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. . .

Malik’s button-up was stiff.

He kept tugging at the collar, wishing he had just worn his hoodie like usual.

But Zaire said first impressions mattered in boardrooms, said this was how things changed, said this was power .

Malik wasn’t so sure. From where he sat, all it looked like was a bunch of white boys with soft hands and unbothered lives tryna make something out of him that he wasn’t.

The conference table was long and expensive, real mahogany or whatever white folks thought was luxury this year. Everything smelled like lemon polish and central air.

He cut his eyes at Zaire. He came along to make the introduction since these were his people.

Malik sat stiff in the leather conference chair, thumb tapping his knee under the table. His rib brace itched under his shirt, but he didn’t adjust it. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of thinking he was uncomfortable.

Across from him sat three white dudes, all grinning with that eager, friendly confidence that made him itch. They looked like they’d never had to run from anything but a networking event that went too long.

Zaire was off to the side, trying to play middleman. “These are the guys I was telling you about,” he said. “This is Brady, Todd, and Hunter.”

Of course one of them was named Hunter.

Brady leaned forward, arms on the table, eyes lit with excitement. “Malik, man—first of all, Plugged In? Brilliant. We’ve been tracking user traffic, engagement, the encryption layers…it’s solid work. You built a gem.”

Malik nodded. “Appreciate it.”

Todd jumped in next. “We’re thinking scale. Bigger network. Nationwide, maybe even international integration. There’s a void in the encrypted community-based app space. You’ve got something that could replace the traditional social web for underserved communities.”

“Underserved?” Malik repeated, eyes narrowing slightly.

Brady caught the shift. “We mean under-resourced - left out of the traditional tech ecosystem.”

Malik smirked. “Nah, you meant poor Black folks.”

Zaire shifted in his seat, feeling this was about to go left.

Hunter cleared his throat. “We’re offering resources, though. Expansion. Capital. A proper backend team, a UI overhaul, a brand pivot. We’re here to water the tree.”

That’s when Brady echoed it: “It’s a shared evolution. You built the seed, we water the tree. Help it grow faster.”

Malik blinked once…twice.

He pinched the bridge of his nose to stop all the vile shit that sat there, itching to come out.

The only tree he had, Aku was already watering it - consistently, with joy. She fed the roots, not just the branches. He didn’t need no synthetic-ass water from people who didn’t even know what a drought felt like.

He leaned back, slow. “And what happens when y’all don’t like how the branches look?”

Brady blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“You said ‘shared evolution,’ right? So, let’s say the brand don’t move the way y’all want. Or the culture push back on the pivot. Then what? Who gets the last word?”

Todd chuckled nervously. “We’re not here to take it from you, Malik.”

Malik nodded again. “But you do want to own part of it.”

“Well, equity is part of the structure?—”

“So I build somethin’ from pain and pressure, and y’all want to come eat off the plate after I done damn near starved makin’ it?”

Brady sat forward, tapping his pale thumbs on the table. “We don’t want to change the heart of it—just sharpen the edges. Make it scalable.”

“I am the edge,” Malik snapped. “Ain’t no polishing that. This app ain’t a side hustle. It’s a tool. It’s protection. It’s home. Y’all look at it and see market gaps. I see every person in Crescent who need a backdoor into safety.”

Hunter frowned. “But don’t you want more for it? For yourself?”

“I do,” Malik said calmly, “but not like this.”

Zaire opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Right then, Malik’s phone vibrated on the table. Quesha . Again. Fourth time this hour. Malik picked it up, sighed, and declined it.

Another buzz. This time a text from the therapist herself. Can’t start sessions until balance cleared.

Malik hesitated. Then opened his messages to Aku.

Can I ask you for a favor? I know you said if I ever needed anything.

Her response was almost instant.

Yes.

2k to 725 Bunker Street

On my way…leave your mark Black man

Black man —he adjusted his crown. Two words. One lifeline. He tucked his phone back into his pocket.

Brady was still talking, probably about projections or user metrics. Malik let him finish, then stood up slow, body still sore but spirit sharper than ever because his lady had just confirmed what he already knew.

“Again, you’d retain a percentage of equity. But you’d also be in a senior advisory role—guiding vision.”

He blinked. “Guiding my own vision?”

They hesitated. That pause told him everything. Brady looked over to Zaire for help.

“You want my shit,” Malik said slowly, “but not my say.”

“No,” Brady jumped in. “It’s a tree, remember?”

“And charge people for the shade,” Malik muttered.

The suits exchanged glances.

