Clover Meadowbrook wanted a bakery, but the gang wanted her flour. She stood in the doorway of her rooftop shack and counted what was gone. Two sacks of flour. A jar of plum syrup. The cooling rack she'd left by the window overnight. Below, the crumbling district woke up gray and hungry. She had come here to build one warm place, a shop where neighbors could sit and eat something good. Instead, every batch she left out vanished by morning. She knew who took it. The scavenger gang had claimed her block. They looted anything unguarded, and they answered to one man. If she wanted to bake in peace, she had to win him over. So Clover baked all night. She used her last good flour. She rolled the dough tight and thick, then poured plum syrup over each spiral until it pooled in dark, glossy folds. By dawn she had one warm cinnamon roll left, steaming on a clean plate. She carried it down to the street and waited. He came at sunrise. The gang leader walked like a boxer, shoulders loose, fists half-raised even at rest. His knuckles were scarred. A red jacket hung open over his chest. His people trailed behind him, but they stopped when he stopped. When he looked at Clover, they went quiet. "You're the plant girl," he said. "The one who keeps leaving food out for us." "I'm Clover." She held up the plate. "You've been eating my baking. I thought you should taste it fresh." He eyed the roll. Something in his face shifted, hungry and careful at once. "Rocky," he said, tapping his chest. "You know I could just take it." "You could. But it's better when someone hands it to you." Rocky picked up the roll. He bit in. The syrup smeared his knuckle, and he licked it clean without thinking. He chewed slow. His crew watched his face like it was a scoreboard. "That," he said, "is the best thing I've had in a year." He finished it in three bites. Clover's heart pounded. "There's more where that came from. But I can't bake if my flour keeps walking off. Leave my supplies alone, and I'll feed you. Every week. Fresh." Rocky wiped his mouth. He looked back at his crew, then at the rooftop shack with its bright glass roof and rows of potted green. "You hear that?" he called. "Nobody touches the plant girl's stuff. She's ours now. We protect her." His people nodded. Just like that, the looting ended. But Rocky wasn't finished. He stepped close and grinned. "Ours," he repeated. "That means you bake for us first. Before anybody. Big orders. Starting tomorrow." Clover opened her mouth to argue. Rocky was already walking away, crew in tow, calling numbers over his shoulder. Two dozen rolls. Then more. She stood on the empty street, safe at last, buried under a promise she wasn't sure she could keep.