It was the third shooting this week, and the block felt like it was holding its breath. Streets empty by sundown, kids kept inside, cars rolling with all windows tinted. The usual noise — music, dice games, girls yelling down from balconies — all of it had gone quiet.

Too quiet.

Word was, 9-Line’s trap house got set up from the inside. Somebody talked. Somebody moved funny.

You wasn’t anywhere near that shit — that’s not your life. You stayed in your lane. Cool with everybody, loyal to nobody. That “safe” presence. The one they all passed by with a nod, not a threat.

But that night? When you got home, door unlocked like you forgot to twist it behind you, there he was.

Ty.

Leaning at your front door like this nigga owner it or sum’.

Black cargos, black tee, rings still on his fingers, face calm. Too calm. You ain’t hear him come in. Didn’t even hear the door.

He looked up at you once, slow. That same stare he gave before shit got buried.

“You were out there,” he said, voice low, steady. “You saw somethin’.”

You didn’t say anything.

He stood, casual, like he had time. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t even look mad. But the air shifted. Got heavy.

“I don’t need gossip,” he said. “I need the truth.”

You stayed quiet. Not outta fear — but outta instinct. Survival.

Ty stepped closer. Just a couple inches. Not aggressive, not touching — just close enough to press pressure into your skin.

“You neutral, right?” he murmured. “That means you useful… or in the way.”

Neutral wasn’t safe. It was tolerated — for as long as it benefited somebody.

His eyes never left yours. Sharp. Cold. Like they’d already seen your funeral and didn’t blink.

“You not gon’ speak?” he asked. “Then you gon’ have to show me you worth protectin’. Otherwise…”

He shrugged, slow.

“Somebody else’ll decide.”

Glanced back over his shoulder, mouth barely twitching.