A slight, dark-skinned girl stood silhouetted against the streetlights, no older than nine years old, engulfed by a huge, oversized purple jacket. She held nothing but a grimy rubber ball, and her hair was tied up into two hopelessly messy ponytails. One of her shoelaces flapped loose against the damp pavement.
She looked as light as a feather, perhaps sixty pounds if you weighed her while she was dripping wet. Yet, the look in her eyes was like nothing these hardened men had ever encountered. It was a raw, unfiltered blaze of sheer fury.
The leader, a tall man whose cheek was branded with an angry scar, doubled over with mirth. “Yo, man! What is this? Whose little girl is this?” The second man was wiping tears from his eyes, gasping for air.
“Little mama thinks she’s like, Captain America or somethin’,” he wheezed. The third assailant, a colossal figure with a build like a fridge, took three slow steps in her direction, his smirk unwavering. “Sweetheart, you really ought to skedaddle and run home before you get dropped right next to this fool.”
He emphasized his threat with a vicious kick to the bleeding man lying at his feet. That man, now nothing more than a broken heap, was Gavin Parker.
Gavin Parker: Billionaire CEO. A tech prodigy. The kind of man who had senators on his speed dial.
But here and now? Right this moment, he was staring down the barrel of death, and his only hope, his sole lifeline, was a girl who hadn’t even finished fourth grade. Skye planted her feet firmly, shifting her weight. She cocked her arm back, the motion of a seasoned baseball pitcher winding up on the mound. “Last chance,” she declared, her voice unnervingly calm, utterly devoid of childish tremor. “Walk away.”
Their laughter only intensified, mocking her challenge. Little did they know, they had just sealed their own fate in the biggest mistake of their lives. Welcome to Top Stories, folks. If you’re dropping by for the first time, make sure to hit that subscribe button now because this is one hell of a ride you won’t soon forget. To all my loyal, day one subscribers, my real ones who’ve been with me from the jump—I appreciate you all. Thanks for showing up every time.
Before we dive right in, allow me a quick moment to offer up a prayer for you. God, I’m asking you right now to bestow your blessing upon every single individual watching this. Cover them with your divine protection. Bless their loved ones, their health, and their finances. Grant them the serenity to endure the storm and the inner strength when they feel their weakest. Let miracles manifest in their lives today. In Jesus’ name, amen. Now, let’s get into the heart of the matter. Because what you are about to hear isn’t just a story about a life being saved. It’s a gripping tale of what unfolds when the absolute wrong people realize that one small girl possesses more inherent power than an entire system that was designed to keep her silent.
Forty-five minutes prior, Gavin Parker had made what would likely be the worst decision of his entire life. He had chosen to walk. He was alone. It was the dead of night. And he was passing through the South Side of the city. No personal security detail. No armed guards trailing behind him. Not a single backup plan. Just him, clad in his tailored, designer suit that easily cost more than most people’s monthly rent, carrying a leather briefcase packed with property contracts valued at a staggering $8 million.
He had just wrapped up a meeting with a handful of city officials regarding a massive urban development venture—new high-end hotels and luxury condos. It was the type of project that would inevitably displace half the current neighborhood and, naturally, make him exponentially richer. However, Gavin, ever the idealist, insisted he wanted to “connect with the community.” That’s the noble sentiment he’d relayed to his personal assistant. He wanted to traverse these very streets, observe the neighborhood firsthand, and genuinely “understand” the people whose lives he was about to alter forever. Noble, right? Wrong.
Gavin Parker was oblivious to the first, most crucial rule of the South Side: Rich men do not walk alone after dark. Period.
The alley was a narrow, uninviting slit between two crumbling, abandoned buildings. The broken glass scattered across the concrete crunched sharply beneath his expensive Italian leather shoes. Somewhere nearby, a dog’s agitated barking sliced through the silence. A distant siren wailed, fading quickly. Then, he heard it—footfalls closing in behind him. Not one set, but multiple. Moving with urgent speed. Gavin’s stomach plummeted into his boots. He instinctively reached for his phone.
Too late.
Something metallic—a rusty pipe, perhaps a wooden bat—slammed with crushing force into his shoulder blade. He went down hard, his face smashing into the cold, unforgiving concrete. His phone skittered away, vanishing into the deep shadow. His briefcase sprang open violently, the eight million dollars’ worth of papers fluttering everywhere like a sudden flurry of white snow. “Evening, Mr. Parker,” a voice said from directly above him. It was unsettlingly calm. Almost friendly. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Gavin attempted to push himself up, straining against the ground. A heavy boot slammed down onto his back, pinning him to the filthy ground like a helpless insect. “Please,” Gavin gasped, his cheek grinding against the pavement’s grime. “I have money. Cash. Credit cards. Take whatever you want.”
