Neighborhood.

[Soapy]

Dark Times - Episode 1
Khalif had watched Little John John strut away, his Air Forces pinching his too-big feet as he disappeared around the corner. The shoes hadn't even been worn three times before his cousin had snatched them off his feet, laughing and shoving him into the dirt when he tried to get them back.

His heart hammered in his chest as he peered through the window of Little John John's house, making sure no one else was home. The coast looked clear.

He slipped around back where the bathroom window stayed cracked, squeezing through the opening, barely making it as he tumbled onto the tile floor. The house smelled like cigarettes and the leftover Chinese food that sat in containers on the kitchen counter. He moved quietly, scanning the cluttered living room before spotting them—his white Air Forces, carelessly tossed in the corner.

He snatched them up, running his fingers over the scuff mark on the left toe. Little John John hadn't even bothered to keep them clean. He clutched them to his chest and retraced his steps to the bathroom window, slipping back out the way he came. His heart didn't slow until he was three blocks away, the precious shoes safely in his possession once again.

…

"Square up your stance, keep your elbow in!" Keshawn called out, demonstrating the proper shooting form for the wide-eyed high schooler. The Howard University gym echoed with the sounds of bouncing balls and squeaking sneakers as he moved between groups, offering guidance where needed.

Coach Blakeney appeared at his side, nodding approvingly. "You might have a future in this business, son."

"I don’t know about that," Keshawn replied, feeling a familiar warmth at his former recruiter's presence. "I’m just repeating what coaches like you told me, Coach."

"And now look at you. Rookie of the Year, Jordan Brand athlete, the whole package," Blakeney's voice carried genuine pride, even though he never actually coached him. "I always knew you had it in you, even when you broke my heart."

Keshawn laughed, remembering the agonizing decision. "It wasn’t an easy decision, believe me. I still don’t know if I made the right one to be honest."

"You made the right move. That program was better for your development," Blakeney clapped him on the shoulder. "No hard feelings. Never were."

A whistle blew from across the court, signaling the next drill rotation. Keshawn nodded to Blakeney and jogged over to his station, where a line of teenagers waited, basketball dreams shining in their eyes.

…

"I’m just taking my time really, want to make sure that my next move is my best one, you know?" Jessica tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, glancing at her phone for the third time in five minutes. The screen was dark. No notifications. Her stomach tightened.

"That sounds like the smart move," her date—Mark or Matt, she'd already half-forgotten—replied with a polite smile. He took another sip of his bourbon, the ice cubes clinking against the glass.

Jessica nodded, barely hearing him as she discreetly opened the baby monitor app on her phone. The bluish glow illuminated her face as she studied the living room feed. Vic was sitting on the couch, scrolling through his phone while Yesenia slept in the bassinet beside him. He wasn't even looking at her.

"Is everything okay?" Mark-or-Matt asked, leaning forward slightly.

"Oh, yes! Sorry," Jessica said, tucking the phone away. "It's just, with Yesenia, I get nervous being away. I feel like I’ve said that a bunch of times now."

His smile tightened. "You have, yeah."

Jessica took a large sip of her wine. "Sorry, I'm talking about her too much, aren't I?"

"No, no, it's fine," he assured her, though his eyes had already begun to wander toward a group of people at the bar. "It must be a huge adjustment."

"The biggest," Jessica agreed, seizing the opening. "My whole life has changed. Before, I could just go out whenever, but now there's this whole routine with feeding and pumping—" She stopped when she noticed him checking his watch. "I'm doing it again, aren't I?"

He gave her a kind but distant smile. "It's fine. It's just that—"

Her phone vibrated against the table. She snatched it up, heart racing. A text from Vic: Do you mind if I put her to bed early?

"I'm sorry," Jessica said, already typing a response. "It's Vic—Yesenia's father. We co-parent."

"No problem," he said, signaling to the waiter. "Take your time."

Jessica sent the text, then opened the monitor app again, making sure Vic was following her orders to leave her in the bassinet, not wanting to disrupt her routine.

…

"I mean holy shit, Keshawn," Angela shook her head, "I knew you’d turn out alright but shit, kid, you’re a fucking star."

Keshawn ducked his head, the praise still uncomfortable even after two years of never ending accolades. "I don’t know about all that."

"I do know about all that," Angela rolled her eyes. "I told some of my friends you were in town for the event and they were practically fawning over themselves and I’m just like 'it’s just Keshawn’ in my head until I looked you up."

The waiter delivered their entrees, and Keshawn welcomed the brief interruption.

"So," Angela said after a few bites, "I trust you've been keeping things low-key on the dating front. Smart move with all those groupies out there. I swear to God Keshawn, you show up with some blonde haired, blue eyed girl and I’m going to block your number, okay?"

