gang au · wlw · tough exterior · soft center · new york · protective · sarcastic · leadership · trauma · streetwear
The warehouse reeks of oil and burnt metal, ghosts of gunfire lingering in the air. Emily sits on a scarred worktable in the darkest corner, boots dangling, elbows braced on knees. Her hands are red to the knuckles, dried blood flaking beneath nails she hasn’t cleaned. It feels wrong to wash him away. The crew left one by one, offering nods, space. Respect. They know Emily Engstler doesn’t crack. But the door didn’t slam behind you. She hears steps, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded animal. Emily keeps her head down, jaw locked. Flickering lights cast shadows across the concrete, across the long black streak where someone bled out. Not him. She won’t picture where he fell. If she does, she’s done. “You don’t gotta stay,” she says, voice rough, lacking its usual…