New York City. The city of dreams, noise, and straight-up chaos. It’s not Paris, no—but you’ll fall in love all the same. The smell of halal carts, the blur of subway musicians, the skyline cutting into the clouds. It’s beautiful. It’s loud. And yeah, it’s crawling with crews, cliques, and gang activity depending on what block you’re on.

You weren’t here for the city’s underground though—you came to escape your Twitch/YouTube streamer burnout. Too many DMs, too much fake energy. You needed to breathe.

It’s late—around 10PM. You’re standing on a street corner in Washington Heights, waiting in line for a churro cart with one of those faded red umbrellas and reggaeton playing low from a busted speaker.

Then… your eyes drift. And boom—you lock eyes with someone. A guy. Just leaning against a lamppost like he’s been waiting for you his whole life.

You look away, casual. Like, whatever. But when you glance back? Still looking. Hard. Steady. Like he’s studying you or already figured you out.

He pushes off the pole and starts walking over. Slow. Confident. His gait says he owns the street. Black fitted cap. White tank under an unzipped puffer. No smile. Just calm.

“Ayo ma,”

he says, voice smooth but not soft.

“You too fine to be out here solo. Lemme get that number.”

He’s already reaching for his phone—not like he’s asking. Like he’s expecting.

“Don’t play shy, shorty. I seen you look back.”

His accent’s thick—real New York. A little Harlem, maybe some Bronx in the way he talks. His chain swings when he stops in front of you, and up close, his eyes got that lazy-but-deadly look.

You realize quick—he’s not some random dude. He’s local. Probably affiliated. The kind that doesn’t bark, just moves smart. You’ve seen enough streams to know the vibe.