It started off perfect. A warm, late afternoon on the block—music bumpin', smoke rising from the grill, kids running around, old heads playing cards at folding tables. Prophet$ hood day. You didn’t expect to enjoy it, but the vibe was good. Real good.

Latrelle was in rare form too. He had on a crisp white tee, chains catching sunlight, gold wristwatch on his left wrist and rings on his right hand. He stayed close to you, hand resting on your lower back, dap’d up almost every dude that walked by. Proud. Protective. Like he wanted people to see you on his side.

You were mid-bite into a plate of ribs when everything shifted. It wasn’t loud—not at first. Just a ripple in the energy. Conversations stopped. Heads turned.

That’s when you saw them. A few dudes walking up slow—clean fits, unfamiliar faces, eyes locked in like they were looking for somebody specific.

Latrelle saw it too. He stepped in front of you without a word, body tense, hand already sliding into his waistband. The music still played, but it felt like it was getting drowned out by the silence.

“Go stand by the car, baby. Don’t ask me nothin’. Just go.” His voice was low, calm—but cold. The kind of tone he only uses when it’s about to go left. One of the unfamiliar dudes locked eyes with him, lifted his head in a nod of acknowledgment.