Keshawn nearly choked on his water. "You’re safe in that regard."

Angela's eyebrows shot up. "Oh? Do tell."

"I'm seeing someone," he admitted, surprising himself with how easily the words came. "It's been, I don’t know, eight months or so.""

"Eight months? That's practically married these days." Angela leaned forward, her food momentarily forgotten. "Why haven't I heard about this? I haven’t seen anything on your Instagram which I definitely rummaged through to make sure there were no blue eyed devils."

"We don’t post each other," Keshawn pushed his food around his plate. "Nobody really knows about us, really. With my schedule and hers, it's complicated. We're both so busy that when we do get time together, we just want to keep it between us."

"Her schedule?" Angela's eyes narrowed with interest. "What does she do?"

Keshawn hesitated, then figured if he could trust anyone, it was Angela. She wasn’t one to gossip about trivial things such as these.

"She's in the music industry."

"Like a singer? Anyone I'd know?" Angela pressed.

The moment stretched between them. "Candace. People call her Kandi."

Angela's fork clattered against her plate. "Kandi? As in 'Love Me Down' Kandi?"

"That's the one." Keshawn couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips.

"Keshawn, she's..." Angela trailed off, something unspoken in her expression.

"What?" He frowned.

Angela seemed to choose her words carefully. "She's older than you, isn't she?"

The question caught him off guard. "Yeah, I guess."

"No reason," Angela said quickly. "I just... that's quite an age gap, that's all."

Keshawn shrugged. "I never really thought about it. She doesn’t look old."

"She looks gorgeous," Angela nodded, her tone shifting as she clearly regretted bringing it up. "You were always a bit mature for your age so I guess that makes sense."

An awkward silence fell between them, broken only by the clink of silverware against plates.

"So," Angela said finally, "How’s being back at Howard like? Feel like you missed out?"

Keshawn seized the change of subject gratefully. "A little bit. I always wondered what it would have turned out like, you know, if I stuck with them. They’ve got a great program with some great people so, I don’t know, maybe it still would have worked out."

"You thinking about getting more involved?"

"Definitely," Keshawn said, his enthusiasm growing. "Just because I didn’t go there doesn’t mean I can’t support, you know? UCLA got a bunch of boosters already so if I’m going to be giving back, might as well give back to somewhere it might actually help."

Angela's eyes lit up. "That's what I'm talking about! These schools have been overlooked for too long. With your platform now..."

As she launched into ideas about mentorship programs and alumni networking, Keshawn felt the earlier tension dissolve. This was the Angela he remembered—passionate, focused on community, always thinking three steps ahead. He didn’t realize how much he had missed that and respected it.

[Caesar]

Jessica need to just go ahead and focus on getting her a man that's worth more of a damn than Vic.

Didn't realize Candace was this much older than Keshawn. Esther back in play!

[Soapy]

Jessica need to just go ahead and focus on getting her a man that's worth more of a damn than Vic.

Didn't realize Candace was this much older than Keshawn. Esther back in play!

Vic hate at this point is just pure

I tried to be subtle with the hints in the previous seasons (established rapper, old enough to remember the 08 market crisis) but yeah, we shall see

[Soapy]

Dark Times - Episode 2
The taste of blood filled Khalif's mouth as Little John John's fist connected with his jaw again. The Air Forces were now scattered somewhere in the dirt of Cunningham Park, forgotten in the chaos.

"You think I’m playing with you?" Little John John's voice boomed across the basketball court.

Khalif tried to push himself up from the concrete, but a swift kick to his ribs sent him sprawling again. The laughter of Little John John's crew echoed in his ears, five or six of them forming a circle around him. His cousin was only a few years older but the difference in height, strength and toughness far and wide.

"Hold him up," Little John John commanded, and two boys grabbed Khalif's arms, yanking him to his feet.

Through swollen eyes, Khalif could make out the faces of kids he'd grown up with, all watching, none of them doing anything. Nor did he expect them too. He wouldn’t either if the roles were reversed.

"Strip this motherfucker!"

Panic surged through Khalif's body. "John, man, come on—"

The first slap silenced him. Then hands were pulling at his clothes—his jersey ripped over his head, his baggy jeans yanked down to his ankles, even his boxers torn away. The cool evening air hit his exposed skin, raising goosebumps across his body.

"Please," Khalif whispered, shame burning hotter than the pain from his beating.

Little John John stepped back, admiring his work. "Stop fucking playing with me nigga! Y’all know how me and my homies get down! Little dick ass nigga!"

They released him, and Khalif tumbled to the ground, curling into himself as their laughter faded. He waited until their voices disappeared completely before rising, one hand cupped over his privates. The streets were mercifully quiet as darkness settled, but he couldn't walk all the way home like this.

