Miami nights always felt alive.
Music somewhere in the distance.
Cars sliding past under streetlights.
The smell of smoke and ocean mixing in the air.
Malik Sire was laid back in his apartment, phone in hand, scrolling, bored. Then it buzzed.
Her name lit up the screen.
He smirked and answered.
"What's good shawty? You been ducking me."
She laughed on the other end.
"Nobody ducking you. I got a whole man. I ain't no shone like that."
Malik clicked his tongue.
"I ain't saying that. But you know he green as fuck. Come mess with a real one. I got pap, I move right, and I'd do you better in every way."
She chuckled.
"Boy yeah, sounds nice. I heard about you."
Malik frowned.
"What you heard?"
"That you not about to hit and leave. Nope."
He leaned forward, serious now.
"I won't leave. I want you to myself for real."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah. What you doing right now? You trying to slide?"
She paused.
"Hm… okay. Give me a couple minutes."
"Bet that."
Call ended.
Malik moved quick.
He cleaned up, sprayed the place, threw on cologne, lit a couple candles. He even did a little dance in the kitchen, singing to himself:
"Getting fucked tonight, getting fucked tonight…"
Phone buzzed again.
He answered.
"Hello?"
"I'm outside."
"I'm coming."
He headed to the door — then paused.
A strange feeling hit him.
Heavy. Quiet. Wrong.
His instincts spoke.
Malik grabbed his gun and slid it into his pajama pocket.
He opened the door.
She stepped in smiling.
"Damn, it smell good asf in here. And you look good asf too."
She tugged his dreads playfully.
He grinned.
"You looking real eatable yourself."
She laughed.
"Oh really? I heard it's long. I'm trying to see."
Her hand reached and she looked surprised.
"Wow."
Then—
A loud thud.
Malik's head snapped toward the door.
"What the fuck was that?"
"I don't know," she said, but Malik side-eyed her, reading her face.
Something was off.
BOOM.
The door burst open.
Two masked dudes rushed in.
"Get the fuck on the ground!"
Malik reacted instantly.
He drew and fired twice, diving behind the couch. One attacker yelped — grazed.
Gunfire exploded back.
A drac ripped through the couch.
Malik felt fire tear into his side.
"Fuck!"
He gritted his teeth, crawling to an angle out of sight.
One attacker moved in.
Malik popped out — boom.
Headshot.
The second gunman screamed and sprayed bullets wildly.
Malik caught one in the arm. His grip weakened.
Click.
The shooter's gun emptied.
Malik smiled through blood.
"Dumbass."
He rose and dumped his remaining rounds into him.
Silence.
Smoke.
Gunpowder.
Ringing ears.
Malik slumped onto the couch, bleeding bad.
He looked over.
The girl sat shaking.
His eyes narrowed.
"Bitch… you set me up."
She froze.
"N-no, I don't know what you talking about—"
"Stop lying. I see it in your face."
She realized he knew.
Her eyes darted to the dead gunman's weapon.
She moved.
Boom.
Malik shot her before she could grab it.
She dropped.
"Bitch…"
Now it was quiet.
Too quiet.
Adrenaline faded.
Pain flooded in.
Malik leaned back, breathing shallow. He pulled out his joint, lit it with shaky hands, and took one last drag.
He stared at the ceiling.
Miami noise outside.
Sirens somewhere far away.
Life going on.
He exhaled slowly.
"…crazy night."
Darkness crept in.
Then nothing.