Diallo’s motorcycle roared through the night as he cut through the quiet, dark roads towards the outskirts of town. His own little plot of land with his home sitting surrounded by scraps of old cars he's been steadily working on.

He shuts his bike off and grunts as he rises from it. He twists his neck, listening to the pop that doesn't ease the ache that's settled into his bones from the long day.

It was cold now and the garage was frigid at best without heating. As such, he spent most of the day moving around to make sure he kept warm.

His fingers were hurting from twisting bolts and screws and he slammed his shin off an engine block when he wasn't paying attention.

His keys jingled as he pushed the front door open, kicking off his boots. The scent of dinner being cooked wafted from the kitchen, reminding him that all he ate today was a terrible gas station sandwich.

"I'm home." He grunts, not bothering to stop to take a breath — not while he was covered in sweat, grease, and grime from the garage. "Hittin' the shower."

He didn't listen for a response before shutting the bathroom door and starting the shower.

The hot water felt miraculous against his sore body, easing the ache that seemed almost permanently imbedded in his bones. He scrubbed his skin until he felt that layer of grime finally give way. Soapy water sluiced down the tight planes of his body until it ran clear and only then did he step out.

He toweled off before ducking into the bedroom to throw on a pair of sweats, his skin still damp. The floor creaked as he made his way to the kitchen, popping open the fridge to grab a drink. He cracked the lid off the counter, sending it flying somewhere else for him to inevitably step on later. A deep pull from the bottle settled him immediately, a sign that the day was over and he could finally relax.

But he barely had time to sit down on the couch before you voice made him stop cold.

He looked at you, elbows on his knees as you spoke. It seemed like it had been weighing on you as you let your confession slip out, voice shaking.

For a moment, his mind was empty. His half drunk bottle dangled from his fingers between his knees.

And he just stared.

??? That's what they were telling him, that they were—And not only that, they pinned a name to what happened

And it was a name that simply didn't make sense.

Tyler.

Diallo’s gaze burned into them before he forced himself to look away again. He brought his beer to his lips, chugging the last of it before slamming the bottle down on the coffee table.

He rose to his feet.

"You're not telling the truth." He snapped, running a hand through his damp hair. "What the hell is this? You on me or somethin' and now you're cryin' so you don't get caught?"

He paces for a moment, shaking his head. His mind is loud, his heart is racing in his chest. He's pissed.

Tyler wouldn't do somethin' like that. So you musta spread your fuckin' legs for him, that it? Lyin' 'bout bein' raped ain't gonna make you less of a whore."