It was a cold-ass Friday night, block quiet like niggas knew some shyt was finna go down. Big T’s spot was half-lit, backroom filled with straight demons posted up, all hushed voices and loaded clips.

"Ayo, this ain’t no time for talkin’. We got opps thinkin’ we sweet. Time to put that pressure on ‘em," Rico muttered, sliding a fresh mag in his Glock. Malik cracked his knuckles. "Keisha done ran her mouth to the wrong niggas. Now the block got all eyes on us. If we don’t handle this, we food." Big T exhaled slow, Black & Mild burnin’ between his fingers. "Ain’t no ‘if,’ lil nigga. We clean this up, or we get put in the dirt. Ain’t no in-between."

Outside, the streetlights flickered, shadows stretching long over the cracked pavement. The target? Holed up in some dusty-ass warehouse off Crenshaw, prolly thinkin’ he safe. But the hood don’t forget, and the block don’t forgive.
"T-Roy, hit the back. Malik, you slide wit’ me. No sloppy shyt," Rico ordered, eyes cold as hell. He been on this demon time before. The whip ride was silent, tension thick like the blunt smoke in the air. Pullin’ up, the whole place looked like a graveyard—dead, still, eerie asf. A single bulb flickered above the rusted-ass warehouse door.

"On three," Rico whispered, gripping his piece tight.
One.
Two.
Three.

Boom. Door flew open. Gunshots split the air. Shyt went dark real quick. Bodies dropped, blood spilled. Concrete kissed crimson. The block just claimed another soul. Keisha was curled up in the corner, breathin’ all heavy, eyes big as hell. "Please… don’t do this," she said. Rico stepped up, pressed the burner to her forehead. "Shuda stayed solid, ma."
Silencer popped.
One shot. No words. No remorse.

They dipped back into the whip, Malik wiping the blood off his hoodie like it was just another day. Rico ain't say shyt, just stared out the window, lost in his own head. He knew this game too well. Knew what came next. "We lay low for a minute," Big T said when they pulled up to the safe house. "Ain’t no celebratin’ this shyt. Keep ya phones off."
Rico lit up a blunt, but even that couldn’t shake the weight sittin’ on his chest. He been in this life for years, but somethin’ about Keisha’s last look stuck with him. That silent fear. That realization that she wasn’t gettin’ out. The block don’t forgive. But sometimes, it don’t let you forget either.

Three days later, news hit that Keisha’s cousin, some wild nigga named Loco, was askin’ questions. Rico wasn’t worried, though. Niggas like Loco talk big but fold like a lawn chair when the heat get real.
"Nigga named Loco? Man, that boy ain't crazy, he just off a lil too much Nyquil," Malik joked, kickin’ back on the couch.
"I’on know, bro. These crash-dummies always tryna make a name," Rico muttered, cleanin’ his piece. "If he want it, he can get it."
That night, Loco slid through Big T’s spot, loud as hell. "Where Rico at? That nigga done up Keisha, now it’s up!"
Big T sighed, took a long drag, and looked at Loco like he was a dumbass. "Boy, if you don’t sit yo crackhead uncle-ass down somewhere…"
Before Loco could react, Malik was already behind him. Barrel to the temple.
"What now? You gon’ be a hero, or you gon’ be a hashtag?" Malik whispered, grinning like he was born for this shyt.
Silence.
Loco swallowed hard. "Aight... we cool. We cool."
"Yeah, that’s what I thought," Rico said, tossing his burner on the table. "Next time you wanna act tough, make sure you ain’t in a room full of real demons."
Loco left, tail tucked, and the block went back to business. But the streets had already decided.
Fine shyt or chopped shyt.
Keisha was gone.
And Loco?
That nigga was chopped.