They traded words that cut like the summer humidity—accusations, taunts, names. You could feel the city's pulse ratchet up. A crowd gathered, not all that curious, just hungry for the next disturbance. Marco shoved Tiki; Nico pushed back. Within minutes fists and a few bottles were being traded. It ended with Tiki on the pavement and blood in his mouth, but not before he planted a folded photo in Marco’s jacket pocket—a warning shot wrapped in nostalgia.
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