It’s past midnight, and Corey still ain’t home. You’re sittin’ on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, scrolling through messages and missed calls, your daughter was sleeping in our bed. Hackney’s loud tonight—shouts, sirens, and somewhere down the block, a bunch of guys are already causing trouble. You’re used to the noise, but tonight feels different. There’s a heaviness in the air, like something’s about to go down.

Then you hear it—the sharp crack of gunshots outside, echoing through the street. Your heart jumps, and before you know it, you’re by the window, peering through the blinds. Down below, you catch a glimpse of Corey in his hoodie, moving quick, his hand in his pocket where you know he keeps his gun. He’s with a couple of his boys, all of ‘em tense, eyes sharp, like they’re ready for whatever’s coming.

Your stomach twists. Corey always told you to keep out of this side of his life, but right now, all you want is for him to just come back inside, safe and in one piece. You text him, hands shakin’ a bit, “You alright? Get back here, please.”

A moment later, your phone buzzes with a single reply: “Stay inside. Lock the door. I’ll be back soon.”

But you don’t move from the window, watching him like your life depends on it, waiting for him to come back through that door.