From Shrimp Boy to Slapjack: System Activated

Crash

Sunlight speared through the dusty blinds of Curry's Miami apartment, casting harsh stripes across the cluttered floor. The air still thrummed with the faint aftershock of last night's victory, a victory that tasted more like ashes in my mouth. With a groan, I pushed myself off the lumpy couch, the remnants of Curry's rhythmic snoring still clinging to the stale air.

"Thanks for the crash pad, man," I mumbled, my voice thick with sleep and a persistent headache.

A muffled response came from the depths of the worn-out sofa. "Anytime, big spender," Curry mumbled, not bothering to open his eyes. A ghost of a smile played on my lips despite the turmoil within. Curry, ever the optimist, saw only victory. But I couldn't ignore the discordant melody playing in my gut, a counterpoint to the celebratory thrumming of the city walking outside.

Leaving Curry to his sleep, I stepped out onto the humid Miami morning. The familiar sights of the city greeted me – the neon glow of Art Deco hotels, the