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. . .

The house was quiet, but Malik was already up. Not in that peaceful, well-rested kind of way. It was more like he’d never really gone to sleep. He was still wearing yesterday’s t-shirt and socks… still sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees with his palms pressed together.

Outside, Crescent Park was already wide awake at seven in morning. Trash trucks beeped in reverse. Somebody’s baby was crying two houses down, and dogs barked at nothing like they had trauma too. Same old soundtrack, but something about home always felt right.

Crescent Park felt safe, even though the neighborhood was divided by colors.

Reaching down, he grabbed the orange pill bottle hidden under a dirty tee on the floor.

The name on the front didn’t matter—as far as he was concerned, it belonged to him.

He popped the cap with one hand like he’d done it a hundred times—because he had.

Then he dumped two white tabs into his palm and stared at them.

His stomach was empty, but his chest felt heavier than ever.

Taking a deep sigh, he slipped one of the pills back into the bottle before swallowing the other dry.

This was his version of balance.

He used to tell himself it was just for the migraines…

the tension from coding too long…the strain behind his eyes when he stared at too many screens for too many nights straight.

But somewhere along the way, the headaches stopped being physical, and the pills didn’t just dull the pain—they muted everything.

The anger, the grief, the constant buzzing in his chest that reminded him he was still alive, even when he didn’t feel like it.

Malik grabbed the beer can off his nightstand. It was still cold but barely touched. He used it to chase the bitter pill taste. Just one sip. Just enough to coat it, but not enough to make him sloppy. He wasn’t one of those users.

His laptop dinged on the desk, prompting him to get up and check it. Plugged In’s new update was live.

Flopping down in the chair, he cracked his knuckles before opening the admin dashboard. The dark screen came alive with notifications.

Malik clicked through them one by one, his eyes scanning fast. Somebody in Franklin Heights needed a rush re-up. A sneaker plug from Madison Heights just posted Yeezys without verifying the stock. It was his app and his rules, so he flagged the post then blocked the listing, and sent a warning.

Come correct or get off his shit.

It wasn’t just an app—it was an ecosystem.

Built by him, for people who moved how he used to move.

Plugged In was coded with care, encrypted with real street wisdom, and black as hell from the foundation up.

Everyone from the weed man to the braid tech to the food plate queen was on it now.

If you moved in Crescent Park and had something to offer, you were either on Plugged In—or locked out the game.

Malik knew he needed to get a little more sleep but the way his life and hustle was set up, he knew there wasn’t time for either. He could sleep when he was dead.

His head began to spin from the buzz of the pill and that was all the motivation he needed to officially get his day started.

He walked out his room, stepping quietly past his parents’ door.

The smell of bacon and coffee was already thick in the hallway.

His Mama was up, in the kitchen, talking to herself like always - singing a little gospel and scolding the eggs for sticking to the pan.

His Pops was probably still knocked out, tired from the night shift as security.

That was all the world deemed good enough for a two-time convicted felon.

As he rounded the corner, he smiled at his granny. Gran Betty was the love of his life. She understood him and was always willing to meet him where he was at.

Gran Betty was perched on the couch, bonnet leaning to the left, and her knit blanket around her legs like a throne. “Boy, you look like you got yo’ ass beat in a fight,” she said without even looking up from her soap opera.

Malik smiled a little. “Morning, Gran.”

“That’s all you see?” His Mama, Myesa asked, with her hand on her thin hips.

His eyes sparkled every time he looked at her because he saw why people’s first reaction to them was, boy you look just like your Mama .

He was tall and lean like Myesa. Had what the people considered good hair like her too. Where she kept hers in a ponytail, he liked to keep braids to the back in his.

“Morning, Mama,” Malik, smiled making his mama’s face light up. “Pops asleep?”

“Mm hmm,” she hummed, turning back to the sink of dishes she had moved along to. “I heard you up all night. You can’t keep doing that, Malik.” She fussed with her back still to him.

Myesa loved her boy. He was the only child she’d been given and she thanked God for him every day after she prayed over him.

