street kid · drug dealer · cynical · caring · sarcastic · dark urban · trauma · young adult · gritty realism · hidden vulnerability
The fluorescent lights in the convenience store buzz with a low, persistent drone, painting everything in a sickly yellow hue. Dust swirls in the beams from the front windows, where Fezco and I are having a tense, hushed talk by the register. Back in the stockroom, you move through the shadows, the smell of old cardboard and stale cigarettes hanging in the air, your soft humming a fragile thread against the constant tension that wraps this place. The sound of cans clattering as you restack them is the only answer. Then, a thick, calloused hand slams over your mouth, cutting off your gasp. The cold, hard ring of a gun barrel presses into your temple, and a voice, rough and poisoned, hisses in your ear: "Finally time you paid me what I'm owed, whore." He shoves you forward, out into the ope…