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I used to think I was born to destroy shit.

That was the one thing I was sure of, that I could tear a man down faster than I could ever build anything worth keeping.

But then she came.

Six pounds, five ounces of softness and fire. A full head of hair. A scream that told the world she was not to be ignored.

We named her Auriel.

And the second I held her, something in me cracked wide open.

I’d never held anything so small. So perfect. So goddamn fragile. I remember staring down at her wrinkled little face, scared to even breathe too hard, like I might break her. Like maybe I didn’t deserve something this pure.

But then her tiny fingers wrapped around min and just like that, I knew I’d burn down heaven or hell to keep her safe.

It’s been a month since she was born, and I still don’t sleep right. Not because she cries much. I want just want her life to be better than the one I came from. Better than what my father gave me.

I want her to grow up knowing softness without fear. Strength without violence. To feel safe in her own skin. To never question if she’s loved.

And I want the same for Jasir.

Because he’s mine now too. He didn’t come from me but that King blood flows through him.

Through both of them.

And I’m gonna raise them the way I wish I’d been raised, loved, protected, and free to become whoever the hell they want to be.

I owe them that.

I owe her that.

Allure’s been glowing ever since the birth. Even on the days she’s exhausted and half-dressed, with spit-up on her collar and no idea what day it is, she’s still the most stunning thing I’ve ever seen.

She made me a father.

She made me real.

She gave me all the things I never thought I would have. I love her so much and I’m going to give her the word.

I finally had the family I always dreamed of but now I had to touch base with another family member.

The air inside Greene Correctional was thick with sweat and stale bleach. It smelled like rage and resignation. Years of it caked into the concrete walls. Creed and I were led through two sets of buzzed gates, each one slamming shut behind us like a coffin lid.

Our boots echoed against the tile as a CO with a gut full of attitude led us down the narrow hall toward the visitation wing. The low murmur of inmates drifted from cells like background noise, but I wasn’t paying attention to that. My head was on Cannon. The brother we never knew. The brother our mother left behind.

The one who might hate us just for breathing.

I’d read the file Denise gave us front to back, but nothing on paper could prepare me for the man who stepped into that visitation room.

Cannon was already sitting when we walked in, sprawled in the metal chair like a lion in a cage he knew he was too big for. Dude had to be 6’5, easy. Taller than both Creed and me, and broader too. His skin was the color of raw honey, but those piercing blue eyes cut colder than steel. His arms were covered in ink—sleeves of abstract shapes, fallen angels, old-school lettering and violence. His neck tattoo snuck up toward his jaw, a bold black crown tucked beneath the beard that framed his face like war paint.

He didn’t stand when we walked in.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t even pretend to give a fuck.

Creed and I sat across from him. Three of Tessa King’s sons, all carved by the same legacy but shaped by different wars.

“Cannon,” Creed said first, voice low, respectful.

Cannon leaned back. “You the ones from Harlem?”

His voice was deep. Flat. Like gravel scraped across asphalt.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m Riot. This is Creed. Tessa—our mother?—”

“Your mother,” he cut in, tone razor-sharp. “Not mine.”

We went quiet. Let it sit.

He stared at us like we were roaches that got into his food.

“Look we just wanted…”

“Ion give a fuck what you wanted.” he said after a moment. “That bitch gave me up. Didn’t even look back. Had a whole family while I was bouncin’ between foster homes and juvie. Then your father set me up. Had me locked up over some bullshit beef with a crew I wasn’t even loyal to.”

I could feel my chest tighten and burn at him calling my mother a bitch. I had half the nerve to rush over that table and choke his Drake-skin ass out. Bitch ass nigga. Who the fuck did he think he was talkin’ to.

Creed could sense my fury and tried to smooth things over He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “We came because you’re blood. That matters to us.”

“Did it matter when your moms gave me away?”

“No,” He said. “But it matters now. She asked us to find you. Told us everything. She knew she was wrong. And she wanted us to fix it.”

Cannon scoffed. “Ain’t shit to fix. You wasted yo’ muhfuckin’ time comin’ up here.”

“We’re not here to fix you,” Creed said. “You don’t owe us forgiveness. You don’t even have to talk to us again after today. But you got a family now. A real one. And we don’t leave ours behind.”

Cannon’s eyes flicked between us. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

“You get out next month,” Creed added. “You don’t want nothin’ to do with us? Cool. But if you change your mind... we’ll be there.”

Cannon stood up. Taller than both of us even from across the table. He looked like a goddamn statue carved out of vengeance and heat. His jaw tight, his gaze unreadable.

“Y’all done?”

“Yeah,” I said.

He turned to leave, taking two steps before pausing.

We watched him. Silent.

He didn’t turn around.

But his voice came back over his shoulder. “A lawyer contacted me about some money…”

There it was. He’d at least react to that.

“Ion want that shit. Give it to some homeless kids or some shit.”

Then he walked out.

Creed exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.

“He’s just like us,” he muttered.

“Nah,” I said, watching the door close behind him. “He’s worse. He had to survive without even knowing who he was.”

We stood there for a second, letting it all settle. The ghosts. The guilt. The weight of a bloodline soaked in damage.

But something told me Cannon would come around.

Maybe not today.

Maybe not next month.

But one day.

And when he did, we’d be ready.

Because this time?

Nobody gets left behind.

Not even the ones who don’t want to be found.

The End