Page 36

. . .

Malik was up early, sliding through the city before everyone was up and moving around. At this time of the day, it was only the real hustlers out—the ones that had responsibilities.

He’d done an overnight push on the app, fixing a bug in the chat encryption - tightening up what needed tightening. Plugged In was running smooth now. He watched the user count spike up on his dashboard and smiled.

His chest wasn’t hurting like it had last night either.

The bruises had turned yellow and sour, healing like they knew they couldn’t hold him forever.

Even better? Aku had sent him a picture that morning, no words attached.

Just a mirror selfie in her bathroom—hair tied, body bare, hips arched, with a soft smirk on her lips like she knew exactly what it would do to him.

It put an extra pep in his step and a smile on his face. Life felt good. She made it that way.

Sunlight had barely cracked through the smog, but Malik was already on the move—making a couple morning drops to clients still caught up in the Crescent hustle. Old habits…easy money. Until the app paid like it needed to, he wasn’t cutting off his lifeline…not yet.

His third stop was on 106th and Raymond - a referral from a loyal customer. Swore the kid was cool, a quick handoff and gone. Malik knew the block well, enough even though the graffiti was red on that side. He didn’t linger, didn’t post up, didn’t talk too loud. That’s how you stayed alive.

Still…something felt off.

It was subtle at first. The street was too still…no kids running bikes through the alleys. A cracked streetlight buzzed overhead, flickering like it was trying to say don’t.

But money had to be made, and he’d been that way before. Most people from the other side who used the app kept shit neutral—respected that he was from Crescent like them.

Malik shifted his weight as he parked. He scanned the block. There was no movement, not even from the windows. The air had that kind of stillness the hood only offered right before something popped. Still, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

He stepped out anyway.

Kept his hoodie up, pack in his pocket. Eyes always scanning the area. He counted the steps from his car to the porch.

The drop was clean. He met the kid on the steps, barely said a word. Quick handshake, quick cash - no problem.

But as he turned to head back to the car, his gut twisted.

That was the moment he should’ve peeled off and never looked back. But by the time his hand hit the door handle, it was too late.

The first hit came from the left. Clean across his jaw like a fucking hammer. No warning…no sound…just pain. His head snapped sideways and before he could fully turn—another punch landed square in his ribs.

Then came the rush.

Three of ’em, maybe four…young, aggressive and wild with something to prove. He spotted the red flag over one of their heads, but could tell they were just some babies…at least to him.

They poured out from behind parked cars and backyard gates like roaches in a trap. No guns—just fists, elbows, and steel-toed boots laced high. Their movements were sloppy but hungry, angry. Like the set they repped was carved into their bones and they had to bleed for it.

“Brescent bitch-ass nigga!”

On that side they switched up their C’s replacing it with B’s.

“Don’t ever bring yo’ crab ass over here again!”

A fist split his lip, another caught him in the side of the neck. Malik grunted, stumbling back, but caught himself on the fender of his car. He swung, it connected.

One of them dropped to their knee, nose started leaking on contact, but he had heart. He came back with a knee to Malik’s thigh that buckled him.

They swarmed him, shouting out soowoo’s, cuss words, and their newly dead homie’s name.

Punches to the ribs. Kicks to the shins. One grabbed the chain around his neck and yanked until the back clasp snapped and the pendant flew. Malik elbowed somebody in the gut, threw a wild hook, grabbed one by the hoodie and slammed his head into the side mirror—shattering both glass and logic.

“Fuck off me!” he growled, fighting for air.

But another one kicked the back of his leg. He hit the ground hard, shoulder smacking the pavement, and his spine jarred. Dust scraped his knuckles raw as he tried to push himself up.

They weren’t finished, though.

One stomped on his chest. Another pulled a small blade and dragged it across his temple. The cut wasn’t deep, just enough to draw blood and prove whatever point they felt they had to prove.

“Yea, we see you now, pussy. Heard about you and that fuckin’ app,” one of them hissed, voice cracked and raspy. “Think that tech shit protect you?”

“Next time, bring a gun,” another spit, real close. “Next time, stay the fuck off our side.”

Then, just like they came, they scattered…fast. Gone into the alleys and broken fences of the neighborhood like ghosts. No cars...no tags, just blood and laughter in the air. Cheering that they repped their set and couldn’t wait to tell their big homies about it.

Malik laid there, cheek to the concrete, blood dripping from his lip to the asphalt. His vision doubled. Ears ringing. Ribs on fire.

