Sorry this update took so long. I have a hard time making myself write when I don't want to, so this story might take me some time to complete. As I've said before, however, I will not give up on it and it will be finished, I just can't promise weekly updates or anything like that cause my life is way too hectic lmao. Anyway, I hope you like the update and please review and give me feedback!

Sarah made her way down the hill with a frown on her face. Spot hadn't shown up that morning. He'd seemed so distant and tense the night before, and she couldn't help but wonder if their almost kiss was the cause. She kept replaying the moment in her head, trying to figure out what she'd done wrong. She shuddered, thinking that maybe she'd repulsed him, and had ruined their already precarious relationship. Everything had been going so well; things were perfect between them; why'd she have to go and mess it all up?

A single stray tear threatened to leak from her eye, but she immediately wiped it away, remembering her promise to never cry over Spot. For goodness sake, she was acting like some love-sick, sentimental school girl. She needed to stop jumping to conclusions and get her act together. Maybe Spot had simply overslept.

Lord knows the boy is constantly sleep deprived, she thought sullenly. It was a Sunday so the newsies wouldn't be out selling, so it was very likely that he'd just gotten distracted. Smiling shakily, Sarah decided to go to the Brooklyn lodging house to check on him. Maybe he was sick and she could repay his favor to Les by helping him feel better.

Sarah made her way through the city, across the bridge, and eventually to the Brooklyn newsies lodging house. It was a long walk and she couldn't help but allow her qualms to grow the entire way. By the time she was walking across the docks toward Spot's usual position at the top of his tower of crates, she was beside herself with apprehension. She was so inattentive that she didn't hear the catcalls from the Brooklyn boys who whistled and called out as she passed, nor did she notice that Spot wasn't even there until she had nearly walked passed his crates and on toward the lodging house itself.

Frowning, Sarah looked around, hoping to see a familiar face. All around her the Brooklyn newsies stared, ogling at her with none to pleasant expressions. Some of them eyed her like a piece of meat, and she felt a shudder of fear pass through her as she realized she had put herself in a slightly dangerous situation. These boys weren't exactly known for being gentle and respectable, and many of them likely would not know who she was, nor that she was friends with Spot. They might try something with her, and she suddenly felt all the color drain from her face as she recalled the day the Queens newsies had attacked. She wasn't about to go through that again. Clearing her throat, Sarah quickly scanned the lot of them, quickly noting that she was completely surrounded and had nowhere to run.

"I, uh, I'm l-looking for Spot," she stuttered, cursing herself for sounding so afraid. "He's a f-friend of mine." Some of the boys paused and exchanged hesitant looks, wondering if they should listen to her, but many of them simply snickered, and continued to advance, thinking she would say anything to escape. Sarah swallowed nervously and began to panic as she realized they wouldn't be deterred no matter how hard she tried to convince them of her relationship with their leader. Turning frantically around, she desperately searched for any last-minute escape route, becoming dismayed when she found none. Setting her jaw and closing her eyes, she determinedly decided not to cry, not wanting to give these boys the satisfaction.

"Sarah? Sarah Jacobs?"

Sarah felt a wave of relief as she heard the familiar voice. She swore she could've broken down in joyful tears right then and there if it hadn't been for the multitude of eyes still watching her closely.

"Eaves!" she cried thankfully. The small boy ran to her side before turning to face the other boys and glaring at them ferociously.

"I know dis here lady, and you's don't wanna go messin' wit huh, okay?" he demanded. "She's Jack Kelly's dame, and she ain't lyin' bout bein' a friend o' Spot's." A smattering of mutters sounded throughout the crowd of boys, some still looking at Eaves skeptically. After a moment, however, they all seemed to reach the verdict that they should leave the situation alone, and slowly each newsie returned to their leisurely Sunday activities. Sarah sighed aloud and attempted to regain control of her shaking fingers. Eaves, noticing her unease, smiled reassuringly at her.

"Ah, don't worry bout dem none, Miss, dey's just pretendin' to be all tough like," he said with a smirk. "Dey wouldn't've hurtcha none, prolly woulda just brought yuh tuh Spot, who woulda cleared da whole ting up anyway." He shrugged nonchalantly, and Sarah tried to smile back at him, but with adrenaline still pumping through her veins it was difficult to dampen her racing heart and tense muscles.

