Shadows in Morningside

Posted for Bastenji

This Post occurs after Ida was brought to the Prince and saved by Sylvie

Bastanji, Grace & Ida — Two Months Later

Morningside Park, 1:17 AM

The night had the heavy, wet feel of a closed book — rain-slick, underlined in neon, smelling of earth and steel.
Bastanji led the way down the thin path that cut through Morningside Park’s lower slope, with Grace flanking him on one side and Ida walking quietly on the other.

Grace kicked a pebble ahead of her.
“This park has, like, a horror-movie vibe at night. Just saying.”

Ida’s voice was soft but steady.
“It’s peaceful.”

Grace blinked.
“Peaceful?”

Ida nodded, hands folded in front of her rosary tucked into her hoodie pocket.
“I used to walk with my mamá and abuela through parks like this. Different country. Different weather. But… the quiet feels familiar.”

She smiled faintly.
“And everything is new here. My church, my street, my room in Sylvie’s apartment. I like learning it.”

Grace glanced at Bastanji.
“You’re the reason she’s with us tonight, you know. She wants the ‘full experience.’”

Ida did a small excited bounce — almost a dance — before catching herself.
“I want to learn what Father Liam does not have time to explain yet. The… messier things. The things that protect the neighborhood.”

Bastanji only nodded.
He understood devotion.
He understood debt.

Trouble Under the Basketball Lights

Voices drifted from ahead — sharp, cocky, wrong for this territory.
The basketball court glowed faintly under flickering bulbs, and beneath them, four gangsters in Kingsbridge Iron Dogs colors circled the area like wolves testing a fence.

A shaved-head bruiser laughed.
“This block’s ripe. Easy cash. Easy people.”

His girl dragged a knife on a whetstone, sparks spitting.
“I thought this was the block with the ‘ghost judge.’ Doesn’t look like much.”

Grace leaned toward Ida.
“Okay, first lesson — that line never ends well for the person saying it.”

Ida clutched her rosary inside her pocket.
“I will watch and learn.”
Her voice was quiet, but her eyes were firm, almost shining with resolve.

Stepping Forward

Bastanji walked toward the court.
No rush.
No theatrics.
Just a pressure change in the air — one the gangers felt before they saw him.

Grace fell into step behind him, hands in pockets.
Ida followed, careful, observant, her steps almost musical in their steadiness.

Shaved Head spotted them first.
“Oh—uh, hey. Park’s closed, man.”

Bastanji stepped just to the edge of the light where shadows held him like a cloak.
“This neighborhood is not your hunting ground.”

Grace added cheerfully,
“He means ‘get lost,’ but he says it better.”

The girl with the knife sneered.
“And who are you three?”

Grace lifted her hand halfway.
“I’m the chatty one.”

She pointed to Bastanji.
“He’s the scary one.”

Then she pointed to Ida.
“And she’s the one you really don’t want to piss off.”

Ida blinked, startled.
“Me?”

Grace whispered, “Trust me, religious girls are terrifying.”

The Confrontation

Chain-neck — the biggest of the group — stepped forward, chest puffed.
“This ain’t your block. We go where we want.”

Ida inhaled slowly, whispering under her breath — not a spell, not a threat, just a quiet prayer.
Her fingers danced lightly in the air, a sway to some unseen rhythm of nerves and courage.

Bastanji moved first.
A small shift in weight, a single stride — suddenly too close for comfort.
The court went silent.

“You have mistaken quiet for weakness,” he said.
“If you continue, I will judge you.”

His voice wasn’t loud.
It was final.

The knife-girl lunged.
Grace caught her wrist mid-strike, twisted gently — disarming without maiming.

“Lesson one,” Grace said pleasantly to Ida.
“Disarm, don’t dismember.”

Ida nodded, wide-eyed but steady.

Shaved Head grabbed for his gun —
but Bastanji simply looked at him.

That was enough.
The man froze, breath caught in fear of something primal and ancient.

Mercy & Balance

Chain-neck swung a punch.
Bastanji redirected, guiding the man’s own momentum into a jarring fall that rattled the blacktop.
He didn’t break bones.
He didn’t need to.

Ida stepped forward unexpectedly.
Her voice carried across the court — soft but resonant.
“You should not hurt people here. Please leave.”

Something in her tone — faith, grief, quiet fire — struck deeper than threats.
The remaining gangers backed up, muttering.
The blonde woman shot Grace a glare.
“This ain’t over.”

Grace flashed her a sweet smile.
“Sure it is.”

And the Iron Dogs ran.

Aftermath — La Pequeña Estrella Café, 2:03 AM

The gangers had fled, swallowed by the trees and the dark, and the three of them drifted back toward civilization.
Not home — not yet.
They needed to breathe, even if none of them technically did anymore.

Morningside spilled them onto 110th Street, where a tiny café called La Pequeña Estrella kept its lights on through the late hours for night-shift workers and insomniacs.

The owner barely looked up when they approached — just waved them toward the outdoor tables with a tired hand.

Grace immediately made a beeline for the freezer case.
“Oooh. Mint chip. Don’t mind if I do.”

Ida picked a cup of coconut ice cream, hesitating only a second before choosing the smallest spoon available.
“I used to share this flavor with my abuela,” she said softly. “On Sundays. After mass.”

Bastanji, with the same gravity he carried into battle, ordered a cup of black tea.
He brought it outside, held it under his nose, and did absolutely nothing else with it.

Grace plopped into a metal chair, swinging one leg over the side.
“You know,” she said around a spoonful of ice cream, “this really does nothing for me. Zero calories, zero blood sugar, zero reason to eat it. But it feels right, even if I have to throw it up later.”

Ida nodded, sitting primly, back straight.
She took a small bite, smiled at the texture, even if it meant nothing physically.
“It reminds me of home,” she said.
“And sometimes that is enough.”

She swayed slightly on instinct — that gentle, unconscious rhythm she had when stressed or happy or both.

Grace leaned in.
“You held your ground back there, Ida. That was pretty badass.”

Ida pressed one hand to her rosary through her hoodie pocket.
“I only said what needed to be said. And I thought of Sylvie.”
Her voice tightened with emotion, then steadied again.
“I will not let her sacrifice be wasted. Not here.”

Bastanji watched the street in absolute stillness, hands around his cup like a man trying to remember what warmth used to feel like.
“You showed judgment,” he said without looking at them.
“Measured. Merciful.”

Grace made a face.
“Is that… is that praise? Did he just praise us?”

Ida’s eyes widened.
“It sounded like praise.”

Bastanji sipped nothing from his tea.
“I said what was true.”

Grace smirked.
“He means ‘yes,’ Ida. Trust me. That’s his ‘five-star compliment.’”

The café lights reflected off the slick street.
The city hummed around them — horns, rain, distant sirens — yet the tiny patio felt impossibly calm.
A little island carved out of the night by three unlikely guardians.

Grace dug another spoonful of ice cream.
“So, professor… same time tomorrow?”

Bastanji stood, leaving the full cup of tea behind.
“No.”

They both stared.

He added quietly,
“Earlier.”

Ida smiled faintly.
Grace groaned dramatically.

And under the glow of the café lights, the three of them stepped back into the Harlem night —
a knife, a melody, and a prayer moving in unison.