He didn’t move for a full minute…just listened.

The street went still again.

The hood didn’t ask questions. Nobody opened a door. No porch lights flicked on.

This was normal.

This was expected .

This was the Crescent—and every block just like it.

When he finally rolled onto his back, chest heaving, Malik looked up at the sky asking God what more he wanted from him before he cleansed his soul. He could taste iron in his mouth, felt heat pulsing in his temple.

He wanted to scream. Not from pain, but from the truth of it all.

No matter how much code he wrote…no matter how much Aku made him feel like more…the streets still knew his name, and they didn’t plan to forget it.

Malik found enough strength to climb into his car, one arm holding his side while blood leaked into his eyes. When he got in, he hauled ass just in case the real shooters showed up.

Malik drove home in a haze, face numb, ribs throbbing with every breath.

Blood dripped down the side of his face, dried in streaks along his neck.

The window was down, but the air felt hot, heavy, and suffocating.

The Crescent wasn’t quiet anymore when he made it back to his side.

It buzzed with sirens from a few blocks away, and laughter from somewhere as he rode past.

His hands trembled on the wheel. Every turn felt like he was moving through wet cement. By the time he reached his block, he could barely see.

The familiar palm trees blurred in and out of focus. His porch light was on. Somebody had left the front door cracked—probably Myesa to let the smoke from breakfast leak out instead of climbing the walls of their small house.

He pulled into the driveway crooked. Didn’t even have the strength to put the car in park.

The door flung open like it knew what needed to happen.

Malik stumbled out, his legs buckled. He hit the ground hard - face down. Gravel biting into the open skin on his forearm.

A deep groan tore from his chest, more animal than human. The pain had gone past hurting—it had bloomed into something spiritual.

He heard footsteps…fast ones.

Then the heavy voice of his father—deep, alarmed, the kind of shout that came from the gut. “MALIK!”

Anthony had just gotten off his night shift, ready to go to sleep while the world woke up. He still had on his navy security uniform, the badge slanted on his chest. He was halfway up the walkway, when he saw his son crumple out the car.

Time stopped.

“LIK!” he bellowed again, breaking into a run. “Oh my God—BOY, WHAT THE FUCK?!”

Anthony dropped to his knees beside him, hands on his chest, slapping his cheek gently. “Look at me, son—look at me!”

Malik groaned, blood in his mouth. “They got me, Pops…”

“Who?! Who the fuck?—?!”

“Tell Ma…” Malik coughed, voice faint. “I’m tired. My demons caught up to me.”

Anthony blinked,. his hands shook. “Nah,” he muttered. “Nah, you don’t get to say that…not to me…not like this.”

He yanked off his security jacket and stuffed it under Malik’s head, yelling toward the porch. “MY! MAMA! COME OUT HERE! IT’S MALIK!”

The screen door slammed open a second later.

His mama came flying out with her bonnet half-off and house shoes flopping against the concrete. Gran Betty was behind her in a big sleep shirt that read “Blessed and Petty,” already sobbing.

“OH LORD, CALL THE AMBULANCE!” Myesa screamed, dropping down beside Anthony. “WHAT HAPPENED TO MY BABY?!”

“Mama…” Malik coughed again, his lips barely moving. “I ain’t got no more left in me.”

“Stop sayin’ that!” she cried, clutching his face. “Don’t you say that, Malik! You stronger than this. You done made it through worse. Just hold on, baby.”

Gran Betty stood over them with her phone, shaking as she dialed. “Why’s it ringin’ three damn times?! Where the fuck they at? We live down the street from the damn fire station!”

“Tell ‘em he got jumped,” Anthony barked. “Tell ‘em it ain’t gunshots but he bleedin’, and I don’t care if he Black and from the Crescent—get somebody out here now!”

The operator gave her the usual scripted response: “We’re dispatching a unit. Please remain calm.”

Calm?

There wasn’t no calm on Crescent.

Not when your son was laid out in your arms leaking, lookin’ like death brushed past him and was double-checkin’ his name.

The ambulance took twenty-seven minutes.

Twenty-seven…fucking…minutes.

Anthony paced the driveway like a caged dog, fists clenched, eyes wild.

He’d already made two calls to his old crew—boys he used to run with before Myesa gave him an ultimatum—the streets or his family.

He was trying not to slip back, but watching Malik cough up blood had him two thoughts away from putting the uniform back in the closet and strapping up.