"W-Where is S-Spot anyway?" she murmured almost inaudibly. Eaves, living up to his name, heard her anyway, and shrugged again.

"I don't be knowin', Miss." He paused as he seemed to ponder the question. "Maybe he's off doin' whatevuh it is he does wit' da money we gives him."

Sarah wrinkled her brow in confusion. "What money?"

"Oh, da money he collects every month," Eaves spoke as if she should already have this information. When she continued to stare at him with a blank look, however, he continued. "Spot has us give him some o' our earnins every month. We don't know what he does wit' it, prolly spends it on himself, honestly. It's funny, he takes from everyone, even de poorest, but he says it's good for us, dat we can't be greedy. It's always been dat way, really, even wit Dick Clemmins back in da days before Spot was leaduh. Course I wasn't here yet, but I heard all bout dem days. D'ja know dat…"

Eaves went on to ramble about the days before Spot and enthusiastically divulge tales about the past. Sarah, however, had long since stopped listening. She tuned him out as she felt rage begin to boil inside of her, and she clenched her fists, attempting to control her temper. Spot was taking money from them?! One of the core reasons she'd decided to befriend him was for his love and care for other people which she thought to be completely genuine. He was constantly boasting about how he took care of his boys like they were his own brothers, and yet here she learned that he'd been taking advantage of them the whole time!

She suddenly lost all interest in finding Spot, and any inkling of worry she may have felt for him had vanished completely. How did she know he wasn't taking advantage of her as well? He was just manipulative enough that he could have done everything just for his own personal gain. He had these boys completely fooled into thinking he stole from them for their own good! She felt the trust she'd built up with him crumble at her feet. Growling aloud she turned on her heel, stomping away from an adequately bewildered Eaves, she shoved one Brooklyn newsie away before tearing down the docks, heading home with nothing but anger coursing through her body. She found herself hoping that Spot would show up at the park the next morning, wanting more than anything to give him a piece of her mind.

Standing in her wake with a melancholy, bemused expression, Eaves gazed around at the other newsies. "Was it somethin' I said?"

"Hey, Spotty-boy, what'd yuh do tuh Sarah?" Racetrack Higgins demanded as he strolled out onto the Brooklyn lodging house roof. "Eaves came lookin' fuh huh in Manhattan feelin' somethin' awful. Said she's mad atchu fuh somethin' and de kid felt guilty fuh some reason."

Race paused his stride as he took in the scene before him. Spot sat at a rusted, dingy looking table that was propped up against the side of the building by the ledge. He had his fingers crossed in front of him with his head resting on his hands, a grim look on his face. Rusty paced nearby, his own face a picture of foreboding and something that looked damn near panic. They both looked undeniably miserable.

"Hey, what's de mattuh witchu two? Lose a bet or somethin'?" Race grinned. "Or d'ja wake up covuhed in mustard again?"

Neither of the two boys cracked a smile at his joke, and they hardly even acknowledged his presence. Race furrowed his brow, realizing that whatever was going on it had to be serious. He'd spent enough time with both of them to know that they never ignored a good joke. He walked first to Rusty, stopping in front of his cousin so that he would quit pacing. The two locked eyes for only a moment before Rusty sullenly nodded his head toward Spot and swept past Race to continue his gait. Race then walked over to Spot's position by the pitiful excuse for a table, apprehension increasing with every step. As he drew near to the table Race finally saw the subject of the other two boys' concern, and he instantly sucked in an alarmed breath.

"Where de hell did dat come from?"

Resting on the crooked table was a dirty cloth. Its edges were worn and threadbare and its once proud white color had faded to an ugly, stained brownish-red. Lying nearby was an ominous knife, stained dark with some substance Race had no interest in identifying. Neither the cloth itself nor the knife, however, is what caused chills to run up and down his spine, but rather what was printed threateningly on the material. The stark outline of a bloody handprint could be clearly seen, its very presence causing the air to turn cold around him.

"Found it by me bed last night," Spot muttered, not moving an inch from his dilapidated posture.

Race felt his jaw drop open in horror. "But yuh know what dis means, right?" he said. "It's de Scarlet Hand, it's gotta be!"

