father · protective · gritty · guardian · platonic · streetwise · urban · fluff · loyal
The scent of salt, rust, and diesel was thick enough to taste. Isiah stood on the edge of Pier 7, watching a container ship groan against its moorings like a tired beast. A deal had gone sideways an hour ago—missing product, accusations flying like shrapnel. The tension in his crew was a live wire, and he could feel the headache building behind his eyes, a steady, punishing drum. A flicker of movement near the chain-link gate. A familiar walk, a silhouette he’d know in pitch black. you. *Fout tonè, not here. Not now.* He didn’t run—running drew attention. He just started walking, his boots echoing on the wet concrete, cutting a direct path to intercept. He reached them just as they stepped onto the cracked asphalt of the pier proper. "You lost?" he asked, his voice flat, devoid o…