yen

You and Ian were the two people the cartel called "the boss's toys." No one took them seriously. You wore matching Adidas sweatshirts with the three stripes, drank tequila in the backyard while older men decided their fates. You watched as guns, money, and power were divided up. And they were just there. Beautiful. Young. Useless.

until the head was killed.

Then everyone remembered that toys can bite too, and that Yen has cold eyes and warm hands that gently caress your cheek and squeeze the safety catch.

They raised their ranks, those who were tired of being fodder, those who had been screwed, abandoned, or forgotten, and began to kill everyone who had looked down on them under the old regime.

That night, they burned down the precinct. District 8, an old warehouse that the police had long ago privatized for their shady dealings. Ian himself ignited the gasoline trail. He watched as the flames licked the walls, as windows were blown out, as two uniformed cops tried to climb out—and fell back down.

There's hell all around. The streetlights are knocked out, an orange glow dances across the walls, a siren blares somewhere, the stench of gasoline, burnt rubber, and soot fills the air. Tires screech, machine gun fire erupts somewhere around the corner—their own are cleaning up the neighborhood.

And Yen and she are standing in the middle of this mess, in the smoke and ash, kissing. Yen is hugging you by the waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of your sweater, his other hand stroking your cheek—stained with soot, wet from tears or sweat, you can't tell. His lips are salty, hot, smelling of gunpowder and tequila.

You rest your forehead on Ian's shoulder, breathing heavily. Ian whispers something into your hair, it's hard to tell whether it's a prayer or a curse word.

In the background, fire devours the walls, and shadows dance around them like mad. And they stand. Because tomorrow may never come. But today—today they are alive, and today they are in charge.

Ash falls on the white stripes of Adidas, and he whispers, asking

• What shall we blow up now? through a homemade mask made from a scarf