The sun was setting on the Manhattan Lodging House as evening turned to night. The western sky, dashed with dark pinks and oranges, was barely perceptible through the city's buildings, but just enough to display the awe of dusk. A small cluster of newsboys huddled together at the sidewalk, chatting and smoking the occasional cigarette. For the most part it was the older newsboys making up the group. The younger ones stayed inside waiting for slumber to greet them for the night. Jack Kelly, Kid Blink, Mush, Specs, and Skittery listened with amused smiles as Racetrack Higgins rounded out one of the many stories of times at the track. Racetrack was always good for some comic relief.

"...And once he realized who won, he flipped out completely, chucking his money all ova tha track!" he finished.

The group chuckled. Racetrack lit a cigar and sighed.

"Ya hear about Bronx?" he asked on a more serious note.

Talk about buzz-kill. They nodded sternly.

"Where'd he come from?" Mush inquired.

"Yeah, I neva heard of him before," Blink added.

"I heard he just got outta tha refuge," Skittery answered.

"Doesn't mean he's dat bad!" Jack reminded them.

Nervous laughter rumbled around and stopped quickly.

"Still...it's like he came outta nowhere," Specs said. "Everyone gets tha same weird feeling about him, though."

"Dat's weird," Mush stated the obvious.

"He got a name at all?" Skittery asked.

"Pierce," said a mysterious voice from behind them.

Startled by the newcomer, everyone jumped and turned around. Approaching them with a hard swagger was a tall, muscular eighteen-year old with short brown hair and sharp brown eyes. His expression was strong and indomitable, making each of the boys almost quiver. They clairvoyantly planted their feet into the cement, predicting this person was trouble.

"I hear he's terrifying. Worse than any otha leadah there was," he continued and slowly made his way toward them. His shirt sleeves tightly hugged his muscles. His face was rough. A two-inch long scar was visible on the left side of his forehead. To call him tough and intimidating would be an understatement.

Jack took a step forward as if trying to make it clear he was the leader of this borough. "Where'd ya hear that from?"

The stranger looked from side to side. "Around," he said in a low voice, almost in a whisper.

Jack nodded. "And where d'you sell at?"

Shallow, honey-colored eyes squinted back at Jack. "You Jack Kelly?"

"What area are ya from?" he firmly repeated.

The boys behind them adjusted their stance and prepared themselves for whatever might come up.

After a few seconds to ponder, he replied, "Technically I ain't from around here."

Jack furrowed his eyebrows. "I ain't buyin' that."

"All right, think what ya want. But what about Brooklyn? What's goin' on ovah there?"

"What about Brooklyn?"

"Hear dat Spot Conlon is losin' his touch. Poor guy. I knew he didn't have it in him."

Jack looked back behind him, completely confused. "Who are you?"

"Just call me Johns. Dat's all ya need to know." He walked past them and turned the corner.

Jack twisted back toward his newsboys. "What tha hell was that?"

All shrugged their tense shoulders.

"That was just too weird," Mush stated the obvious, yet again.

"How 'bout we call it a night, boys," Racetrack suggested.

Mumbled agreements sounded and they filed into the lodging house for the night. Jack stayed behind and took out a cigarette. "I'll be there in a minute."

He reached into his pocket and lit his last cigarette, soothingly blowing out the smoke and taking a seat on the step. What was that guy after? he thought. Why'd he ask about Spot? What is going on in Brooklyn? Silent moments passed as he finished off his cigarette and put it out on the ground.

Suddenly, Jack felt a cold and clammy clench around his arm and he was thrown forcefully against the wall, knocking the wind out of him from the surprise. Innately, he shoved the person off him and stood at a distance from him. Johns stood before him with a wildly crazy look across his face and a stiff fighting stance.

"You tell me what's up wit Conlon, Kelly!" he growled.

"What d'you want with Spot?" Jack asked, baffled and prepared and anxious at the same time.

Johns swiftly advanced toward him and grabbed him by the collar, once again throwing him up against the wall. "You just tell me what he's doin'."

Jack brought his hands to knock Johns' arms away from his shirt and collar. "I don't know what goes on in Brooklyn."

Johns stepped back. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it again. "You...you just bettah be careful when ya go there," he warned, breathing rigidly.

Jack glared at him and watched Johns as he turned back around and left again. He pushed his hair back away from his face and took a deep breath. Concern taking over him, he stepped inside for the night.