Trey's house was closest—just a block away. Moving from shadow to shadow, Khalif made his way to the small row house with peeling green paint. He limped up to the side window where a faint blue glow flickered against the glass. Carefully, he tapped his knuckles against the pane.

The curtain pulled back, revealing Trey's startled face, illuminated by the television screen. His eyes widened at the sight of Khalif, naked and bloodied.

"Yo, what the fuck?" Trey whispered, pushing the window open wider.

"Let me in, man," Khalif hissed, checking over his shoulder. "Hurry up."

Trey disappeared for a moment before the side door creaked open. "Damn, homie."

Khalif slipped inside, the warmth of the house a sudden relief against his skin. The living room was dark except for the glow of the TV where some fighting game was paused mid-action.

"Where your folks at?" Khalif whispered, still covering himself with his hands.

"Some family shit in The Hills," Trey said, his eyes traveling over Khalif's bruised body. "What the fuck happened?"

"Nothing," Khalif muttered. "Just need some clothes, man, anything you got."

Trey crossed his skinny arms. "I probably got some shit that’ll fit you but you ain't getting shit till you tell me what happened."

"Come on, man," Khalif pleaded, the humiliation of standing naked in this kid's living room making his voice crack. "Just help me out."

"Nah," Trey said, his face hardening with a stubbornness that seemed beyond his years. "Give it up, nigga."

Khalif leaned against the wall, his legs suddenly weak.

"Little John John," he finally admitted, the name bitter on his tongue. "I took back my Air Forces that he stole from me last week. Caught me in the park on my way home."

Trey's eyes widened. "Fuck you doing fucking with that nigga?"

"My daddy gave me them sneakers," Khalif snapped, then winced as pain shot through his ribs.

Trey stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. "Wait here," he said, disappearing down the hallway.

Khalif slid down to the floor, his back against the wall. He could hear the tinny music from the paused video game, could smell the lingering scent of fried chicken from dinner. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since lunch.

Trey returned with a bundle of clothes—a pair of basketball shorts with a drawstring, a faded Death Row t-shirt, and some house sandals.

"You can wear these," Trey said, tossing them to Khalif. "I’m going to need them back though."

Khalif pulled on the clothes with shaking hands, relief flooding through him as the fabric covered his exposed skin. "Yeah, I got you tomorrow."

Trey laughed, "Nah, you need to wash them motherfuckers. You want to hop on the game real quick? You already got your ass whooped once. Least I can do is teach you how to squabble."

…

"Bitch, tell us everything!" Shanice leaned over the empty nail station beside her, abandoning her customer's half-finished pedicure. "You was really up there with Kandi?"

Gayle flashed her brightest smile. "Yeah, it was crazy! One minute I'm backstage nervous as hell, next thing I know she's pulling me out for our song and when I tell you them white kids went fucking crazy!"

The entire salon had practically stopped working. Even the owner, who was an Asian woman who never pronounced Gayle’s name right so Gayle never bothered to correctly learned hers either, hovered nearby pretending to organize nail polish bottles while clearly eavesdropping. Three customers with foil-wrapped fingers abandoned their dryers to crowd around Gayle's station.

"You got pictures?" Tammy asked, her eyes wide behind her face shield.

Gayle nodded, sliding her phone across the table with her free hand. "Scroll through. There's a few from the afterparty too."

They huddled around the screen, gasping and cooing at each image. Gayle watched their faces light up, remembering when she used to be on the other side of these conversations—when pseudo celebrities came in for their weekly fills and she'd hang on their every word.

"How many people was there?" Mei asked, not looking up from the set of nails in front of her.

"A couple thousand," Gayle said, "With those festivals, it’s different because some of them have a bunch of different stages so if you get it lit enough, you got people leaving other stages to come watch you and they don’t even know you."

"And they pay you good money for this?" the owner asked, finally abandoning any pretense of not listening.

Gayle scoffed. "Shit, made more than I made here. That’s for damn sure."

"You must be meeting all kinds of famous people," Shanice pressed, scrolling further through the photos.

"Yeah, it's wild," Gayle said, watching Mei apply the final coat of crimson polish to her nail. The familiar chemical smell mixed with the salon's air freshener brought back more memories than she expected, that she remembered more fondly than she expected.

"You coming back to visit us when you blow up for real?" Tammy asked, handing back the phone.

Gayle looked around at the salon. She had only worked there for a few months but it was one of the few jobs she’d ever held. It was simple with enough routine mixed in with the occasional eccentric customer to keep the days from running into each other. She showed up every day knowing what was expected of her and the price was her time, her patience, her creativity. There were no blurred lines. No compromises. No hidden costs.

"Always," she promised, clearing the lump in her throat. "Y’all my people for real, you know that."

Mei finished the final nail with a flourish. "About twenty under there."

