Flashback — Ten Years Ago
The rain fell sideways that night, like the sky was mad at the earth.
A boy—no older than seventeen—ran barefoot through the alley behind Marcus Street, shirt soaked with sweat and blood. His name was Tone, and in that moment, he wasn't thinking about right or wrong. Just escape.
Sirens wailed somewhere behind him, flashing red and blue painting the wet bricks. His breath came sharp. His lungs burned. His hands… his hands were still sticky from the knife he dropped behind the liquor store.
> "Never let a man touch you twice and live to tell it."
—One of the old heads had told him that. Street Law #14.
The man he stabbed was named Booker—mid-level dealer, ex-con, and Tone's cousin. Family didn't mean mercy in the hood. Sometimes it meant deeper betrayal.
Tone dove into an abandoned laundromat. Darkness swallowed him. His heart pounded in rhythm with the storm above. Thunder cracked. A rat squealed in the corner.
He crouched there until morning.
And when the sun finally came, he wasn't a boy no more.
---
Present Day — 6:47 AM, East Parkview
A crow circled over the church on Belmont like it had something to say.
Tone stood across the street, watching black suits pile into the old red-brick building. The air was thick—humid like the sky held back tears. A funeral in June was always heavier. It meant someone didn't even make it to summer.
He lit a cigarette, one hand buried deep in his hoodie pocket. His other hand—the same hand from that night ten years ago—trembled just a little. The way it always did at funerals.
A banner hung on the church gate:
"R.I.P. Uncle Roy – Hood Father. Street Soldier. Real One."
Roy wasn't Tone's real uncle, but everybody called him that. He was one of the last old-school OGs, a man who kept peace through respect, not fear. Ran the corners fair. Died in his chair with a Bible in one hand and a Glock in the other.
Tone stepped onto the sidewalk, walking slow. A few younger heads nodded as he passed.
"Yo, that's Tone," one of them whispered. "Used to run with Big Smoke back in the day."
Tone didn't acknowledge them. Didn't smile either. Today wasn't about him.
Across the church parking lot, leaning against a black bulletproof Cadillac, stood Dre—Big Smoke himself. Older, thicker now. Sunglasses on. Arms crossed. Watching. Silent.
They made eye contact for a second. That was it. No handshake. No head nod. Just acknowledgment. History didn't need words.
Tone entered the church.
---
Inside the Sanctuary
The pews were packed with a cross-section of the hood—dealers, cousins, hustlers, ex-girlfriends, one or two crooked cops in plainclothes. Kids who'd never even met Roy wore shirts with his face on it. Printed fast. Sold faster.
Pastor Willis stood behind the pulpit, his voice cracking from age and smoke.
"He was a man of the streets, yes, but also a man of order."
Tone slid into the back row. The smell of cheap perfume, fresh grief, and gun oil hung in the air.
> Street Law #27: "When the king falls, the jackals feast first."
The quote was painted in red marker on the back of a church bulletin. Tone didn't know who wrote it, but he agreed.
Roy's death wasn't just a loss. It was an opportunity—for chaos.
Outside the Church — Midday
The last mourners drifted away like smoke. The sun climbed higher, burning holes through the thick cloud cover.
Tone stayed behind, leaning against a cracked lamppost on the corner of Belmont and 3rd, watching the block. The street was quiet, too quiet for East Parkview. Something was coming.
A black Ford Crown Victoria rolled up slow, music blasting low—heavy bass mixed with old-school hip-hop. The driver was Lil' J, a reckless kid with eyes too wild for his face. He jumped out, swaggering like he owned every crack and brick on the block.
"Yo, Tone!" Lil' J called out, slapping the side of the lamppost as he approached. "You hear what happened? Word is, Big Smoke's crew's getting shaky since Roy went down."
Tone exhaled smoke, eyes narrowing. "Yeah, everybody's looking for a seat at the table now."
Lil' J laughed, but it was a bark, not joy. "Man, I heard somebody's planning a hit tonight. Word is, it's gonna be big."
Tone's jaw tightened. The air smelled like gasoline and gunpowder.
---
The Robbery — Late Afternoon
Two blocks away, behind a busted-down warehouse, a crew of three hustlers prepped for action.
Carlos, the sharp-eyed lookout.
Manny, the driver with nerves of steel.
K-Dawg, the muscle with a temper to match.
Their target? A drug shipment coming in on a silver van. Rumors said it was full of something rare and expensive—enough to set a whole neighborhood on fire if it fell into the wrong hands.
