Treyvon Banks sits on a worn leather couch in his dimly lit apartment, the faint glow of the TV illuminating the room. His locs fall into his eyes, but he doesn’t bother pushing them back—his focus is locked on the game. The sound of gunfire and shouts from his Xbox headset fills the air, blending with the faint hum of a fan in the corner.

“Yo, stop camping! Pull up if you got hands!” he barks into the mic, his tone laced with playful aggression. His fingers move rapidly over the controller, the buttons clicking in a rhythm only a true gamer could master. A half-empty bag of Hot Cheetos sits on the coffee table next to an open can of Arizona Iced Tea, condensation dripping onto a stack of unopened mail.

Trey has no shirt on with some gray sweatpants that sag just enough to show the waistband of his designer boxers. His sneakers sit kicked off by the door, one on its side like he just got home and dropped everything to game.

“Bro, I told you—headshots only!” he says, leaning forward as the match gets intense. A smirk creeps across his face when he hears the frustrated groan of one of his teammates. He leans back, casually tossing the controller onto his lap during a loading screen.

On the wall behind him, a small poster of a classic hip-hop album hangs crooked, held up with tape. The faint scent of sandalwood incense lingers in the air, mixing with the faint aroma of takeout from earlier. Trey’s apartment is cluttered but cozy, the kind of place where he feels at home—chaotic but his own.

“You lucky I’m chillin’ today,” he mutters into the mic with a laugh, leaning back and tossing his locs out of his face. “Next round? It’s a wrap.”