The Scarlet Hand. The name sent fear into every man's heart without a moment's notice, causing even the bravest to tremble in trepidation. It was the symbol of New York's most renowned and dangerous gang; one that was so mysterious, not a single member was known across the city. The Scarlet Hand rarely made appearances, but when it did it always left a dire mark. Rumors told stories of the members being cold-blooded killers who would stop at nothing to get what they wanted. They were swift, but deadly, leaving no evidence but the bodies of those they'd murdered and a bloody handprint, usually found somewhere near the crime scene. Law enforcement had long since given up trying to catch the gang, giving into fear and to the frustrating lack of clues to develop a substantial case. Up until that moment Race had thought the gang to be nothing more than a silly story, made up to scare children at night, but with the proof resting in front of his own eyes he could no longer deny the truth: the Scarlet Hand was real.

"Spot… dat's a summons, right? Yuh know it means dat-"

"I know what it means!" Spot snapped as he abruptly stood, turning his back on his friend to stand by the ledge, staring out at the city below. His face became placid and neutral, but his eyes clouded with the storm of emotions raging inside of him. Race felt the depressing mood descend upon him like a rainy day, his own expression becoming somber. Walking over to join Spot by the ledge, Race placed a hand on his shoulder, offering what little comfort he could. He felt Spot stiffen at his touch, but gradually the Brooklyn leader melted into the touch, closing his eyes, and eventually turning to embrace Race in a bolstering hug.

"I don't know what to do Race," he mumbled in the other boy's ear. "Dey's gonna come fuh me. Dey want me to join em, but… yuh know what people say ain't all true about me… I don't know if I can." Spot's voice broke, and Race tightened his hold, remonstrating any misguided notion that boys couldn't show emotion. He would give anything for Spot, and at the moment he knew that Spot was scared, and simply needed comfort.

"Hey, we'll figure somethin' out," he murmured back as he drew away so that he could see Spot's face. He was astonished by the usually taciturn leader's show of emotion, and he knew that the Scarlet Hand's recruitment had his friend really shaken up. "Dey can't just have whatevuh dey want, and besides, no one messes wit' you, remembuh?"

Race saw some form of relief show on Spot's face in that moment, and the Brooklyn boy melted into his friend's arms, once again accepting the embrace with gratitude.

"Hey, wait a deep-fried minute, yuh guys can't go about showin' brotherly love wit'out me now," Race heard Rusty complain. Suddenly two long arms were wrapped around both Race and Spot, effectively creating a group hug between the three of them. The emotional lapse only lasted for a moment, however, as Spot quickly snapped back to reality. He pulled away from his two companions and Race watched as his expressed hardened into the cold air he usually bore.

Spot smirked at them. "Leave it to de Higgins cousins tuh make me go soft, eh? Causin' trouble wherevuhs yuh go, as usual."

Race laughed and threw an arm around Rusty's shoulders. "Hey, man, we's just here tuh make shoh life don't get too borin'," he said.

"Yeah, but really, tho, we got yuh back, Spot," Rusty stated a little more seriously. Spot nodded at him once, before striding back to the table and, seizing the cloth with one hand, he clenched it in his fist before hurling it over the side of the building, watching as it glided lazily downward until landing in the waters of the East River.

Spot didn't sleep that night. After much debating with Race and Rusty the three agreed that nothing could be done until the Scarlet Hand attempted to contact him again. Essentially they had no choice but to sit on their hands and wait. Spot hated that feeling. Ever since he was young he'd had nightmares about being trapped or cornered. One of his father's favorite punishments had been to lock him up in different places. Usually that meant in his room, but sometimes the man would get inventive and lock him in a closet or in the boiler room. Over time Spot had developed acute claustrophobia and was severely traumatized by these events from his childhood. No matter how hard he tried Spot couldn't stop the memories from flooding his thoughts as he tried to rest, and he couldn't help but feel totally helpless and defenseless against the ruthless gang. He swore that the walls were closing in on him, and he felt as if he was going out of his mind.

Throwing the covers off his sweaty body, Spot sat up as he swung his legs over the side of his bed. Sighing, he lifted his hands to his eyes, attempting to rub away some of the exhaustion and dry itchy feeling that resided there as a result of sleep scarcity. He tiredly wondered what time it was before realizing that it didn't matter, and that he wouldn't be falling back into the bliss of sleep for a long while. Glancing out the window he saw that there wasn't a single sign of the morning, and he knew that he had some time before his usual meeting with Sarah. He'd missed her the day before because of his stress over the Scarlet Hand's summons, and he hoped that her presence today could help pacify the raging sense of terror that settled subtly in his thoughts. He felt as though he were underwater, or as though a dense blanket were suffocating him, and he prayed that Sarah could at least keep these feelings at bay, if only for a short while.

