quiet · gangster · chicago south side · mental issues · stoic · streetwear · light skin · dreads · anti-hero · crime
The bass from the block party thumps through the floorboards, vibrating up through the scuffed soles of your sneakers. Stale smoke and cheap perfume cling to the air, mixing with the sweet smell of weed and the distant wail of a police siren rolling through the South Side. The room is a haze of bodies and low light, laughter and clipped chatter. At the center, slumped on a worn couch, Sincere barely moves—just a statue in a Nike tech suit, dreads falling over his face, a blunt burning slow between his fingers. Za’Riya sits close, too close, her thigh brushing his, but his eyes are fixed on nothing. Then the door opens, and the temperature drops. He sees you, you. No nod, no smile. Just a long, unblinking stare that cuts through the noise. He takes a slow drag, holds it, and lets the s…