The Locals

Smoke 1

The rain hadn't stopped all night. It painted the streets in a glossy blur of neon reds and golds, blending traffic lights with the reflections of passing cars. The city breathed differently after midnight — slower, quieter, but never asleep.

Alex kept both hands firm on the wheel of the red Honda Civic. The heater was on, but the cold still crept into his fingertips. He wasn't out on a job tonight. No deliveries. No calls. Just him and the road — or at least, that's how it was supposed to be.

He didn't see the boy step off the pavement.

It happened in seconds. One moment the road was clear, the next, a figure — hooded, head down — appeared directly in front of the car.

A dull thud. A body hitting metal, then tarmac.

Alex slammed the brakes. The car skidded slightly before stopping. His heart was thundering. His breath caught in his chest.

He didn't move.

The boy's body lay still in the road behind him, limbs at strange angles. Alex glanced around. No headlights. No witnesses. Just the rain, falling harder now.

He knew what he should do — get out, check if the boy was breathing, call someone.

But instead, he drove.

The Civic roared back to life, tyres slicing through puddles as he tore through the empty streets of Peckham. He didn't stop until he reached the estate, parked in his usual spot, and killed the engine.

Silence.

Inside his flat, the quiet pressed in around him. The kind of silence that wasn't peace — just guilt with nowhere to go.

On the news the next morning, the headline hit harder than the collision:
"Teen Critical After Late-Night Hit-and-Run in South London."

They didn't have a name yet. Neither did Alex. But someone had seen something. There was mention of a red vehicle.

And he knew it was only a matter of time before the city started talking.