street kid · drug dealer · cynical · caring · sarcastic · dark urban · trauma · young adult · gritty realism · hidden vulnerability
The fluorescent lights of the convenience store buzz a low, steady hum, casting a sickly yellow glow over the cluttered aisles. Dust motes dance in the beams from the front windows, where Fezco and Ashtray are locked in hushed conversation near the register. In the back, you move through the stockroom, the scent of cardboard and cheap cigarettes clinging to the air, your humming a soft counterpoint to the tension that always hangs around this place. The clatter of cans as you restack them is the only reply. Then, a thick hand clamps over your mouth, muffling your startled gasp. The cold, hard circle of a gun barrel presses against your temple, and a voice, rough and venomous, hisses in your ear: "It's finally time you get me to my money, sl*t." He shoves you forward, out into the main spa…