Chapter 1: First Impressions

The night air was thick with tension, the kind Deion "D" Carter had learned to read like a book. It clung to the city like smog, hanging heavy over the flickering streetlights and the cracked concrete beneath his feet. The Charger's matte black hood gleamed faintly under the glow of a nearby liquor store sign. D leaned against it, arms crossed, a blunt dangling lazily from his lips as his eyes tracked the figure approaching him.

Malik Rivers.

D had heard about him before tonight—young, quiet, but sharp as hell. A kid who didn't say much but let his actions speak for him. He didn't roll with any specific crew but had been making moves that got people talking. Not just on the streets but in the alleys where whispers carried more weight than gunfire. D wasn't the type to trust easily, especially not a loner like Malik, but his crew needed someone who could navigate the rival territory where the next big drop was supposed to go down.

"Yo," Malik greeted, his voice low but steady. He stopped a few feet away, his dark hoodie blending into the night.

D sized him up. Malik wasn't tall—maybe 5'10"—but there was something in his stance that made him seem bigger. His hands were deep in his hoodie pockets, but his posture wasn't slouched. His gaze was level, sharp, and unflinching, like he was daring D to say something slick.

"You Malik?" D asked, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette.

"That's what they call me," Malik replied, his voice calm, almost bored.

D smirked. He liked the kid's confidence, but he wasn't about to let it go unchecked. "Heard you were good. Let's see if you're worth all that talk."

Malik tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "You want me to prove myself? That's cute. Thought you'd be smarter than that."

The smirk vanished from D's face as he pushed off the Charger and stepped closer. He wasn't used to being challenged, especially not by some rookie trying to make a name for himself. "You think you know me, huh? Think you can talk slick and walk outta here?"

Malik didn't flinch. If anything, he looked amused. "I think you called me here because you need me. So if you want me to play along, you better talk like it."

For a moment, silence stretched between them. D's crew stood nearby, watching the exchange with thinly veiled curiosity. Tone, D's right-hand man, leaned against a lamppost, shaking his head like he couldn't believe the kid had the audacity.

D's lips twitched into a grudging grin. "Alright, Rivers. You got my attention. Let's see if you can keep it."

The night's job was supposed to be simple: a drop-off in rival territory. They'd chosen Malik to act as the go-between since he had connections on that side of town. D didn't trust anyone he hadn't worked with before, but desperate times called for calculated risks.

The plan was to meet at an abandoned warehouse on the edge of Lincoln Heights, a spot neutral enough to avoid unnecessary bloodshed—or so they hoped. Malik rode in the backseat of the Charger, quiet as a shadow while D drove and Tone kept an eye on him from the passenger seat.

"You always this quiet?" Tone asked, side-eyeing Malik.

"Depends," Malik replied, his tone neutral. "You always this nosy?"

Tone snorted. "Kid's got jokes."

D said nothing, his focus on the road, but he was paying attention to every word. Malik wasn't just quiet; he was deliberate. The kind of person who spoke only when it mattered. D could respect that, even if it annoyed Tone.

When they reached the warehouse, things felt off immediately. The area was too quiet, even for a late-night deal. D parked the car a block away, and the three of them approached on foot, weapons tucked discreetly under their jackets.

Inside the warehouse, the tension was palpable. The other crew—six of them, compared to D's three—stood in a loose circle near a stack of crates. Their leader, a wiry man with a face that looked like it had seen one too many bar fights, stepped forward.

"D," the man greeted, his smile all teeth. "Didn't think you'd show up yourself."

"Had to make sure things went smooth," D replied coolly. His eyes flicked to Malik, who stood just behind him, his expression unreadable.

The deal started fine—cash exchanged for a duffel bag of product—but the tension never eased. D caught the slight shift in the rival crew's stance, the way their hands hovered near their waistbands. He didn't like it.

"Something wrong?" he asked, his voice sharp.

Before anyone could answer, the first shot rang out.

Chaos erupted in an instant. D dove for cover behind a stack of crates, pulling his gun as more shots filled the air. Tone cursed loudly, firing back as he and Malik scrambled to cover.

"Yo, what the hell?!" D shouted, popping off two shots toward the rival crew.

"They set us up!" Tone yelled, ducking as a bullet splintered the crate above his head.

D glanced toward Malik, expecting the kid to panic, but Malik was calm—too calm. He moved with precision, firing off quick, calculated shots that took down two of their attackers before they even realized what hit them.

"Fall back!" D ordered, covering them as Malik and Tone made a break for the side exit.

They burst out into the alley, panting but alive. Malik scanned the area quickly, his gun still in hand. "Car's too far. We need to cut through the back streets."

"You seem awful calm for someone who just got shot at," Tone said suspiciously.

"Panic don't keep you alive," Malik replied flatly, already moving.

D followed, his mind racing. Who the hell was this kid?

Malik patches up a graze on D's arm, his hands steady despite the adrenaline still pumping through them.

"You handled yourself back there," D admits, watching Malik closely. "Might just be worth the trouble after all."

Malik glances up, his dark eyes meeting D's. "Trouble's all I know."

The tension lingers, unspoken but undeniable, as D realizes Malik isn't just another hustler—he's a wildcard. And wildcards are dangerous.