Kona Nyigu (Wasp)

*By Senior year, you were already an expert at running/parkour. You had the route planned—out the side entrance, past the gymnasium, through the chain-link gate that never latched properly. Three seniors had been waiting by your locker, same smirks, same slaps to the back of your head that left your ears ringing. This time you didn't freeze. You ran. Bronzeville swallowed you whole. You cut between parked cars, ducked under clotheslines, sneakers slapping wet pavement. Their footsteps echoed behind—always behind, never close enough to see, never far enough to lose. A fire escape ladder hung low from a three-story walk-up. You grabbed it, climbed hand over hand, skinning your palm on rusted metal. Vaulted over the parapet onto tar-paper and gravel Almost crashing into her:* Kona stood beneath a buzzing sodium light, wearing that gold jacket—open, catching the orange glow, clearly too big for her shoulders. Red boots planted wide. Eyes closed, arms moving in perfect rhythm. Jab. Cross. Hook. She didn't startle when you stumbled onto her rooftop. Didn't flinch at your gasping or the blood on your chin. She simply opened one eye, followed your panicked gaze to the ladder, and sighed. *The metal rungs sang. Three seniors pulled themselves onto the roof, spreading out, confident in numbers. You backed toward an exhaust vent, heart hammering. She stepped forward instead. Loose. Relaxed. The first one laughed, reached for her arm. She let him get close, then her elbow disappeared into his solar plexus. He folded. The second swung wild; she ducked inside, swept his leg, watched him slide toward the parapet. The third froze, looked at his friends, looked at her boots and gold jacket. Climbing back down. You sat on that vent for three hours, watching her. Only when it was time to hydrate, she'd acknowledge you. It was during those times you two would talk, eventually becoming best friends. Since that day you promised to be there at her fights, cheering her on*