But she knew Crescent Park had a hold on him so tight that sleep often passed him by.

If she looked at him, she might break down and cry knowing her baby boy didn’t sleep—too afraid of his dreams turning into nightmares.

Malik pulled his hand down his face, at a loss for words.

“Go’on and get you something to eat, Lik. And if I find any more of them cans in that room I’mma slap you with the Spirit.” Gran Betty pulled his attention back to her knowing her daughter was too weak to fuss at him like he needed.

“Yes ma’am.” He kissed her cheek and grabbed a biscuit off the stove, ducking out before Gran Betty could get another sermon off. Not because he didn’t want to hear it, but because he couldn’t take any more care today. Love felt heavy when you didn’t feel worthy of it.

Instead, he trekked back into his room to grab fresh clothes and take a shower. Wasn’t no need for him to lounge around when he had shit to do and people to see.

If Malik wasn’t riding through the hood on his four-wheeler, kicking up dust, he was sliding low in his black old-school Chevy.

The car wasn’t just a whip. It was a reminder.

His Pops had passed it down years ago. It was the only thing the cops didn’t snatch during their last raid when they tore their house apart and left everything else in plastic evidence bags.

He kept it clean. Whenever something stopped working, he got it fixed - no questions. Malik wasn’t the type to chase behind the city’s newest toys or spend bread trying to keep up with flashy rappers and Instagram stunners. That wasn’t his lane.

He put his money elsewhere. He was smarter.

He put his money into things like a new computer, because the one he had was starting to overheat from too many long nights coding and building on his app. He didn’t just hustle to look good. He hustled to create something that would outlive him.

He also spent money on tattoos.

Thick lines, detailed ink, and black and gray stories that covered his arms and crept across his chest. Because even if the world didn’t wanna hear him, they were gon’ see him - his pain…his pride…his past. It was all there, written across his body like scripture from the gospel of survival.

Tonight, he was in the Chevy.

His seat reclined a little with his hand resting on the wheel like he was born behind it. The trunk rattled with bass, vibrating from the soul of a Nipsey Hussle record that bled out the speakers like a prophecy.

“I’m prolific…so gifted…”

The beat thumped heavy, shaking the car frame as he turned the corner slowly, eyes scanning the block—not looking for anything in particular, just soaking in Crescent Park. His hood…his roots.

Even with the cracked sidewalks and bent street signs, the air still felt like home, and Malik moved through it like a quiet king. He didn’t need the crown or the jewels. All he needed were J steel nerves, faded tattoos, and a dream loud enough to make the ground beneath him shake.

People threw their hands up at him and the girls always called his name with syrup dripping from their lips. Malik knew he could have any one of them, but his focus wasn’t centered around warm bodies. He needed shit that could occupy his mind to keep the demons at bay.

The app never stopped dinging. He worked his way through the day and now night had caught back up with him. Still, there was more drops and more money to be made. That and the app glitches needed to be fixed.

Malik knew he probably needed a team if he wanted to make Plugged In as big as it was in his head but that task was easier said than done.

Another ding pulled his eyes back to the phone in his lap.

StylistBae had officially been added to the app as a user.

Malik smirked thinking about fine ass Aku. He could tell she was a spitfire and still he was a little intrigued. So much so, that before he could stop his fingers, he sent a private message.

Key: You ain’t in Kansas no more, Dorothy.

Malik didn’t wait for a reply or even to see if she’d read it. He needed to gather his bearings for his next drop. Still, something about her lingered.

The Wizard of Oz had popped in his head the second she opened her mouth that day—bold, out of place, asking a million questions and not scared of a single answer with red shoes on like she’d stolen them from the wicked witch herself.

If she was Dorothy, then yeah—he was the Wizard.

Tucked behind the curtain, making shit shake with smoke, mirrors, and code.

Building a world that worked better than the one he came from, even if nobody ever saw the man behind it.

The Chevy rolled slowly through Crescent Park, paint gleaming like fresh oil under the streetlights. Malik had his window cracked just enough to let the music spill out—a Nipsey track still humming low in the background.

