?"
"Tall girl, braids, goes to Chelsea Academy?" When he nodded mutely, she laughed. "Small world. That's my daughter alright."
Amias focused intently on his phone, hoping his face wasn't betraying his thoughts. Images from the balcony flashed through his mind. Temi. This woman's daughter. The girl he just had sex with.
"She's a good student," he managed finally. "We're in a few classes together."
"That's my girl," Shanelle said proudly, continuing her work. "Smart as they come. Studies hard, though she loves going out too much for her dad and brothers' liking." She shook her head fondly. "They're old-school, want her home by nine. But she's got a good head on her shoulders."
"She does," Amias agreed, finding his voice again. "Really smart in history."
They lapsed into silence for a moment as Shanelle concentrated on a particularly intricate section. When she spoke again, her tone was thoughtful.
"So you're getting into music. Is that your dream, or just something you're trying?"
The question caught him off guard. "I don't know. I enjoy it."
"Then make it your dream," she said simply. "But take it seriously. Too many young artists think it's all about the fame."
"What do you mean?"
Shanelle met his eyes in the mirror. "I know people in the industry. Seen them rise and fall. The ones who last treat it like a business, not a game. Even when you're making millions, you work like it could all disappear tomorrow. Because it can."
Amias nodded, considering her words. "From a business standpoint, you'd want to use it to create passive income. Something that keeps paying for years."
Shanelle's expression brightened. "Exactly! You're thinking right. Music's not just art—it's intellectual property, it's business." She paused. "You're sharp, aren't you?"
Amias felt a flush of pride at the recognition. "Just practical."
"Nothing 'just' about being practical in this world." She stepped back, assessing her work. "Look at that. Coming together nicely."
Amias studied his reflection. The braids were taking shape, a clean, geometric pattern forming along his scalp. Even half-finished, he could see it transformed his appearance—sharper, more defined, more deliberate.
"It looks good," he said, genuinely impressed.
"Of course it does," Shanelle replied with professional confidence. "I'm the best, remember?"
For the first time that night, Amias smiled—a real smile that reached his eyes. "So I've been told."
As Shanelle continued working, their conversation flowed easily from music to school to life in London. She told stories about building her business, about raising Temi, about the neighborhood's changes over the years.
By the time she finished, nearly an hour had passed. She spun the chair so he could see the full effect from different angles.
"What do you think?" she asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
Amias stared at his reflection, almost not recognizing himself. The transformation was striking—the neat, intricate braids following the contours of his head, enhancing his features rather than overwhelming them. He looked older, more polished, more purposeful.
"It's perfect," he said quietly. "Thank you."
Shanelle nodded, pleased. "Come back in two weeks for maintenance. And if you decide to keep them."
As he stood Amias hesitated, then asked, "Could I get your number? For appointments."
"Smart boy," she approved, writing her contact information on a small business card. "My daughter has good taste in friends."
Amias pocketed the card, a strange mix of guilt and appreciation washing over him. "She does."
Outside, the night air was cool against his scalp as he headed toward the waiting Range Rover. Capari rolled down the window, eyebrows rising at the sight of Amias' new look.
"Looking proper, cuz," he called. "You ready for this video?"
Amias nodded, climbing into the backseat. As they pulled away from the salon, he glanced back at the illuminated shop sign.
"Good recommendation," he said to no one in particular as the car accelerated toward his home, toward the next chapter.