The kid swung.
It was a wild, sloppy punch. Blake saw it coming a mile away. He could have blocked it. He could have caught the arm and twisted it and put the kid face-first into the pavement.
Instead, he simply turned his head and let the fist glance off his cheekbone.
It hurt. His eye watered. He tasted blood where his lip split against his teeth.
But he didn't hit back.
He just looked at the kid. Steady. Calm.
"You done?" Blake asked quietly.
The boy stared at him. His fist was still raised, but now it was trembling. He had expected a fight. He had expected rage. He didn't know what to do with a man who just stood there and took it.
"What's wrong with you?" the kid muttered.
"Nothing anymore," Blake said. "How much does Marcus owe?"
"What?"
"How much?"
The kid hesitated. "Two hundred. His brother borrowed it."
Blake slowly reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and counted out two hundred dollars. He held it out.
"Here's the deal," he said. "You take this. And you never come near this building again. Not for Marcus. Not for anybody. Because next time, I won't be the one who shows up. The police will."
The three boys looked at each other. Then the big one snatched the money and they disappeared down the alley.
When he walked back inside, Marcus was sitting on the floor by the door, crying silently with his arms around his knees.
"Why didn't you fight them?" Marcus asked. "I saw you. You could've wrecked them."
Blake sat down on the floor next to him, wincing a little at his swollen cheek.