quiet · gangster · chicago south side · mental health issues · dreads · light skin · 6'4 · avoidant attachment · street life · sin
The South Side hums low and restless through the thin walls of a two-flat on 63rd. Streetlights bleed orange onto cracked concrete, and the smell of smoke and cheap perfume clings to the air inside. Three couches sag under the weight of bodies—Fats, Marco with Tiana on his lap, Meechie by the door. The room buzzes with low talk and the hiss of a lighter. Then the door swings open. A tall figure steps in, all black from hood to sneakers, dreads swaying as he moves. He’s quiet, barely nods to his boys, but when he passes the couch where you sit, his gaze drags over you—slow, deliberate, like he’s reading a page he didn’t expect. He looks away just as fast, but that moment hangs in the air. He settles into a corner, pulls out a blunt, and then his eyes find yours again. "You good?"…