Carlos checked his watch. "Van's five minutes out."
Manny revved the engine. K-Dawg cracked his knuckles.
The van rolled down the cracked asphalt, headlights cutting through dust and broken glass.
K-Dawg's voice was a low growl. "Let's get this done quick."
The van screeched to a stop. Two men jumped out—guards armed but sloppy, too confident.
Manny floored it. The car rammed the van's side, forcing it into a pile of rusted barrels. The guards fired shots, bullets pinging off metal and concrete.
K-Dawg charged, swinging a crowbar. Carlos moved fast, snatching bags of cash and drugs.
---
Back at the Corner — Tone's POV
Gunshots echoed in the distance. Tone's phone vibrated. A message from Lil' J:
> "Shit's about to pop off."
Tone crushed his cigarette beneath his shoe. The streets were changing again. The funeral had just been the beginning. Now, the hunt was on.
Big Smoke appeared beside him, eyes cold beneath his shades.
"Time to move, Tone," Big Smoke said.
Tone nodded.
---
This next chunk brings the tension and action forward, mixing dialogue, atmosphere, and street wisdom. I'll keep writing more to reach the full 2,000 words.
Want me to keep sending in parts like this, or would you prefer the full chapter in one go once done?
The Aftermath — Early Evening
The street was alive now—sirens in the distance, distant shouting, and the unmistakable hum of tension thick in the air. Word spread faster than wildfire. The robbery wasn't just a hit—it was a declaration.
Tone and Big Smoke moved with purpose, weaving through groups of hustlers and lookouts who eyed them like vultures. The old neighborhood felt like a chessboard, and every player was waiting to see who'd make the next move.
A kid named Rico, fresh-faced and jittery, caught up with them near the corner store.
"Boss," Rico stammered, "they say the Van's crew ain't done yet. Retaliation's coming."
Big Smoke's voice was steady but cold.
"Let 'em come. We'll be ready."
Tone watched as the kingpin's calm masked a storm beneath. The old OGs might be gone, but the fight for control had just begun.
---
Tension at the Barbershop — Nightfall
The barbershop on Maple Street was a neutral zone, but tonight, the air was thick with unspoken threats. Locals packed the chairs, scissors snipping, conversations hushed but charged.
Tone sat in the corner, watching faces—their eyes sharp, their hands twitching near concealed weapons. On the walls, a faded poster read:
> "Respect ain't inherited, it's taken—or taken from you."
A young barber whispered to Tone, "You think Big Smoke can hold it down without Uncle Roy?"
Tone didn't answer. He lit another cigarette and thought about the old days—about loyalty, about betrayal, about survival.
---
Big Smoke's Warning — Late Night
Big Smoke called a meeting in the backroom of an old warehouse. The core crew gathered—Tone, Lil' J, Carlos, Manny, and K-Dawg. The flicker of a single bulb barely lit the grim faces.
"Roy held us together," Big Smoke started, voice low but firm. "Now, it's on us. We keep the peace or we break the hood apart."
He slammed his fist on the table.
"Remember this—"
> Street Law #52: "A broken hood is a playground for snakes."
"We ain't letting no snakes in."
The room went silent.
Prison Release — Midnight
The gates clanged open at the East Parkview Detention Center, a sound both freeing and haunting. Out stepped Marcus "Shade" Daniels, a man whose name alone sent ripples through the streets.
Shade had spent the last seven years behind bars for a crime that split the neighborhood. Some called him a martyr; others, a traitor.
Tone watched from the shadows across the street as Shade lit a cigarette, eyes scanning the block like a king returning to a fractured kingdom.
Lil' J nudged Tone. "You think he's here to make peace? Or to start war?"
Tone didn't answer.
He knew better than anyone: Shade's return was the storm before the hurricane.
---
The Silent Standoff — Dawn Approaches
Shade walked toward a waiting black sedan, where a new crew waited—young, hungry, and armed with a score to settle. Big Smoke's reign was no longer unchallenged.
The neighborhood held its breath. Sidewalk conversations quieted. Even the rats seemed to disappear.
Tone felt the weight of those unspoken words. The streets didn't forgive. They didn't forget. And sometimes, the past didn't stay buried.
---
Final Scene — Tone's Reflection
Back on the corner, the first light of dawn crept through the cracked windows of abandoned storefronts. Tone stood alone, cigarette burning low.
He thought about all the laws—spoken and unspoken—that kept the hood alive. About loyalty that could snap like a twig, and power that could burn like wildfire.
He pulled his hoodie tighter.
Welcome to the hood.