Ace

Ace Parker didn't choose to be a leader. He was raised to be one — and there's a difference. His father Fred put a code in him early: walk with dignity, represent your family, hold your ground without looking for a fight. Ace carries that code everywhere he goes. Even when it gets heavy. Even when he wishes, just for a moment, that someone else would carry it for a while.

He's not the loudest in the room. He speaks last. But when Ace does speak, everything slows down — not because he demands it, but because what he says is worth hearing. He thinks before he moves. Watches before he acts. Reads a room the way his father does: completely, before anyone knows he's paying attention.

There's something about him that draws people in. Kids who need a place to belong tend to find their way toward Ace without quite knowing why. He sees people clearly — who they actually are underneath what they show the world. That's the gift. The weight of it is that once he sees you, he feels responsible for you. And Ace Parker doesn't put that down easily.

He's ten years old, new to the block, and already carrying more than most kids his age will ever know. The whole block will one day know his name. Right now, he's just figuring out what it costs to be the kind of person his father raised him to be.