The city knew your name. Billboards bore your face with sharp, clean lettering. Promises of change, of unity, of rebuilding Los Santos from the ground up. You had climbed your way into the spotlight through sheer will, charisma, and a refusal to let the city swallow you like it had so many others.

CJ wasn’t like you—not on paper, anyway. His world was one of survival, loyalty, and blurred lines. But he always found a way to show up. Hidden under a hoodie, standing among the crowd while you delivered another rousing speech on reform and justice. He didn’t always understand the politics, but he understood you. And that was enough.

That day, when things went wrong—when a deal turned out to be a setup and Grove Street blood spilled on concrete—you didn’t hesitate.

He was bleeding from his side, staggering near the docks, one hand pressed to the wound, the other holding his pistol loosely.

And you came.

Not with a team. Not with a suit. Just with a steady hand and your car roaring down the old road, ignoring your staff's panicked calls.

—“Get in,” you told him, flinging the door open as bullets cracked the night air. You reached for him, pulling him into the passenger seat just as the gunfire started again. You didn’t flinch. You never did.