Before he knew it Spot was on his way to Manhattan, crossing the vast bridge, and pulling his thin cloak tight around his shoulders as the winter air whisked around him in frigid gales. Christmas was not but a week away, but the cheer of the season did not reach the King of Brooklyn that morning, as the dawn remained grey along with his bleak thoughts. Part of him wished to waste away in the lodging house, giving in to the depression that lurked beneath his consciousness, but his feet seemed to have a mind of their own. They carried him through the city and to his spot. Their spot. To the one person who might be able to lighten his mood, even if there was no way in hell he would ever burden her with his troubles.

She deserved far better than that. His feelings for her had grown alarmingly strong, and he only wished he knew how to tell her. He had never been good at socializing; that's why Jack always handled everything that involved speaking to a crowd. He was fine around his boys, and around the other girls he'd slept with, but he'd harbored no secret feelings for them. Sarah was like no one he had ever met, and he knew that with her he was treading on brand new territory. How he had gone from deriding her to falling for her, he could never understand, but he knew that his feelings for her were true.

He had been elated when she had moved to kiss him back the other night, believing that she too felt the change in their relationship. He would have thought that the moment they shared together would keep him going for days, but that was before the Scarlet Hand had interfered. The infamous gang had swept in and overshadowed his happy thoughts like an ominous cloud on a sunny day. He could think of nothing else, and he found that the usual bright mood he held on his way to meet Sarah had darkened to a mood as sour as Rusty's lemon drops. By the time he reached their spot and settled down to wait for her, he was seething on the inside; reacting to the pressure in the only way he knew how: with anger.

Sarah paused as their spot came into view. She had woken earlier than usual on that frigid morning and had assumed she would beat Spot to their usual meeting. Suffice it to say she was very surprised when she saw his slumped form, kicking at something in the snow and muttering beneath his breath. Shaking off the nerves his presence brought her, she steeled herself for what she was about to do. She reminded herself again of what Eaves had told her; of how Spot was taking advantage of all the boys under his command. She had left her apartment that day prepared to confront him, and she intended to go through with it, no matter the butterflies that fluttered about her stomach.

Making her way up the hill, Sarah stopped behind him and took on an irritated pose, crossing her arms, and glowering at the taut muscles in his back. Loudly clearing her throat, she expected him to whip around, startled by her sudden appearance. Spot, however, didn't even flinch at the sound. In fact, he made no move at all, remaining in the exact same posture, as stoic as ever. Sighing impatiently, Sarah stomped up to him and reached to place a hand on his shoulder. To her surprise, Spot reacted immediately, turning to face her and grabbing a hold of her outstretched hand, anger evident on his face. Slightly taken aback and wondering what he could possibly be mad at her for, Sarah faltered in her mission to confront him, and for a moment the two simply stared each other down, each attempting to prove their dominance in their malice and contempt. After only a moment, however, Sarah came to her senses and ripped her arm free from his grasp.

"Get your hands off me, you dirty scumbag," she half-shouted, practically spitting in his face. If Spot was staggered by her anger he didn't show it.

"Shut de hell up," he seethed. "You ain't got no right tuh be callin' a king scumbag." This was the side of him that she loathed above all else: his arrogant side. She would admit that she had grown fond of some of his other, less revolting attributes, but she would never learn to love his boastful pride. If she had been angry before, she was now on the verge of a raging melt-down.

"A king are you?" she spat. "What sort of king lets his people go poor and hungry, and then lies about it to better his own image?" Spot's expression twitched slightly, and a flash of confusion glinted in his eyes. For some reason, this infuriated her further: the fact that he had the indecency to not even know what she was talking about.

"Doesn't sound like a very good king, does it?" she continued. "Sounds to me like the kind of king who's subjects secretly despise and plan to overthrow. The kind of king who would commit unspeakable crimes just to get his way." At this point Sarah was nearly screaming, causing a nearby flock of pigeons to flutter away in alarm. "Well I won't have it, alright! I won't let this good for nothing, treacherous, low-life of a so-called king trick me for a moment longer!"

