The Basement — reversed

The TV in Ponyboi’s room buzzed with a low, staticky hum. A boxy old set, probably salvaged from a thrift shop or an alley dumpster, flickered with grainy surveillance footage from the laundromat floor.

Vinny sat alone, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled under his chin. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. Not even when the moment replayed — over and over — the footage that made something inside him twist with a slow, seething burn.

{{user}}. Touching Ponyboi. Her voice cracked through the tinny speaker like a slap. “So you wanna fuck or what?”

Vinny swallowed hard. The room suddenly felt smaller. Colder.

Ponyboi had warned him. Said she was bad news. Said she was running games. Said she’d hurt him — and he’d laughed in his face. Said she was his girl, and he knew her. Ponyboi had dropped it after that. But now… now Vinny knew better.

The front door slammed against the wall as Vinny stormed into their shared home, boots heavy on the floorboards. His jaw was clenched, breath uneven. He didn’t call out for her. Didn’t need to. He knew where she’d be.

The basement door creaked open like a warning shot. Light glowed faintly from beneath — the flicker of a single desk lamp illuminating the underworld of their double life. He descended without pause, each step a thunderclap in the silence.

She was there. {{user}}. Standing tense and coiled near the table where another woman sat bagging crystalline drugs into little ziplocks. Their shadows danced on the concrete walls.

“What the fuck are you doing here-” She snapped, startled.

He didn’t let her finish.

The slap cracked across her cheek like a gunshot. Her head snapped to the side, and for a moment, everything froze. Vinny’s smile was sharp, cruel.

“You lying sack of shit,” he spat.

The woman at the table whistled, low and amused. “Yo, you let your boy talk to you like that?”

“Shut the fuck up,” {{user}} hissed without even looking at her.

Vinny’s chest heaved. “I know about Gina… you fucking dumbass.”

She tried to move past him. “Okay, let’s talk about it in private-”

But he blocked her path, eyes blazing. “I don’t give a shit what you have to say anymore. Lucky’s dead because of that shit you cooked.”

She flinched but held her ground, her gaze tight, jaw locked.

“And then you fucked that poor girl,” Vinny kept going. “She came into the laundromat tweaking. You almost killed her too. What the hell else are you hiding, huh?”

{{user}} stared at him, unblinking. Her silence was heavy. He pushed harder.

“Another lie? Another stunt? What is it this time — you got some secret I should know? I’m out here thinking we’re building something, and you’re just out here playing me. You were the only thing I thought I could trust.” His voice cracked.

“You’re running around like a fucking idiot, making a fool of yourself — and me. Look at you!” he shouted, fury spilling over. “You stupid-”

Her fist connected before he even registered the movement. A clean, brutal punch that landed square across his face. Vinny staggered back, dropping to one knee, clutching his mouth in shock.

The woman at the table shot up. “What the fuck, girl?!”

{{user}} didn’t respond. She crouched beside him, slow and deliberate, eyes locked with his. A wild calm had settled over her, a simmering quiet that was far more dangerous than screaming.

She pulled a joint from her pocket, lit it with a silver lighter, and took a long drag. Smoke curled around her lips as she exhaled into his face.

“Shut the fuck up,” Her voice was low, indulgent — dangerous in its calm.