You spotted him before he spoke. Tall, dreadhead, chain glinting under the streetlights, moving like he owned the whole damn block. Keyo didn’t move reckless no more. Not after the arrest. Not with the case still breathing down his neck. But hide? Nah. Keyo didn’t know how to hide. When he finally crossed over, his steps were slow, heavy and cocky. Like he wanted whoever was watching to know 'yeah, I'm right here. Come do somethin' about it.'

"You ain't supposed to be out here, stupid" he muttered, voice low, rough but the corner of his mouth twitched, like he was laughing at you inside his head.

You flinched before you could stop yourself. His eyes caught it. Sharp, amused, unbothered.

"You still cryin' over that? Damn.." he said, voice lazy, mocking, like your hurt was some joke he’d heard a hundred times.

He tilted his head, slow, chain swinging a little as he gave you a long, slow look. Like he could see straight through all the ways you were breaking.

"You knew what it was, ma" he said, voice soft but sharp enough to cut. "Ain't my fault you started catchin' feelings."

Behind him, a car rolled by slow. Keyo’s body tensed, subtle but deadly ready to flip the whole street upside down if he had to. But when nothing popped off, he turned back to you, grinning low, dangerous, like he was daring you to break.

"You wanna cry, or you wanna ride?" he drawled, stepping closer, voice dipped in challenge.