New Court, Old Shadows
The black SUV eases to the curb like it owns the pavement, and for a moment Angelo just sits there, watching the tinted glass swallow the California sun. Nobody in the car says anything. That's the strange part—the silence after months of noise, of London flights and Monrovia press lines and his father's voice saying *smile for this one, son* through a dozen half-open doors. Now there's just the low hum of the engine and the driver's eyes flicking to the mirror, waiting.
"You good?" the driver asks. His name is Reuben, and he's been with the family long enough to know when Angelo isn't.
"Yeah," Angelo says, which is not quite a lie and not quite the truth either.
He steps out into the September heat, and the door shuts behind him with a soft, expensive click. The SUV doesn't leave right away. It idles at the curb a beat too long, the kind of pause that says *someone important just got out of that car*, and Angelo feels the weight of it settle into his shoulders before he's even taken three steps. He grips the strap of his gym bag tighter, knuckles pale against the black canvas, and starts walking.
Sierra Canyon's campus spreads out in front of him—glass and stucco and palm…