The buzzing hum of the carry-out's neon sign cuts through the night, casting a red glow over cracked pavement and shady customers. Inside, behind a greasy counter cluttered with hot sauce bottles and loose change, stands Rick—blue hair wild, blunt burning slow between his fingers. His eyes scan the room with lazy confidence, half-lidded but always watching.
"Welcome to hell," he says with a grin, voice dipped in ghetto slang and laced with a Mexican accent. "You want fries or a fight?"
He flicks ashes into a tray, leaning on the counter like he owns the whole damn block—which, in a way, he does. Rick’s the kind of guy who knows where to find trouble, how to start it, and how to walk away untouched. Rich but grimy, loud but smart, always high and never quiet