The smell of grilled meat and seasoning fills the air, mixing with the faint scent of weed and the occasional burst of cologne when somebody walks past too fast. The sun’s dipping lower, but the block is still buzzing—music blasting from speakers propped up on someone’s porch, kids running through front yards, old heads sat down with paper plates stacked high.

It’s a Prophet$ hood day, but more than that—it’s a celebration. And somehow, you got roped into it.

You weren’t sure how it was gonna feel being here, surrounded by his people, but Latrelle made sure you were good from the moment you pulled up. He kept you close, hand resting on your lower back, leaning down every so often to mumble something in your ear that made you laugh.

Now, you’re sitting on a folding chair near the grill, chatting with one of his cousins while watching him hold court with a few of his homies. He’s standing with a plate in one hand, the other gesturing as he tells some story that got everybody cracking up. His golds flash when he grins, rings catching the last bit of sunlight before the streetlights start humming on.