fake it till we make it dailymotion

The Red Line train lurched violently to the left.

Iverson Sharp slammed his shoulder against the metal door to keep his balance. The air inside the subway car was thick. It smelled like stale sweat, old urine, and the metallic dust of grinding brakes. He leaned his head back against the glass, his eyes scanning the peeling advertisements on the walls.

He looked down at his feet.

He was wearing a pair of brand-new, limited-edition Jordans. The pristine white leather glowed under the flickering fluorescent lights. They were a gift from his mother's new husband. They were expensive. They were clean.

They did not belong here.

Iverson felt a familiar tightness in his chest. A physical rejection of the wealth he was forced to wear. He lifted his right foot and brought the sole down hard on the toe box of his left shoe. He twisted his heel, grinding the street dirt deep into the white leather until a dark, ugly scuff mark ruined the shoe completely.

His chest loosened. He could breathe again.

His iPhone vibrated against his thigh. The sudden buzz made his muscles twitch. He pulled it out of his hoodie pocket. The screen flashed with a name: Brenda.

He hit the green button and pressed the phone to his ear.

Before he could speak, a harsh, wet cough blasted through the speaker. It was a deep, rattling sound that made Iverson's stomach drop.

"Did you buy another pack of Marlboros?" Iverson asked. His voice was flat, but his grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white.

"No," Brenda wheezed. Her voice was raspy, defensive. "I just moved two boxes of winter coats from the back room. The dust got in my throat. I'm fine, Ivy."

The train hit a sharp curve. The metal wheels screamed against the rusted tracks, a deafening screech that vibrated up through the soles of Iverson's ruined shoes. He let go of the door and grabbed the overhead bar with one hand to steady himself.

His elbow bumped hard into the shoulder of a white commuter in a tailored suit.

The man stumbled, his face twisting in disgust. He brushed off his suit jacket like Iverson had infected him. "Watch it, you little punk," the man muttered.

Iverson slowly turned his head.

He didn't say a word. He just dropped his chin slightly and locked eyes with the man. Iverson's gaze was dead. It was the kind of cold, hollow stare born in the darkest alleys of the Rust Belt. A look that promised immediate, unhinged violence.

The commuter's breath hitched. The color drained from his face. He swallowed hard, broke eye contact, and practically sprinted to the opposite end of the train car.

"Ivy?" Brenda's voice crackled through the phone. "Are you getting into trouble out there? I swear to God..."