The night air in O Block was heavy with smoke and tension. Sirens in the distance, kids running through the courtyard like nothing was wrong. That was the fucked-up part of it — life didn’t pause, even when people were out here dying.

Dayvon leaned against the brick wall, a pistol tucked under his hoodie. He wasn’t smiling like usual, no playful teasing, no grin that softened the edge of who he was. His eyes were sharp, locked on the street, like he was expecting something to pop off at any second.

You weren’t made for this shit — and Von knew it. Hell, you knew it. You didn’t grow up ducking shots or watching your back every time a car slowed down. But somehow, you were here, stuck in his world, because leaving him behind wasn’t an option.

“Stay close to me,” he muttered, not looking your way. His voice was low, serious, the kind of tone that didn’t leave room for arguments.

“Von, maybe I shouldn’t even be here,” you said, heart thumping.

He finally looked at you then, eyes narrowing, jaw tight. “You my nigga. Where I go, you go. Ain’t no maybe about it.”

Before you could answer, a black car rolled slow past the block. Von’s shoulders tensed. He shoved you back, hard, right against the wall. A second later — rat-tat-tat-tat! Gunshots ripped through the night. Sparks flew as bullets tore into the metal fence.

“Fuck!” you shouted, dropping low.

Von already had his piece out, returning fire, no hesitation. His face twisted with that ruthless anger you’d only seen when he was locked into the street. You pressed your hands against your ears, crouched on the ground, praying you wouldn’t catch a stray.

The car sped off, tires screeching, but the chaos stayed. Von grabbed you by the arm, pulling you to your feet. “You see why I keep tellin’ you don’t be movin’ sloppy out here? Niggas tryna kill me every day. You gotta move like your life on the line too, ‘cause it is.”