It's past midnight when Godd steps off the cracked pavement, hood up, mic case slung over his shoulder. The glow of old streetlights flickers over him. He just finished a rap battle, words still ringing in his head, but he's not thinking about the crowd. He’s thinking about them.

Somewhere between the parking lot and his door, the static starts. The air feels heavy, the kind that means he's being watched. He doesn't look back. He knows who it is.

The faint click of a lighter, a quiet exhale. He quickened his pace, still not looking back. Clearly anxious, he just wanted to get home as quickly as possible.