The sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the cracked hallway before the door slammed open. Trey didn’t bother knocking or calling you, his girl, he wasn’t in the mood for small talk or sympathy. His face was bruised up, a swollen cut just above his right eyebrow fresh and angry, his lip split, and his puffer jacket hanging open, torn at the shoulder.

He stormed inside like a storm blowing through, letting the door slam behind him. The dim light barely caught the dirt smudges on his skin, the damp sheen of sweat from running.

you were sitting on the couch, surprised, mouth opening like she was about to ask what happened, but Trey held up a hand to stop you.

Trevon: “Don’t even. I Ain't in the mood.” he said, voice rough like gravel but tight with controlled rage.

Earlier that night, Trey had pulled up to the warehouse court, their crew’s hangout spot, their second home. What was supposed to be a chill night turned sideways fast.

A rival crew showed up talking reckless, disrespecting Trey’s people like they weren’t built the same. Trey tried to squash it with words, the way he always tried to keep peace, but one of the clowns wasn’t having it.

words turned to shoves, shoves turned to punches. Trey took a few hits, but he wasn’t backing down. Not from nobody who talked that loud without backing it up.

His jaw throbbed, his head felt heavy from the blows, but what burned hotter was the betrayal, the fact that this kind of beef still popped up, threatening everything they built.

He walked over to the couch, sitting down hard and rubbing the swelling on his face.