The Rules of the Street

The train screeched into the underground station; its brakes shrilled against steel. Joey stepped inside, careful as always. The ride was short—barely two miles—but in the city, distance mattered less than timing. Two miles could feel like a lifetime if you broke the rules.

The rules weren’t written, but everyone who rode the trains knew them: watch your surroundings, keep to yourself, and never stare. A stare was a declaration, a challenge. Too long, and you risked a fight. Sometimes worse.

Joey slid into a corner seat, angling his body so he could watch the car without seeming to stare. He had learned long ago that survival meant striking a balance between awareness and invisibility. The train car was half-full. A mother held her child close, headphones leaking the hiss of a lullaby. Two teenagers hunched over their phones, eyes darting up whenever anyone moved too quickly. A man in a work jacket nodded, already asleep.

Then he entered.

A young man in his early twenties entered the car with a gait that was partly bold, partly cautious. His face struck Joey like a hook in the chest. The resemblance was incredible, eyes shaped like his late uncle’s, cheekbones that resembled his cousin Eddie’s. Joey blinked, stunned. For a moment, he thought he was looking at family.

He knew better than to stare. Yet his eyes lingered. The man’s jawline, the tilt of his head—it was too close to ignore. Joey looked down at the floor, then back up again, unable to stop himself.

That was the mistake.

The young man noticed. His eyes narrowed, hard as glass. He shifted his stance, shoulders rising, his body coiled with suspicion. Joey felt his stomach drop.

In the city, the difference between a glance and a glare could be fatal. And Joey had crossed the line.

The young man walked down the aisle, steps measured, his glare fixed like a sight on a weapon. “What are you looking at?” he spat, voice sharp enough to slice the air.

Joey raised his hands slightly, palms open. “Nothing, man. My mistake.”

But it was too late. The anger had already taken root.

The young man’s fist swung fast, clipping Joey’s cheek. Joey reeled sideways, clutching the pole. Another fist followed, then a low growl: “You think I’m a joke? You disrespectin’ me? I’ll kill you right here.”

Panic surged through Joey’s chest. He tried to speak; words tangled in fear. “No—it’s not like that. You look like—”

The words never finished. Another swing came close enough to whistle past his ear. The man’s rage filled the car like smoke.

Then, salvation arrived by accident.

At the next stop, a crowd poured into the train—workers with heavy bags, students with backpacks, tourists clutching maps. The aisle swelled with bodies, pressing tight between Joey and his attacker. Elbows jostled, shoulders bumped, the swarm of humanity forming a barrier.

Joey used the chaos. He slipped sideways, weaving between passengers until the doors slid open again. With one desperate lunge, he bolted out onto the platform.

The train’s doors closed behind him. Through the window, he saw the young man still craning his neck, trying to find him in the press of bodies. But Joey was gone, chest heaving, skin damp with cold sweat.

He touched his cheek where the punch had landed. No blood, no bruise yet. Just a sting. He had escaped without real damage—physically, at least.

As the train screeched away, Joey leaned against a column and whispered to himself, “Lesson learned.”

That night, unable to shake the face from his mind, Joey made a call. He reached out to his cousin Eddie, the one whose features had echoed so strongly in the stranger. When Joey described the man on the train, Eddie grew quiet.

Finally, Eddie said, “You probably saw Miguel.”

Joey frowned. “Who’s Miguel?”

Eddie hesitated, then sighed. “My father’s son. From… another relationship. Nobody really talks about it. But yeah, he’s blood. Your cousin, too.”

Joey sat back, stunned. The resemblance wasn’t imagined. It had been family staring back at him, family ready to spill his blood for a look too long.

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Imagine that. Almost got killed by my own cousin.”

Silence stretched between them before Joey added, “And all I wanted was to see if we were kin.”

When he hung up, Joey sat in the dim glow of his apartment window, city noise drifting through the glass. He thought about the unwritten rules again, the ones that had saved and scarred so many lives. In this city, curiosity could kill, kinship could wound, and family ties didn’t mean safety.

On the streets, respect wasn’t given—it was guarded. And sometimes, searching for a connection was the most dangerous thing you could do.

Joey vowed he wouldn’t make that mistake again.

He looked out at the sprawling city, its lights flickering like warnings. “Keep to yourself,” he whispered. “Even with blood. Especially with blood.”