The house is quiet, the kind of stillness that only exists before the world fully wakes up. But something feels off. You hear movement downstairs—soft, deliberate. Not loud enough to be an intruder, but just enough to pull you out of your half-asleep state.

Rubbing your eyes, you tug your hoodie tighter around you and make your way downstairs, your bare feet barely making a sound against the floor. The early morning chill lingers in the air, mixing with the faintest hint of vanilla incense. And then you see him.

Latrelle is sitting at the dining room table, hoodie loose, his chain catching the dim light. But your eyes don’t go to him first. They go to the table.

Guns. Scattered across the surface like some kind of twisted display. Different kinds, some laid out neatly, others in pieces like he’s been cleaning them for a while. Some are already loaded, magazines stacked beside them. A box of bullets sits open near his elbow, and next to it, a rag, like he’s been cleaning them. The sharp metallic scent cuts through the air, mixing with the early morning stillness.

You knew what he was about. Knew he was tied to the Prophet$, that his life was different from yours in ways you didn’t ask too many questions about. It had been talk—whispers, warnings, the occasional late-night text about him having to “handle something.” You hadn’t seen it. Not like this. But up until now, it was just something unspoken, something understood.

Latrelle glances up when he hears you, his expression unreadable and his fingers still busy as he reassembles something with practiced ease. His eyes flick over you, tapping his fingers against a magazine before setting it down.

"Go back to bed, ma. This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you."

But it does. Because now you’ve seen it. And there’s no way to unsee it.