“For whoever think they gonna stay warm in my shit without paying rent, bills, or taxes.”
The second I stepped inside the cabin, everything in me went on alert. It was warm—too warm—andthe vanilla sandalwood candle, one I hadn’t lit in months, was burning on the counter. And the biggest giveaway? R&B old-school music was playing low from the back. Somebody was trying to set a mood that wasn’t theirs.
“Somebody been here long enough to get comfortable,” I muttered.
Behind me, Isis whispered in my ear, far too close. “Bryce, it’s so beautiful in here! Like… all of this is giving luxury mountain life! I feel like I’m on one of them Instagram getaway reels!”
Isis acted like we were on a couple’s retreat instead of a potential murder scene. That girl could’ve been three seconds from death, and she was worried about vibe checks and TikTok aesthetics. I realized then she definitely wasn’t cut out for that life; just spa selfies, brunch captions, ass shots, lace fronts, and somebody else’s AMEX.
Not mine, though.
Soon as I got back to the city, I was tossing her out my truck without a full stop and blocking her number mid-turn.
“Isis,” I muttered, gun raised. “Shut up.”
“What? I’m just saying—”
“Hush beforeyoudie by accident.”
She gasped, acting personally attacked by the universe, but to her credit, clamped her mouth shut.
I moved slow and silent, following the flickering kitchen light with a predator’s focus.
And there he was—some random-ass nigga lanky, dark-skinned nigga… drinking orange juice straight out the damn carton, like he’d been fighting off scurvy, had a lifelong beef with cups, and the doctor warned,“Drinking more orange juice is your last defense before you turn into dust, my boy.”
He didn’t even tilt it cute; nah, he had that bitch upside down like he was wringing out the Florida orange fields himself, completely unaware he was about two seconds from meeting Jesus, the devil, and every dead homie and relative in between—all lined up like a heavenly hood tribunal waiting to flame his ass. His meeting and reunion would’ve went a little something like this:
God:“Son, you risked eternal life over pulp?I ain’t even write this chapter. The angels ad-libbin’ now.”
The Devil: “See, this why I keep the gates hot. Y’all doing dumb shit on Earth like this and expect A/C when you die.”
Lil Marcus: “This how I went out too… fridge crimes. I opened a stranger’s fruit cup and never made it to dessert. Rest easy, my nigga.”
JuJu with the one dreadlock: “Was the Vitamin C worth the capital D? As in death, dummy?”
Dre-Dre from 63rd: “So you just walk in random cabins and go raw on the carton? That’s wild.”
Uncle Elroy:“You ain’t even sniff it first; you just trusted your gut, huh?”
I walked up behind him smooth, silent, and lethal. Then I pressed the cold steel of the Glock to the back of his skull.
With the carton still in his hand, he froze instantly. I was sure his life clearly flashed before his eyes in 4K.
“Nigga,” I growled, low and deadly, “who thefuckare you, and what you doing in my shit? You got ten seconds to answer both before I rearrange yo’ whole future. Use your words wisely.”
He stiffened, dropped the carton, and his hands flew up in the air, shaking.
“Aye, bruh! I’m… I’m just here with a friend!”
“Friend? What friend, nigga? The tooth Fairy? Santa? Yo’ dead grandma?! I need a name!”
“I’m here with—”
“Bryce!”
Chesteria, thelastperson I expected to see,rushed into the kitchen, eyes wide, and heart probably in her throat.
“Wh–What are you doing?! Put the gun down! Wait—what are you even doing here?”
