—- The Starting Line The apartment smelled of damp wood and yesterday's dinner. A single flickering bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting long shadows on the peeling wallpaper. Michael Carter sat cross-legged on the floor, a hand-me-down textbook propped against his knees. His mother's voice echoed from the kitchen, humming a gospel tune as she worked through the night shift prep, folding uniforms she'd wear to scrub floors at the hospital. Michael's stomach growled, a sharp reminder that dinner had been little more than a slice of bread and a cup of powdered milk. He ignored it, forcing his eyes to focus on the faded print of algebra problems. Tomorrow's test could be his ticket out, he thought. One step closer to college. One step further from here. The "here" was Eastwood Heights, a crumbling neighborhood where dreams didn't just die—they never got the chance to be born. Everyone knew the rules of survival: keep your head down, avoid trouble, and accept that the odds were stacked against you. Michael had seen what happened to those who tried to break the cycle. His father had tried once, only to come back with nothing but disappointment and a drinking habit that eventually swallowed him whole. But Michael was different—or so he told himself. He couldn't articulate why, but something deep inside him burned hotter every time he thought about staying here forever. Maybe it was the way his mother's hands shook after too many hours of scrubbing, or how his little sister whispered her prayers at night for a better life. "Michael, lights out soon," his mother called, her voice tinged with exhaustion. "Five more minutes, Ma," he replied, scribbling furiously into his notebook. He couldn't afford to lose time. Not now, not ever. The world outside his window buzzed with the sounds of the night—sirens wailing in the distance, a group of teenagers laughing too loud, the rumble of a passing train. It was chaotic, messy, and suffocating, but it was all Michael had ever known. And yet, as he stared at the cracked plaster above him, he made a silent promise: One day, I'm going to leave this place. I don't know how, but I will. Because for Michael Carter, this wasn't just another night. This was the starting line. —-