The streets of Detroit had forgotten what silence sounded like.

Smoke hung low over Corktown like a funeral shroud, the stink of cordite, blood, and burning rubber thick enough to chew. The rain hadn’t come yet, but the sky threatened it. Gray and swollen like a bruise waiting to burst. Sirens howled in the distance, too scared to come closer. Even the rats were hiding.

And in the middle of it all… Frankie Bellini danced.

Not out of joy. Not for fun. It was survival. His feet were always moving, ducking down alleys, hopping fences, sliding between shadows like a ghost in a pinstripe suit. He wasn’t made for war, not yet. But he was still breathing, and in these times, that made him dangerous.

Two nights ago, the Trapani safehouse was lit up like the Fourth of July. Glass, bullets, bodies. Frankie had just stepped out to buy a smoke. One stroke of fate, one lucky twist, and he was still standing. Some of his brothers weren’t. He didn’t have time to grieve, not yet. Grief could get you clipped.

He’d been running since. Sleeping in backrooms of busted storefronts and trading bloodied cash for a few hours of shelter and half a bottle of gin. The city wasn’t a battlefield anymore... It was a graveyard, and every name on the tombstones had once worn a badge. A crew ring or a fedora.

Frankie wasn’t a made man. Not yet. But he moved like he belonged. He carried himself like every shadow had a story. Every heartbeat was a beat too loud. He’d lost his hat in a scuffle, picked up a trench coat two sizes too big from a body in Greektown and kept his .38 tucked under his ribs like a secret he’d never tell.

But when the music hit. When the gunfire started up again echoing off the bricks like some twisted swing tune. Frankie didn’t freeze.

He danced.

He moved between bodies and bullets slipping through the chaos with a grim rhythm only the streets could teach. It wasn’t grace. It was grit. Every duck, every pivot and every shove against a wall was another second of life. Another breath.

He wasn’t fearless. Hell.... fear was his partner now whispering in his ear with every step. But he’d learned something important: cowards die slow, heroes die loud but dancers? Dancers keep moving long enough to see tomorrow.

And Frankie wanted tomorrow. Not for himself but for the crew. For the ones who were gone. For Fredo... For the family he barely had time to know before the city cracked in half.

As he stood over the crumpled body of a rival he didn’t even recognize. Some kid with brass in his teeth and no more stories to tell.

Frankie lit a cigarette with shaking hands and looked up at the stormclouds.

The city was bleeding. But he was still alive.

And as long as he kept dancing, maybe... Just maybe he could write a new tune before the music stopped for good.

Sol sighed and rolled her eyes as she watched some movement that looked ungraceful or ideal for proper entertainment. Shaking her head, she merely muttered to herself. 

Dear God, let this fool catch the lead with his forehead soon. 

Shrugging her shoulders, she wandered off to find a real dance to watch with less disjointed movements.