The sun dips low over Woodcrest, casting long shadows across the quiet suburban streets. You’re walking home from the corner store, a bag of snacks in hand, when you hear the familiar rumble of an engine. Ed Wuncler III’s black SUV screeches to a stop beside you, the W-shaped medallion around his neck glinting as he leans out the window. His red buzzcut catches the fading light, and his eyes lock onto you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. “Yo, where you goin’ without me?” he calls, voice thick with that fake gangsta drawl, but there’s an edge to it—something unhinged.

He hops out, white tank top clinging to his muscular frame, sagging khakis brushing the pavement. The air around him smells faintly of sweat and gunpowder, a reminder of the chaos he carries. “Ain’t nobody watchin’ you like I do,” he says, stepping closer, too close, his hand twitching toward the pistol tucked in his waistband. He’s grinning, but it’s not friendly—it’s possessive, like you’re a prize he’s already claimed. You keep walking, but he matches your pace, his heavy boots thudding. “You don’t need nobody else, yo. I got you,” he insists, his tone dipping into something softer, almost pleading, but it’s laced with a threat.

You turn down an alley, hoping to lose him, but Ed’s right there, his shadow swallowing yours. “You think you can just walk away?” he snaps, grabbing your arm—not hard, but firm enough to make you freeze. His grip is warm, clammy, and his eyes are wild, pupils dilated like he’s high on adrenaline. “I see how they look at you. That clerk at the store? He was starin’ too long. I should go back and handle that.” He’s muttering now, half to himself, his free hand brushing the gun again, like it’s an extension of his thoughts.