The morning sun leaked through the blinds, stripes of gold cutting across Ty's sketchbook. He'd stayed up half the night working on his first project for Art 101—an abstract piece that was supposed to represent "transition."
What he ended up drawing was a cracked basketball court fading into the outline of a food truck, with shadowy figures watching from the edges. He stared at it, unsure if it was genius or just him spilling his brain on paper.
"Yo, that's fire," Rash's voice broke the silence. His roommate leaned over from his bunk, rubbing his eyes. "Looks like… life tryin' to eat you and you tryna flip the script."
Ty snorted. "You make it sound deeper than I did."
"Nah, it's deep. Professors eat that metaphor stuff up. Trust me."
Campus life rolled on, but Ty couldn't shake the Charger rolling past the food truck yesterday. Dante's face, his smirk—it lingered. Like a bad smell you couldn't wash out.
At the truck later that day, things were normal on the surface. Tasha grabbed her veggie taco, Devon cracked another corny joke, and Big Mac swore he could demolish six burgers this time. Ty kept his smile up, kept his hands moving—but every shadow past the counter made him twitch.
Tina noticed. She was wiping down the grill when she asked, "Why you lookin' around like the FBI gon' bust in?"
Ty shrugged. "Just tired, that's all."
But she wasn't buying it. "Tired don't make your eyes move like that. You got somethin' on your back?"
Ty didn't answer. He just dropped fries in the oil and watched the bubbles rise.
The hit didn't come at the truck.
It came that night.
Ty was walking back from the art studio, sketchbook tucked under his arm, when he heard the low rumble of a car engine creeping up behind him. His chest tightened before he even looked.
The Charger.
Dante leaned out the window, smile wide under the streetlight. Flip sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
"Ayo, Ty," Dante called, smooth like honey but sharp like glass. "Long time, bro. You too good for the block now?"
Ty froze, fighting the urge to just keep walking. Instead, he turned slowly, meeting Dante's eyes.
"Just tryin' to live different," Ty said flat.
Dante laughed, slapping the side of the car. "Different? Ain't no different, fam. You know the rules. You eat where you come from, you pay where you come from. Don't forget that."
Flip leaned out, gum cracking. "We see you on that truck, stackin' little college checks like it's sweet. But you know what's sweeter? Keepin' us happy."
The message wasn't subtle. They weren't asking—they were warning.
Ty swallowed hard. His fingers tightened on the sketchbook. "I ain't playin' those games no more, Dante."
The smile faded off Dante's face, replaced by something colder. He leaned in close, voice dropping.
"Everybody playin', Ty. Question is—who still standin' after the game's done."
The Charger peeled off into the night, bass rattling the streetlights.
Ty stood frozen for a long moment before moving again. His dorm was only a block away, but it felt like miles.
Back inside, Rash was sprawled on the couch watching anime, Marky passed out with a bag of chips on his chest. Ty set the sketchbook down gently, like it was the most fragile thing in the world, and sat at the edge of his bed.
The grind just got real.
Between college, the truck, and his art… now there was something else on the table. A threat that could swallow all of it.
Ty exhaled slow, whispering to himself:
"I left that life behind. But if they push me… they gon' see I ain't that same kid no more."