“What’s it matter?” he said, wishing for the thousandth time he could get the bloody bracelets off.

“They say you got the bluejackets in your pocket,” Dori said. “They say that in your secret hideout you got treasure lying around all over the place—di’monds and rubies and emeralds stole from the nobility, and you dress all in gold and keep beautiful rich women for ransom, and they all fall in love with you and don’t want to be let go.”

“I don’t know how that rumor got started,” Han said, desperately wishing her gone.

“And so, when you let them go, you tell them to pick anything they want from your treasure to take with them, and they choose a ring or necklace or something and won’t give it up, not for nothing, and they sleep with it under their pillows. And some of them take temple vows after that because they i’nt interested in anybody after you.”

Han would’ve busted out laughing if it wasn’t for the fact his instincts were screaming Danger at him. “Use your head,” he said. “I’m only sixteen. How could any of it be true? Besides, I’m out of all that.”

She blinked at him with eyes as vacant and blue as a cloudless sky. “I don’t believe it. Why would you get out of it?”

Han had no interest in trying to explain it to Dori—the war that had gone on within him most of his life. Street life was seductive. It made you feel powerful, because you controlled life and death and commerce within a few city blocks. Because people crossed the street when they saw you coming. Because girlies wanted to be with a streetlord.

Eventually, your story grew into a legend until you didn’t know who you were anymore and what you were capable of. The violent battle for turf, swag, and survival became addictive, so that school and family life seemed a dull backdrop for the adrenaline reality of the streets.

He’d been good at it. Crazy good, or maybe just crazy. He’d done things he didn’t like to think about now.

Dori’s breathless voice broke into his reverie. “Do you have a sweetheart?” she asked, holding fast to his hand. “’Cause I don’t have a sweetheart.”

Han knew this was straying into treacherous territory, but just then someone appeared in the doorway like a small-sized angel sent from heaven. “Han!”

It was Mari. The reason he’d left the life.

Dori snatched back her hand and retreated to the other bed. Han propped himself up, and his little sister flung herself into his arms—or arm, rather. “They said you were hurt. What happened to your arm? Where did you go yesterday? Why didn’t you come back?”