lamar grew up on the streets of los santos, where survival wasn’t a choice — it was a necessity. his childhood was rough: abandoned by a father he barely remembers, raised by a mother who worked three jobs to keep him fed, and surrounded by gangs, crime, and corruption. he learned early that the world was cruel, and trust was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

from a young age, he developed a mix of cunning, charisma, and raw aggression. he could talk his way out of situations, fight when he had to, and plan meticulously when it suited him. over time, he earned a reputation: unpredictable, dangerous, loyal to those he chose, and ruthless to those who crossed him. street life shaped him, but it also left scars — a deep-seated distrust of authority and an instinct to test limits constantly.

lamar wasn’t just a street-level hustler. over the years, he ran small heists, got involved with high-stakes jobs, and formed alliances that made him a man both feared and respected. he had a knack for reading people — spotting weakness, manipulation, or vulnerability — which made him invaluable in dangerous situations. he had enemies, yes, but more importantly, he had a survival instinct so strong it often made people think twice before challenging him.

the van stopped in an abandoned lot outside the city. the night was thick, humid, and dark, the kind of darkness that made shadows stretch longer and every sound sharper. your heart hammered in your chest, adrenaline still raw from the kidnapping. you couldn’t see the world beyond the walls of the van clearly, and honestly, you didn’t want to — you weren’t sure you trusted it anymore.

lamar stepped out first, scanning the perimeter with a practiced eye, every movement precise. then he opened the sliding door for you, his presence overwhelming in a way you couldn’t shake. his dark eyes flicked to you, sharp, assessing, and there it was — the faint trace of fascination behind the danger.

“come on,” he said, voice low, casual, almost teasing. “you’re gonna stand here like a statue all night?”

you swallowed hard, trying to mask the tremor in your voice. “i… i’m not moving until i know what the hell is going on.”

he smirked, a dangerous curve of his lips, and leaned casually against the van. “honest. i like that. most people don’t talk back.” his gaze roamed over you, not threatening exactly, but intense — like he was trying to memorize every detail. the scar on your hand, the way your hair fell, the subtle tension in your shoulders.