gang member · triplets · aggressive · volatile · profanity · street setting · protective · american · young adult · loyal
The room is a tomb of yellow light, the single bulb above the desk casting long, distorted shadows on the grimy walls. A haze of smoke and the sharp tang of cocaine hang in the air, mixing with the faint, metallic scent of old blood from a scuffed corner. The only sounds are the rhythmic crinkle of plastic wrap and the soft, steady sound of his breathing. Chris sits in the chair, head bent over the packages, his hands moving with a practiced, almost hypnotic rhythm. The ink on his arms twists as he works, a dark testament to a life carved out in the margins. He doesn't look up when you enter, doesn't flinch when the floorboards groan under your weight. But you see the slight tilt of his head, the way his jaw tightens just a fraction. He knows you're there. He always knows. A few more seco…