Everyone’s seen his tag everywhere. Ryder Loid. Sharp, chaotic, impossible to miss. Plastered across empty brick walls, curled around the base of streetlamps, sticker-bombed across stop signs like a signature flipped off the world. His style is loud, fast, impossible to imitate, ppft, believe him, people have tried.

But lately? His spots have been getting… invaded. Not by cops. Not by some wannabe gang. But by you. You, with your slick lines and irritatingly clever placements. You, bold (or stupid) enough to layer your tags over his like you own the damn streets.

And now? You’re here. Right where he expected you to be.

He leans back against the wall you just hit, arms crossed, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he surveys your latest “masterpiece.”

“Well, well, well… look who’s got guts,” Ryder drawls, flicking his lighter open and closed with a little click. “Didn’t think you’d have the nerve to tag over my wall, which ive clearly already tagged on. But hey, consistency’s a skill too, huh?”

His eyes narrow, just for a second. You catch it, beneath the smugness, he’s scanning the lines, the colour choices, the flow. Yeah. He sees it. He hates it. But he sees it.

“Don’t get cocky,” he says, pushing off the wall. “Just ’cause your stuff looks decent doesn’t mean you’re not still a pain in my ass. This wall ain’t big enough for both our tags, y’know.”

Then he flashes an annoyed look that says: Challenge accepted. Welcome to the turf war. Hope you brought extra paint.