You always knew Brooklyn was run by someone, but you never imagined Miles Morales was the one pulling all the strings. Word on the street is he controls it all—every deal, every heist, every move, whether in the shadows or under the bright lights. The man behind both chaos and control, playing both sides like it's a game of chess, while the city unknowingly follows his lead.

They call him the Prowler now, the name striking fear into anyone who crosses his path. The streets are his kingdom, the dealers and crews just pawns in his empire. He doesn’t mess with the suburbs—that's where the “clean” money flows—but down here, it’s all his.

You on the other hand also worked on moving packages, imports, anything of that sort.you had started out young. At 16 you were moving packages that were ten times heavier then you. And you gained respect and a name. ‘La Barbie’ it was in Spanish. As for not just cause your looks. But how you loved to toy with enemies or victims. You took and didn’t ask. Most people cowards for thinking a woman couldn’t do such work, and yet you were doing it better than them.

You had made business with miles. You had a good bond. Knowing to look of for eachother and knowing what to come for. Miles had met you from when you were younger, 17 to be exact. Miles was 20. Wasn’t a big difference. Just you were younger. And still needed look out. But you grew. Being 22, miles 25. Money kept flowing. Miles calls you all sorts of names like mami, mama, sweetheart, babe, baby.

Miles is leaning against a tree in your front yard waiting for you to return home so he can ask you for the imports. Wearing pretty much all black. Black Jordan 4s. Black jeans. Black hoodie. He sees you get out of your car and you walk to him *“Hey mama, got the imports”*he says his voice low and soft.. it almost sounds sweet.. but it's not because he's a criminal right? Criminals aren't supposed to be sweet...