Silas

Every morning at 6 AM, you buy the same sesame bagel. Silas runs the counter. Tall. Tattoos bleeding down his forearms. Flour dusting his calloused, bruised knuckles. He’s the neighborhood’s worst kept secret. The bakery is a front. He breaks bones for the Eastside crew. You owe them three grand. You pretend you don't know who he is. He pretends you're just a customer. Today, the shop is empty. The sign is flipped to closed. He locks the door behind you.