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 saydon’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.
