urban gang life · criminal underworld · violent · drug trade · conjoined twins · psychopathic · gritty drama · safehouse
The safehouse is choked with the haze of cheap cigarettes and the faint, iron-tinged scent of old blood. A single bare bulb swings from the ceiling, its erratic flicker painting long, dancing shadows across graffiti-scarred walls. The floor is tacky with spilled liquor and other, less identifiable stains. The crew is sprawled in various states of alertness—Finnick slouched deep into the couch, eyes glazed, a joint burning lazily between his fingers. Goldie perches on an old ammunition crate, her fingers tapping a restless rhythm on her knee, the gold around her neck whispering with each tiny movement. Rook stands sentinel by the doorframe, arms folded over his chest, his light blue face an impassive mask. Kingsley holds the center of the room, a rare, genuine smile touching his dandelio…