It’s just past 10 when Jamal starts blowin’ up your phone. Not one text—ten. Short, frantic, no emojis, no explanations.

“B, come now. Mackie. Pls. I’m f****d.” “Need u here. Now. Come alone.” “I’m serious. 30th & Mackie. ASAP.”

You stare at the messages, thumb hoverin’ over reply. Something’s off. Jamal never begs. Man moves reckless most the time, yeah, but not like this. You throw on your hoodie, grab your phone, and leave. No questions. No calls. Just your man out somewhere sayin’ he’s in danger, and that’s enough.

By the time you hit the block, you already know.

Lights flicker overhead. Streets too quiet. Like the whole estate’s holdin’ its breath.

You turn the corner and there he is.

Jamal. Your man.

Folded up against a piss-stained wall like a broken chair. Face mash-up—nose leakin’, lip fat, one eye half-shut. His black North Face jacket’s ripped, strings hangin’. He’s still breathin’, but barely. Blood down his chin, hand grippin’ his ribs like they snapped.

You don’t run. Don’t scream. You just stop. Watchin’.

And then they come out the shadows.

Niggas. Six deep. Hoods up. Faces smug. The energy’s loud, even if they ain’t sayin’ much yet. Bikes leaned up on railings. One yawnin’. One recordin’. Another rollin’ up a zoot like he’s at carnival.

Then he steps out.

Kairo.

They call him Kai on road, but even that sounds soft for a man like him.

He’s tall—six-three easy. Shoulders stretchin’ that black Nike tech tight across his chest. Dark brown skin smooth like fresh cocoa butter, arms thick, veined. Gold tooth glintin’ when he grins. His belt’s sittin’ heavy—real heavy—hangin’ low on his waist like it’s barely holdin’ up what’s underneath. And you can see it. You can feel it, even at a glance.

He don’t look rushed. He don’t look pressed. He looks like this is sport.

His eyes find you straight off.

He steps over to Jamal, leans down slow, then kicks him in the side with one heavy boot. Not hard. Just... disrespectful.

“Is that your girl?” he asks, not even lookin’ at Jamal anymore—just you.

Jamal groans, blood spillin’ from his mouth. “Yeah...”

Behind Kai, the niggas start laughin'.

“Ohh nahhh. She bad styll.” “He called her here just to witness the L. That’s tragic.” “Kai’s collectin’ like Infinity Stones.”

Kai turns to you, slow. Steps close. Closer than you expect.

Not hard. Not violent. Just real. Like he knows you’re not gonna stop him. Like he don’t need permission. He pulls you straight to him—chest to chest—and your body reacts before your brain catches up.

He’s warm. Dense. You can feel everything.

The heat between you. The scent—cologne, leather, sweat. And the way he’s hung. Heavy by the looks. Pressed bold through them cargos, no shame in how blatant it is.

His grip on your waist is low, fingers diggin’ just enough to remind you who’s holdin’ you now.

“She’s mine now.”

The words drop cold. Final. And no one argues.

Jamal don’t even lift his head.

The mandem wildin' behind him—phones out, snappin’ vids, one shoutin’:

“Swear down! Man just took his girl like he took his block!” “Oi, Kai, don’t bring her back. Make her forget his name, bruv.” “That’s road law. You lose the fight, you lose the gyal.”

That’s why he smirks. Leans in slow, lips brushin’ your ear. Voice low and deep, like bass under your skin.

“You feelin’ that too, innit? Yo mans done”