“Yo, Key!”

Two teens waved from their bikes at the corner. He nodded back, lips curved in that lazy, effortless grin of his. He tossed a peace sign out the window, the glint of his pinky ring catching the light.

“Stay in school,” he called with a smirk.

“We graduated already!”

“Aight then, don’t get locked up, then!”

They laughed, and so did he, pulling off and turning down a street lined with houses painted in faded colors and hope. Crescent Park had its cracks, but Malik moved through it like it still held gold.

His next stop was a block away. He parked and leaned over to the passenger side, grabbing the brown baggie from the glove compartment. Inside was a sealed jar, the kind of gas that made folks come from all corners of the city just to tap in. He kept everything tight—nothing loose, nothing sloppy.

His long frame crawled out of the car before he made his way to the front door.

He knocked twice on the screen door.

A woman answered, already digging in her bra for folded bills. “My cousin said you the one with the fire.”

Malik chuckled. “He told no lies.”

She handed him the money. He handed over the product and just like that he was back in the car, pulling off smooth like he was never there.

His drops never lasted too long. That’s how niggas got hemmed up.

His hands tightened on the wheel as he made his way deeper south, creeping into territory he didn’t love driving through.

The street names changed. So did the murals. So did the way his gut started talking to him.

He reached under the seat real quick and patted the cool metal of the Glock tucked in its usual spot…just in case.

He wasn’t trying to be paranoid, but this neighborhood was a little too close to his opps. He was still active, just moved differently now, but he wasn’t invisible either, and folks remembered everything.

Still, his boy lived here. Reese was a loyal customer. More than that—he was family in a strange, unspoken way.

They used to run together, before Reese’s flag turned red.

Malik pulled into the driveway and parked. The porch light flickered like it was halfway through. The screen door opened before he even made it up the steps.

“What up, Malik?”

The street name ‘Key’ didn’t live between them.

The man standing there was taller now, stockier too. Hair grown out and a red tee that used to mean something more.

“What up, Reese,” Malik said, bumping fists with him and stepping inside.

The house smelled like incense and hardwood. Reese had a little girl now—her crayon drawings were taped to the fridge, and a pink backpack was tossed near the couch.

“You good?” Reese asked, motioning for him to sit.

“Always,” Malik lied.

Reese caught it, but didn’t press.

He handed Malik a few bills. “I don’t even smoke much no more. But sometimes, the world too loud to face sober.”

“I feel that.” He ran his hand down his braids.

They sat in silence for a second just breathing.

“You ever think about it?” Reese asked, without looking up.

Malik didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the floor, jaw clenched.

“All the time,” he finally muttered. How could he forget something that he saw multiple times a day.

Malik wasn’t Reese… the streets didn’t dictate who he could fuck with based on their flag.

Maybe that was why the Ogs gave him the hardest time when he was growing up.

Reese nodded. “I ain’t never gon’ forget that night.”

Malik’s throat tightened. He didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond too afraid his sorrow would spill out.

Neither one of them said what night…didn’t have to.

The silence between them was heavy, but it wasn’t awkward. It was familiar, like grief had learned how to sit still.

“You made somethin’ of yourself though,” Reese said after a while. “That app - the way you move. You ain’t just another nigga tryna get by.”

Malik looked up, eyes sharp now. “You too. You still here - still showin’ up for your daughter. That mean more than people think.”

Reese smirked. “We really made it out, huh?”

Malik gave a short laugh. “Still feel like we halfway in sometimes.”

He stood, dapped Reese again, this time with more weight behind it. The transaction was smooth and would’ve been missed from the untrained eye.

“Be safe, my boy,” Reese said, walking him to the door.

“You too…always.”

Malik slid back into the Chevy. The engine purred. He checked the mirror once before pulling off—eyes sharp, but that weight in his chest had shifted.

He turned up the music and drove back toward Crescent Park, Nipsey still preaching through the speakers.

“I went through every emotion… tryna make a way.”