“Oh, we certainly will,” a second voice cut in. “But first? We’re gonna teach you a little lesson about what happens to rich boys who think they can simply buy up our neighborhood.”
The first kick caught him squarely in the ribs. Something inside him snapped with a sickening crack. A bolt of agonizing pain exploded through his chest like a sudden lightning strike. The second kick landed on his face. He felt his nose shatter instantly. Blood poured down his throat, causing him to gag and choke. “This is for my cousin who got evicted when you bought his building!” Crack. Another crushing kick. “This is for every family you pushed out!” Slam. A brutal fist connected with his kidney. “And this?” the voice growled, “This is just because I don’t like the sight of your face.” Gavin attempted to scream, but his mouth was a mess of broken teeth and thick, metallic blood. He tried desperately to crawl, but his arms had ceased to respond. His vision grew blurry, and dark spots danced before his eyes. He knew it. He was dying. Right here. In a disgusting alley. Completely alone. All his billions couldn’t pull him back from the brink now. But someone was watching. Someone tiny. Someone consumed by anger. Someone who was about to flip the entire script.
Skye despised the nighttime. Her grandmother worked the late shift, and the apartment, devoid of her presence, felt wrong. It was too quiet. Too cold. The old radiator in the living room clanked and hissed as if it were an angry, mechanized beast. Shadows stretched and moved on the walls in ways that made Skye instinctively pull her blanket tighter around her. So, she resorted to her usual coping mechanism when sleep refused to come. She sat by the window with her rubber ball and simply observed the neighborhood below. She bounced it against the wall, caught it. Bounced it again. Caught it again. Over and over. The steady rhythm was her personal brand of white noise, an anchor that calmed her frayed nerves. Then, she heard a sound that made her freeze instantly. Shouting. Men’s voices. They were coming from the alley directly beneath her window.
Skye pressed her nose against the chilled glass and peered down. Initially, the alley was nothing but an expanse of blackness. But then, the moon emerged from behind a heavy cloud, offering a flash of illumination, and she saw them clearly. Three men. They were circling a single figure on the ground. Beating him mercilessly as if he were less than human. “You think you can just buy people?” one of them roared. “You think money makes you a god?” Thud. A kick landed with such heavy force that Skye could hear the sickening impact three flights up. The man on the ground was barely moving now. Just twitching faintly. Groaning a weak, choked sound. “Finish him,” another voice commanded. It was cold. Final.
Skye’s heart began to hammer against her ribs like a drum. Her hands started to tremble uncontrollably; the ball nearly slipped from her grasp. Her grandmother’s voice, a constant echo of caution, rang in her mind: “Baby girl, when you see trouble, you look the other way. You keep your head down and you stay safe. The streets don’t care about heroes.” Skye had always heeded her grandmother’s wisdom. She had always steered clear of trouble. Always minded her own business. But now, watching a man being brutally murdered three stories below her window, staying quiet felt like an act of complicity. It felt like murder, too.
The man on the ground made one final, desperate attempt to crawl away. His hand reached out toward the street, his fingers stretching and grasping for help that was nowhere in sight. One of the attackers chuckled darkly and stomped down hard on his outstretched fingers. Bones audibly crunched. The man let out a scream so utterly horrific it turned Skye’s stomach. “Nobody’s coming to save you, rich boy,” the attacker sneered. “Nobody even cares.”
Skye looked down at her ball. The very same ball she had dedicated herself to practicing with every single day for the past three years. The same ball that never failed to hit the target she’d painstakingly chalked onto the wall downstairs. Her grandmother had also taught her another vital lesson. “When you see wrong, baby, you don’t have to fight it with your fists. Sometimes all you need is good aim and the courage to throw.”
Skye stood up. She slid the window open wider, the rush of cold night air hitting her face. Her shaking hands stilled. She pulled her arm back. And she aimed directly for the biggest guy’s head. “Please don’t miss,” she whispered to herself. “Please, God, don’t let me miss.”
Skye didn’t stop to think. Didn’t make an elaborate plan. Didn’t hesitate for a single second. She just threw.
The window had been cracked open earlier that day when the apartment had gotten too hot. She shoved it wider, the old wood frame groaning loudly enough to make her wince. But the men down below were too wrapped up in their kicking and laughing to notice the sound. Skye leaned out of the window, far out. Her small frame was half-hanging three stories above the unforgiving concrete alley. The wind whipped at her face, and her ponytails flew back. One wrong slip and she would fall. One incorrect move and she might be the one dying tonight. But she consciously pushed that thought away. She focused solely on the target. The biggest guy. The one responsible for the most damage. The one who had just called for the man to be finished off. His head. That was her sole focus…
