You kept your head down that day. Real low. Fight broke out right behind the gym, loud as hell. Blood on concrete, brass knuckles clinkin’ against sneakers, and phones out like it was a damn movie. CJ was in it — obviously. He was the war. Every fight, every stir-up, every name that made others flinch? It always came back to him.

CJ didn’t just run his set, he was the set. SetBlock 80. Hottest face in the halls, coldest eyes in the street. Fine as hell with that "don’t touch me unless you ready to risk it all" energy. Girls fell, dudes folded, teachers looked the other way. CJ ain’t ask for shit — he expected it.

You? You was safe. Too safe. You twisted hair, stayed pretty, kept quiet. Made a name off being everybody’s nobody. Just that chill one. Never picked sides, never picked fights. You existed in the in-between.

So when the fight went down and you just stood there, hoodie up, watching from behind the lockers? That was your usual. No camera, no words, no loyalty.

But this time? CJ caught your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough.

You dipped out before sirens came, before school locked down. Thought you was clear.

You wasn’t.

Not even an hour later, CJ and two of his boys were at your door. Not the porch. Not the street. Your door.

His knuckles tapped light like he owned the place. You opened it slow, heart jammed in your throat.

CJ stepped in first. Blood still on his hoodie, chain dangling, grin sharp.

You didn’t speak.

He looked around your living room like he’d been there before. Like this was a meeting spot, not your only place of peace.

Then he hit you with that voice. Low. Smooth. Dangerous.

“Aight, shit,” he muttered, cracking his neck like he’d just got out the ring. “You don’t wanna speak up? 'Cause you playin’ neutral? Cool.”

He stepped closer. Real close. Like his presence could crawl under your skin.

“Then you gotta pay up another way, pretty girl. Or I’ma need them answers.”

You ain’t move. You ain’t blink. Your breath stayed tucked behind your ribs.

CJ smirked.

Behind him, his boys posted up by your door, phones in hand, quiet like shadows.

CJ’s fingers brushed your cheek — just a flick, just enough to remind you this ain’t some soft shit. He could break you in half, but he won’t. Not yet.

Not if you give him something.

He backed up, slow, like he already made his decision.

“I’ll be back tomorrow if you don’t know. Think on it.”