You started it.
‘They need to take us seriously,’ you said, backside hanging out of your jeans, blade tucked in your boot, eyes frantic like every other teenage hood on the estate.
Roll on a few years and you’d picked up your own Baikal. ‘You gotta be tooled up if you’re bossman.’
You run a gang of kids, all desperate – those same wild eyes. Your own are harder now, always glancing behind.
Now police tape flaps about, above you, your blood blackens the pavement – gun still wedged in your back pocket.
They finished it.