Location: West District Projects, 2:44 a.m.
---
The thunder cracked louder this time. Not just from the sky—but from the sound of Tone's front door being kicked open downstairs.
No knock. No warning. Just war.
Street Law #8: If it comes in silence, it's not peace—it's death.
Tone rolled off the bed with reflexes born from trauma. Bare feet hit cold wood. The Glock was already in his hand before his mind even caught up. Years of beef don't let a man sleep light.
"Unc, what the hell—" Tre stood in the hallway, eyes wide, his voice caught between boy and man.
"Get in the closet," Tone growled, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him into the linen space. "Don't make a sound."
Another crash downstairs. Then two sets of boots. Then a pause.
They were listening.
Tone crept to the top of the stairs like a ghost, Glock raised. A cold bead of sweat slid down his cheek, and in that moment, he wasn't just Tone.
He was every scar, every bullet that missed, every body he'd carried on his conscience like bricks in a duffel.
Another boom. This time, closer. Kitchen entry.
Then a voice.
"You don't gotta die tonight, Tone. Just hand it over."
A beat.
Two.
Silence.
Then Tone spoke, voice like granite.
"Who sent you?"
No answer. Just the sound of a shell racking.
---
Location: Downstairs Kitchen – 2:46 a.m.
Two men in black stood by the back door, ski-masked. One had a sawed-off shotgun. The other held a burner tight, nerves twitching.
The second one—young, shaking—whispered, "That's Tone. The Tone."
The older one, clearly the leader, didn't blink. "Ain't no names in the dark. We here for the drop."
He looked up the stairs.
"Last time. You give it up... or we take it off your body."
From above came the click-click of a safety release.
Then thunder again—but this time, from the barrel of Tone's Glock.
He came down like judgement, each step a flashpoint. The first masked man didn't even get to react—two shots to the chest dropped him like a sack of bad intentions.
The second ran. Mistake.
Tone was already chasing, firing down the hallway. Walls screamed. Glass exploded. The front door swung open as the second man dove out into the street.
Tone followed to the porch—but didn't fire.
The kid turned, breathing hard, tears streaking down under the mask. Maybe 17. Maybe 18.
"Please… please, man. I ain't wanna—"
Tone didn't lift the Glock.
Instead, he said, "Tell whoever sent you I'm still breathing. And next time… bring a shovel."
---
Location: Back in the House – 3:10 a.m.
Tre sat on the couch, knees up to his chest. The closet air had smelled like bleach and mildew, but fear drowned all that out.
Tone reentered, blood on his knuckles and silence on his face.
Tre looked up. "You kill 'em?"
Tone didn't answer. Just sat beside him.
After a pause, Tre asked, "Unc… was it 'bout the Brick?"
Tone nodded slowly.
"The Brick don't belong to the streets no more. It belongs to whoever got the muscle to hold it."
"Then we gonna hold it?"
Tone looked at his nephew. Looked into his eyes.
"You ever seen a man die with his eyes open?"
Tre didn't blink.
"No," he whispered.
Tone handed him the Glock.
"Then you better learn fast."
---
Street Law #22: You don't raise a soldier. The streets do. All you can do is teach him where not to die.
---
Location: Big Smoke's Warehouse – 4:00 a.m.
Shade leaned against the hood of a matte black Lexus, watching rain drip off the brim of his hat.
Smoke came out of the warehouse slow, limping, toothpick in mouth, coat dragging behind him like a king's cape.
"They hit Tone?"
Shade nodded once. "Didn't finish the job."
Smoke didn't look surprised. "Didn't expect 'em to."
"You want me to send another crew?"
Smoke shook his head.
"Nah. Let him cook. A man like Tone, you don't kill quick. You let his anger do the work."
Shade raised an eyebrow. "So what we do now?"
Smoke exhaled smoke.
"We wait for the funeral. Somebody gonna die soon... and it ain't gon' be quiet."
---
Location: Police Scanner, West Precinct – 4:43 a.m.
"All units be advised, shots fired near Wilcox Projects. Two DOA. Suspect unknown. Black male, late 30s. Armed and dangerous."
The dispatcher clicked off. But the sergeant just sat there, eyes on the crime board.
Another hood hit.
Another name scratched off.
This city wasn't a place anymore. It was a chessboard soaked in gasoline.
---
Location: Dre's Corner – Sunrise, 6:22 a.m.
Dre sat on the steps of the corner store, sipping a can of Olde English. Not his first. Not his last.
He looked out at the empty streets, birds starting to chirp like fools.
He smiled to himself, lips cracked.
"Welcome to the hood," he muttered.
Then stood.
Because today was about to get loud.