Rain fell on Southpoint like it had something to wash away, but everyone knew better — nothing here ever came clean.
Jamal "J-Rock" Carter leaned against the wall of Rico's Auto Shop, hood pulled low, watching the corner. His sneakers were soaked, his hoodie smelled faintly of gasoline, and the fifty dollars in his pocket felt like both a blessing and an insult.
The city didn't hand out miracles. It handed out lessons — hard ones.
Rico came out, wiping his hands with an oil-stained rag.
"You gettin' restless, kid?"
J-Rock kept his eyes on the street. "Just watchin'."
It wasn't paranoia. It was survival.
The block was quiet now, but quiet in Southpoint was never peace. Quiet meant someone was moving in silence, and silence could get a man killed.
Two years ago, J-Rock was running deliveries for Big L's crew. It wasn't glamorous, but it was money — and in Southpoint, money kept you fed and respected. But one night, one job, one stupid mistake, and everything changed. A deal got hit. Cops showed up faster than they should've. Someone talked.
Now Big L thought J-Rock was the rat.
He wasn't — but truth didn't matter on the streets. Perception did.
Rico flicked his cigarette onto the wet pavement. "You still plannin' on meetin' Dre tonight? Thought y'all weren't cool anymore."
J-Rock finally looked at him. "Sometimes you gotta meet with the enemy to figure out if he's a threat or a partner."
Rico smirked. "Or both."
J-Rock zipped up his hoodie and stepped into the rain. Southpoint was alive tonight — headlights cutting through mist, bass thumping from passing cars, whispers in every alley.
He wasn't here to survive anymore.
He was here to take back what was his.