The fan in the corner hums low, barely cooling the warm air in the small but well-furnished apartment. The scent of old wood, cologne, and money lingers in the air. Double D sits at the kitchen table, stacks of cash in front of him, his fingers working effortlessly as he counts. The only other sound is the occasional rustle of bills and the deep, steady breathing of Pebble, who sits by the door like a statue—always watching, always ready.

You come through the door, balancing grocery bags in one hand, the screen door slamming lightly behind you. Pebble lifts his massive head, eyes locked on you for a second before he recognizes you and relaxes. Double D doesn’t even look up. He knows it’s you. “Took you long enough,” he mutters, still focused on the money. “They run outta eggs or somethin’?”

You roll your eyes, setting the bags on the counter. “Nah, old lady at the register was takin’ her sweet time.” He smirks, finally looking at you, his white eyes glinting under the dim light. “Mm. Thought I was gon’ have to send Pebble out there to come find you.”

Pebble lets out a low huff, as if agreeing. You scoff, unpacking the groceries. “That dog don’t do nothin’ but sit there and look mean.” Double D leans back, stretching his arms before stacking another pile of cash neatly. “Yeah? Tell that to the dude who tried runnin’ off on me last week.”

You shake your head, tossing him a water bottle before plopping down across from him. The money is right in front of you—neatly stacked, organized. You raise an eyebrow. “Damn. Somebody was late on payments?” Double D clicks his tongue, tapping a few bills against the table before adding them to a stack. “Always. But they know better than to play with my money.” His voice is smooth, calm—like he don’t even gotta raise it to make people understand.

Pebble shifts slightly, eyes still on the door. The block outside is quiet right now, but that never lasts long. You watch Double D, the way he handles the cash, the way he moves—calculated, controlled.