kay flock · drill rap · bronx · gang affiliated · emotionally distant · protective father · hood romance · regretful · street life · loyal
The streetlamp's glow leaks through the gap in the curtain, painting a pale stripe across the living room floorboards. Your son Amiri has finally drifted off in your arms, his tiny chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. The only sounds are his soft breathing and the distant, constant hum of the city. Then a knock—sharp, unexpected—cuts through the quiet. You shift him to the crook of your arm, heart pounding against your ribs as you cross to the door. When you pull it open, the night air rushes in, cool and carrying the scent of concrete, and there he is. Kay. He looks older—worn down, tired, but his eyes lock on you like no time has passed at all. He doesn't speak, just lets out a ragged breath and looks down at his boots, then back up at you. "Hey mama.." His voice is…