Marcus and I strolled down the cracked sidewalks, the morning sun peeking through the thin haze of city smog. The neighborhood was alive with its usual chaos—honking horns, kids yelling, the smell of bacon and burnt toast wafting from open windows.
"Man, you ever think about investing in a bike or something?" Marcus teased, his long strides effortlessly keeping up with my shorter ones. "You so little, you could probably ride a tricycle and get here faster."
I shot him a sideways glare. "And you'd pop the tires on anything smaller than a monster truck, so shut up."
Marcus roared with laughter, throwing an arm around my shoulders. "Oh, okay! Lil' Han got jokes today. What else you got, funny man?"
"You want more?" I adopted an exaggerated drawl, deepening my voice like I was straight out of a gritty rap video. "Yo, chill, my dude. I ain't tryna start no drama, ya feel me?"
Marcus snorted, his booming laugh echoing down the block. "Boy, stop. You sound like somebody's corny uncle."
"Corny uncle? Nah, that's you, my guy," I shot back, grinning.
Marcus grinned, switching gears and mocking me in a terrible, exaggerated Asian accent. "Oh, Han-san! Teach me the secret of math powers!"
I groaned, shaking my head. "You sound like a kung fu movie being translated."
"And you sound like a TikTok wannabe gangster. We even."
Despite the roasting, our smiles never faltered. This was how it had always been between us—constant banter, the kind that made strangers think we hated each other. But anyone who knew us could see the bond beneath the jokes. Marcus was more than my best friend. He was my brother.
As we walked, the memories of our childhood playing in my mind like an old film reel. Marcus wasn't always the confident, towering guy he was now. Back in grade school, he was the kid everyone picked on—the overweight, quiet kid with an old asthma pump dangling from his pocket.
It didn't help that people whispered about his parents. How his mother and father had been addicts, always chasing their next high. How they'd sold their own son for a bag of crack. Marcus never confirmed or denied it, but the rumor stuck.
I'll never forget the day I saw him at his lowest.
The schoolyard was alive with its usual noise—kids yelling, basketballs thudding against concrete. I was sitting alone under the oak tree, nibbling on a sandwich Mrs. Carter had packed for me, when I heard the commotion.
Across the yard, a group of boys surrounded Marcus. He was red-faced, struggling to breathe, his backpack clutched to his chest. One of the boys shoved him, sending him stumbling.
"Come on, fatty," the ringleader sneered, snatching Marcus's bag. "What's in here, huh? Twinkies? Big Macs?"
"No, please," Marcus wheezed, reaching for the bag. "It's my stuff—just give it back!"
They unzipped his bag, pulling out his birthday presents—small trinkets and toys he'd brought to show his teacher. A cheap wristwatch, a drawing notebook, a handheld video game.
"Look at this trash!" one of the boys laughed, tossing the notebook to the ground and stomping on it.
"Please, stop!" Marcus begged, tears streaming down his face.
The leader smirked, holding up the video game. "This worth anything, chubs? Maybe I'll pawn it—"
Before he could finish, Marcus lunged, desperate to grab his belongings. The boys shoved him to the ground.
My heart pounded as I watched. I hated confrontation. I'd always avoided fights, afraid of getting hurt—or worse, making things worse. But then I saw the look on Marcus's face: terror. His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving.
He looked like he thought he was going to die.
Before I could think, my feet were moving.
"Hey!" I shouted, shoving my way into the circle. "Back off!"
The boys turned to me, their sneers shifting to confusion. "Who's this? Little Han wants to play hero?"
"Just leave him alone," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
"And what if we don't?" the leader asked, stepping closer.
I clenched my fists. "Then you'll have to deal with me."
The other boys laughed. "Deal with you? You don't even weigh enough to break a stick!"
The leader lunged forward, shoving me. I stumbled but stood my ground. "Just walk away. He hasn't done anything to you."
"Or what?" he challenged.
My stomach twisted, but I stood firm. "Or I'll make you."
The leader didn't take kindly to that. He swung at me, his fist connecting with my shoulder. Pain shot through me, but adrenaline kept me moving. Without thinking, I swung back, my fist colliding with his nose.
He stumbled back, clutching his face as blood poured from his nostrils. "You—!"
"Let's go!" one of the boys yelled, panicked.
The group scattered, dragging their bleeding leader with them. I stood there, frozen, staring at the blood on my knuckles.
"Han?" Marcus's voice was small, trembling.
I turned to see him sitting on the ground, clutching his chest. "Thanks, man," he said, his voice wheezy. "I thought… I thought I was gonna…"
He trailed off as he noticed my shaking hands. "Han, you okay?"
I couldn't answer. The sight of the blood—it was too much. My breathing quickened, my vision blurring.
"Hey," Marcus said gently, his concern cutting through my panic. "It's just blood. You're okay. Here, let's go wash it off."
He grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the school bathroom. Despite everything, despite his own fear and exhaustion, Marcus was the one calming me down.
And that was the moment I knew—we'd always have each other's backs.