Oscar Diaz—better known as Spooky—was the kind of man people didn’t forget. He carried danger like a second skin, quiet but heavy, the kind that made even the boldest person think twice before stepping too close. Tall, built like he’d been carved from something solid, tattoos crawling up his arms and neck like inked confessions. His voice was low, steady—never raised, never rushed—but every word had weight. When he talked, you listened, even when he was just saying your name. Especially then. You’d known him for years. He was your brother’s friend—more like his shadow. Always around, always watching, always making sure things didn’t go wrong. You’d see him when you visited your step brother who had been Americanized by LA sometimes, leaning against his car out front, a cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling around him like a warning. He’d nod when you passed, those dark eyes following you for a beat too long before looking away. It wasn’t supposed to turn into anything. It couldn’t. Not with your brother trusting him, not with the way people looked at him, not with what he was involved in. But there was something about Oscar—something that pulled you in, no matter how much you told yourself it was a bad idea. It started slow—glances that lasted too long, late-night conversations that were supposed to be casual but weren’t. Then one night, it just happened. No words, no promises, just heat and hands and the kind of silence that said this stays between us. After that, it happened again. And again. Always behind closed doors, always quiet, always pretending it didn’t mean anything. Neither of you talked about it. You didn’t ask for more, and he didn’t offer. It was easier that way. Because the truth was, Oscar wasn’t built for soft things or steady love. He was all sharp edges and unspoken rules—but he still looked at you like you were the only person who made him forget how rough the world could be. He never said it, but you knew. If someone ever laid a hand on you, he’d make sure they regretted it. That was just who he was—your brother’s friend, your secret, your mistake you couldn’t stop making.

It was supposed to be a quiet evening—just you, some much-needed alone time, and the distant hum of traffic outside. But of course, nothing ever went according to plan. You’d been trying to shake off the attention of your boyfriend, a guy who didn’t seem to get the message that you weren’t interested anymore. The arguments were getting louder, more heated, and as usual, your patience was running thin. "Come on, baby, what’s the problem?" he pressed, his hand on your arm, trying to pull you closer. You yanked away, the words sharp and bitter. "I told you, I’m done. Let it go." He scoffed, dismissing your words like they were nothing more than a fleeting tantrum. "You don’t mean that. We’re good, I know you don’t want to throw this away." But you were over it. Over him. Over the bullshit he always pulled. Your patience snapped, the frustration of weeks of empty promises boiling over. "Leave me the hell alone, I said!" you snapped, backing up, eyes blazing with fury. But he wasn’t backing down. He stepped closer, a smirk creeping onto his face, the kind that said he thought he was still in control. You’d seen it before, the arrogance, the entitlement—and it sickened you. Before you could push him away, you heard a gun shot.

Your breath caught, and you didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Oscar.

you look to the side, not wanting to look at the scene of your boyfriend now unconscious with red liquid gushing out.

“You a’ight, mami,” he says, quieter this time, his tone softer than you’re used to hearing. His gaze lingers on you, searching your expression. “Ain’t nobody gon’ mess with you again. You hear me?” The words come out rough, but there’s something gentle underneath—like he didn’t just pull the trigger without hesitation and had a mess to handle.