Emily woke up to violence. Not Harlem violence — that was outside, always outside — but underwear violence. Her bra wire stabbed her like it wanted rent money, digging into her ribs every time she inhaled.
She hissed, shoved it back into place, and whispered, "Stay strong, soldier. You all I got left."
Her wig slid halfway down her forehead. One eyelash clung to her cheek like it had been evicted. The room smelled like sweat, incense that quit burning two days ago, and Chinese takeout that had started its own ecosystem.
Then her eyes landed on the black lace panties hanging over the chair. Once upon a time, they were "date night" panties. Now? They were relics. Seven days in rotation, stiff enough to stand on their own. Crunchy like autumn leaves, glistening under the light like someone glazed them.
Emily picked them up like they were sacred. "Y'all veterans now. One more tour."
She slid them on. They crackled.
Cutaway gag: Emily in a military barracks, handing medals to her panties. Drill sergeant voice: "For bravery, endurance, and surviving Harlem summers without detergent, we honor you." Panties salute. Emily wipes a tear.
Back to reality.
She yanked on her leggings — once black, now a washed-out gray, sagging at the knees. Hoodie stained with grease and disappointment. Sneakers that flapped at the soles like they were gossiping about her life choices.
Before she left, she fogged herself down with dollar-store body spray until her room looked like a vape shop. The label said Cherry Blossom Fantasy. Reality said Bounce That Ass No. 5.
She opened her door and stepped into the hallway.
Immediate regret.
The air shifted. Neighbors held their breath like she walked in with chemical warfare.
"Lord have mercy," an old man wheezed, waving his hand like he was fighting demons.
Emily smirked. "Don't act brand new, old man. You still gon' stare when I bend over."
A little girl whispered, "She smell like the train station bathroom."
Emily shot back, "Yo mama smell like foreclosure. Worry about that."
The kid gasped, clutched her beads, and ran. Emily grinned. 1–0, Emily.
Harlem Wake-Up
Outside, Harlem was alive like always. Sirens harmonizing with pigeons, babies crying out of windows like they were auditioning for The Voice: Section 8 Edition. Somebody's busted speaker blared drill music so distorted it sounded like a demon trying to freestyle.
The bodega grill hissed, bacon-and-egg aromas floating out like a cruel joke. Emily's stomach growled so loud a scooter kid swerved away from her. She rubbed her belly.
"Relax. We gon' eat when I rob somebody dumb enough to feed me."
Cutaway gag: Emily sprinting down a block with a Lunchables clutched in one hand, Capri Sun straw dangling out her mouth like a cigarette. A kid screams, "Mom, she took my lunch!" Emily yells back, "Shut up and get a job!"
Back to reality.
That's when she saw him: fresh Jordans, chain glinting, leaning on a shiny car like he was waiting for his mixtape to flop. He looked like lunch money with legs.
Emily tugged her bra wire deeper into her ribs, adjusted her crooked wig, and strutted toward him like the cracked sidewalk was her runway.
"Damn, you fine," she purred. "You single?"
He smirked. "Yeah. Why?"
Emily grinned, lashes crooked as crime scene tape. "Because I'm hungry. You buying me food or what?"
He laughed. Not with her. At her.
"Food? Girl, you smell like last week's MetroCard. Back up."
Emily froze. Did this n***a just—
"First of all," she snapped, "this funk limited edition. You can't get this at Sephora. Second, you built like Lil Baby if the label dropped him. Don't test me."
His boys hollered, pointing at her. He just shook his head and drove off.
Emily yelled after him, "That chain fake! That car leased! Yo mama use raisins in her potato salad!"
Her stomach growled again, louder than her insults. She sighed. "Damn. Still hungry and now I'm mad."
The Hustle Instinct
Back inside, Emily opened her fridge like it owed her money. Expired yogurt. Soy sauce packets. Half a box of rice turned into gravel.
She stared. Then poured soy sauce over the rice and ate it like it was gourmet.
Her phone buzzed. Tee.
"Play today. Dress nasty, act classy."
Emily grinned through a mouthful of stale rice. "Finally, some real sh*t."
She checked the cracked mirror: wig sliding, bra wire taped down with a Band-Aid, crunchy panties stiff as cardboard, hoodie stained, sneakers flapping like church fans.
She sprayed another toxic mist cloud and whispered to herself, "Perfect."
Cutaway gag: Emily standing on Shark Tank, holding up her panties. "Seven days, one wash, still wearable. Investment opportunity of a lifetime." Mark Cuban faints. Kevin O'Leary douses himself in Purell.
Back to reality.
She stepped back out onto the block. Harlem screamed the same way it always did — sirens, dice games, babies, pigeons. But Emily walked with her chin high, stomach hungry, hustle humming in her chest.
She was broke, dirty, shameless. But tonight? Tonight she had a play.
And broke girl sh*t was just getting started.