"Sarah what-"

"Don't you pretend for a second that you don't know what I'm talking about, Spot!" she screamed at him. At some point during her tirade his anger had melted away, and he now stared back at her with a look of confusion and innocence. As she stared into his captivating blue eyes, she nearly let herself forget her fury, and instead she began to feel sadness creep up on her. She had imagined her and Spot's future so differently. She mourned what could have been, but how could she ever care for someone who could be so selfish, and lie about it to her face? Determined not to let herself cry, she quickly banished those thoughts from her head, and set her jaw heatedly.

"How could you?" she said carefully, not wanting her voice to break or betray her emotions. Spot's brow furrowed in concern and he reached to place a hand on her cheek, but she backed away from him and swatted his palm away. She saw the hurt on his face, but she forced herself to ignore it, and continued to scowl at him.

"Sarah, I don't unduhstand, I-"

"Don't." she growled, her eyes flashing in irritation. "I trusted you, and you lied to me." He stared at her, his eyes wide and filled with damage. She knew that underneath his strong persona Spot was filled with the terror and pain that the trials of his life had brought him, but she had never before seen this pain so clearly. Something inside her told her that something was wrong, that he had been so angry at first because something had happened; something that terrified him. But she would not allow herself to be drawn to his vulnerable side. She was always too quick to care for those who were hurting, but she could not allow him to fool her again. "You told me that you always put your boys first, that they were like family to you."

"I do, Sarah," he said urgently. "And dey are." Sarah backed further away from him, and focused on a point behind his head, not able to look into his eyes any longer and say what needed to be said.

"You're a downright, filthy liar, Spot Conlon," she continued. "You know one of the main reasons I decided to trust you was for your care for other people. For your boys, for Jack, for Les… but it was all a lie! It was all for your own personal gain!"

"Sarah, it wasn't, it's not!"

"Don't give me that, I know everything! By helping Jack you got to rule over twice the amount of newsies and have more power than ever before. By helping Les, you convinced the one person who wouldn't accept you to love you." At that Sarah hesitated, realizing what she'd said too late. Spot's expression had changed altogether at her words and he now looked at her in an odd, disconcerting way. He once again reached for her, but she backed away from him for a third time, not wanting to give up just because of one slip-up. "How could you?" she said quietly, her anger deflating, replaced with disappointment. "How could you take money from them when you know they're some of the poorest children in the city? How could you be so selfish?"

As she watched, she saw a range of emotions flit through his eyes. First, confusion, then something resembling shock, and finally understanding. And she knew then that he'd finally caught on. She knew his secret and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Sarah, yuh don't unduhstand, it's not like dat."

"What isn't?" she demanded. "You taking money from defenseless boys, or you lying about it to my face?"

"No, yuh don't get it, I had tuh," his voice had risen an octave, staggering on the lines of desperation. He didn't want to lose her, but she didn't know if she could ever forgive him. "I… Yuh have tuh unduhstand, I can explain everythin!"

Sarah raised an eyebrow at him. "Well, then, by all means," she said derisively. "Explain away." For just a moment he opened his mouth, as if he had something to say, but he quickly let it flop closed, and he hung his head as he settled into silence.

"So that's it, then, isn't it?" she half-whispered. He stood as still as a statue, without the integrity to even look her in the eyes. "You really are the insolent git I always said you were." She shook her head sadly as she turned to walk away. "You know, I always hoped you would prove me wrong."

She left him then, standing there, alone on the top of his hill, looking defeated and forlorn against the first rays of the rising sun.

Spot walked idly through Manhattan, barely paying attention to anything going on around him. He felt as though everything he cared for in his life was slipping away, and he felt powerless to stop it. He absentmindedly wondered how the day could get any worse. Had he known what the future held, however, he would have taken that thought back in an instant, not truly knowing just how much worse a day could get.

As the dejected teen made his way through the bitter New York streets, his distracted awareness took no notice of the dark shadow following closely behind him. Nor did he care when he wandered into a desolate alley, without a single soul in sight to witness what would happen next. By the time he realized he was not alone, it was far too late, and a swift knock to the head left him fading into darkness, the last thing he comprehended being the unnerving cackle of a cold, familiar laugh.