Todd adjusted his glasses. “We’d introduce tiered access. Basic remains free, but community leaders or high-use areas would have access to premium analytics. Paid services for higher-level engagement.”

Malik tilted his head. “Like what?”

“Well, imagine if a user could pay $2.99 a month and get early crime alerts, personalized safe routes, and integration with local emergency services?—”

Malik cut him off. “You tryna sell survival.”

“No, not sell—optimize.”

He smirked without humor. “You ever been scared to walk to school, Todd?”

“…No.”

“You ever needed an app to tell you which way not to go just ‘cause a nigga got shot yesterday on your corner?”

Todd blinked, silent.

Hunter leaned in again, trying to smooth it over. “Malik, we want to amplify what you’ve done. The raw brilliance is there. We just think with the right polish, it could go from neighborhood tool to national solution.”

“I ain’t build this to be cute,” Malik said. “I built it to save lives. You polish the soul outta it, all you got left is code and capitalism.”

He stood up, Zaire followed.

“Let me save y’all some time,” he said. “I ain’t sellin’ my soul.”

“Malik—”

“I built this for us, cuh.” Crescent came out like a proud lingo. “From Crescent. For Crescent. For every hood like mine. Plugged In ain’t gon’ turn into some sterilized, corporate-speak mess y’all slap a fake logo on and pitch to VCs. That ain’t the play, cuh,” he sneered.

They all went quiet.

“You got somethin’ powerful,” Brady still had to try. He saw the money.

“I am somethin’ powerful,” Malik corrected. “And y’all just missed out.”

“You’re walking away from a million-dollar offer, man,” Brady said, baffled.

“I’m walkin’ away from white folks tryna make my community digestible,” Malik said, calm and mean. “From niggas gettin’ priced out of the one tool that ever made them feel seen.”

He turned and walked out that glass fishbowl without lookin’ back. Into the world that birthed him.

Not scaled, Not pivoted…just real.

Zaire was on his heels, moving fast.

“Malik,” he called, catching the stairwell door before it slammed. “Cuh, can we talk about this?”

Malik didn’t even stop. “Nah.”

“Malik—”

“I said nah, Z.” He stopped two flights down and turned. “What you wanna talk about? Huh? How you served me up like I was some charity case for them tech niggas to pick apart?”

Zaire threw up his hands. “Damn, it wasn’t even like that. You wildin’.”

“I’m wildin’? Nigga, you out! You don’t live this shit no more. The fuck you care about me or what my pockets got?”

That hit. Zaire’s face shifted, but he held it.

“You think I don’t care?” he asked. “Nigga, I set this up because I care. You think I ain’t proud of what you built? I seen you puttin’ in hours, coding from scratch, pullin’ strings with nothing but Wi-Fi and weed money.”

Malik paced a step, breathing hard. “Then why bring me to them? Why set me up like I was hungry? Like I was ready to trade in what I built ‘cause they offered a shiny-ass backend and some buzzwords?”

“They was offering help?—”

“They was offering control,” he yelled back, arms flying in the air before landing on his head.

“You don’t get it, Z,” Malik said. “This app is the only thing I built with my name on it. My pain…my code…my rules. You think I’m ‘bout to let three dudes named Todd, Hunter, and Brady decide what’s best for Crescent?”

Zaire rubbed his head. “So what, you just gonna keep struggling? Bein’ broke and bruised and stubborn, like that’s some badge of honor?”

“I ain’t broke,” Malik snapped. “Not in the ways that matter.”

Zaire stepped closer. “You know why I left Crescent? ‘Cause I knew I couldn’t survive if I stayed. Not the way we was livin’. You? You still in it. And instead of takin’ a rope when somebody throw it down, you tryna climb up the side with bloody hands.”

Malik looked at him. “I don’t want they rope. I want wings.”

Zaire’s jaw flexed.

“I just wanted better for you, bro.”

Malik’s eyes softened. He understood why Zaire thought this was a good idea. That didn’t make the truth less truthful though. “Then don’t try to force me to be something I ain’t. You wanted better? I want that too. But it gotta be mine . My way...our way, cuh.”

“It’s open,” Quesha yelled, not bothering to get up.

Aku stepped inside slow, heels tapping the floor with soft authority.

The scent hit her first—cocoa butter, old weed, and something faintly sweet, maybe incense.

She stood still for a second, eyes dragging across the living room.

One couch leaned against the wall, cushions a little slumped but still firm.

Baby pictures in dollar store frames lined the wall.

A graduation cap hung nearby, faded but proud.

It was clean, yet lived in and Aku took it all in—not judging, just curious. She was nosy by nature.