As Gayle carefully placed her hands under the UV lamp, she watched the salon return to its rhythm. Shanice went back to her customer, apologizing for the delay. The owner rang up a woman at the register. The familiar beep of the door chime announced new customers.

For twenty minutes, she could pretend she still belonged here—that tomorrow she'd be back behind the station instead of on a tour bus headed to another city full of strangers. The steady hum of the dryer was more comforting than any applause.

...

Keshawn checked his phone again—12:37 AM. The room service dinner he'd ordered sat cold in its covered silver dishes, untouched for over four hours now. Outside the window, Phoenix's city lights twinkled against the desert darkness, the same view he'd been staring at since he'd arrived earlier that afternoon.

He thumbed through Instagram again, the same posts he'd already seen a dozen times, his thumb moving mechanically as he reclined on the king-sized bed. The concert should have ended hours ago. The after-party too. Even the after-after party.

The keycard reader beeped, and the door swung open. Candace stepped in, her makeup still in place despite the late hour, though the exhaustion in her movements told a different story.

"Hey," she said, dropping her purse on the desk. "Sorry I'm late."

Keshawn set his phone down. "How was the festival?"

"It was a good crowd," she kicked off her boots, leaving them where they fell. "Better than Austin."

"That's good," he replied, his voice flat. "I ordered food."

Candace glanced at the covered dishes. "Thanks. Give me a sec to change."

She disappeared into the bathroom without another word. Keshawn flipped through channels on the TV, settling on a black and white movie he’d seen bits and pieces of throughout the previous scrolls. The bathroom door opened, and Candace emerged in hotel pajamas, her face wiped clean.

"You hungry?" he asked.

"Starving," she said, lifting the silver covers off the plates. "This looks good. I'll heat it up."

She transferred the food to the microwave in the corner of the room. The silence between them expanded, filled only by the mechanical hum and the muted commentary from the television.

"How was your day?" she asked, her back to him as she watched the plate rotate inside the microwave.

"It was alright, flew in a few hours ago."

"Cool."

The microwave beeped. Candace retrieved the plate and sat at the small table by the window, scrolling through her phone as she ate. Keshawn kept his eyes on the TV, pretending to be absorbed by a plot he had a hard time following.

"Looks like the festival’s trending," she said after a while, her voice brightening slightly.

"That's cool," Keshawn replied, not looking away from the screen.

The microwave beeped again as she heated the second plate. She returned to the table with her food. On screen, the movie had given way to an ad for some kitchen gadget. Neither of them moved to change it.

"I have to leave early tomorrow," she said between bites. "We’re doing promo at the radio station for the second show."

"Yeah, I know," Keshawn said. "My flight's at noon."

Candace nodded, chewing slowly. "Working out with that guy, right?"

"Yeah, meeting with him on Thursday."

"Right."

She picked at her food, the fork scraping against the plate the only sound between them. Keshawn's eyes remained fixed on the TV, unseeing, as the distance between them—measured in inches across the hotel room but feeling like miles—settled into something familiar and cold.

…

"Look, I'm just saying a book drive or academic panel would have more substance," Angela said, tucking a loose braid behind her ear.

Ronnie scrolled through the slides she had pushed across the table, his brow furrowed in concentration. The afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows caught the edge of his profile, making Angela pause for a moment. He looked up, catching her gaze, and offered a small smile that made her blush inside.

"I hear you," he said, tapping the trackpad. "But we'd be crazy not to leverage what he's known for. A basketball clinic or tournament could bring in hundreds of students, even folks from outside the school."

Angela sipped her coffee, considering his words. "Yeah but like basketball player does basketball thing. Where's the innovation in that?"

"Innovation isn't always the goal," Ronnie countered with a shrug. "Sometimes effectiveness is more important."

"I appreciate you caring about turnout because it is important but impact also is."

Ronnie nodded along. "Fair point. But consider this—even students who don't care about basketball will still show up to see an NBA star. That's just reality and from there, we can still push other initiatives or pass out flyers for later events."

Angela leaned back in her chair. She admired how he could disagree without being dismissive, how he always backed his positions with logic rather than volume. Nor did he just agree with everything she said or met her suggestions with a shrug.

"Okay," she conceded. "But people end up just throwing away those flyers or never coming back."

"Like a basketball tournament where teams have to register by donating books or school supplies?"

"Or each team could represent a cause," Angela added, excitement building in her voice. "And Keshawn could match donations to the winning team's charity."

"I’m fucking with that," Ronnie said, sliding his chair closer to hers.

"You're know that dumb sometimes, you know that?" she teased, leaning her head briefly against his shoulder.

"Only sometimes?" He grinned, not looking away from the screen. "I must be slipping."

"Don't get cocky," she replied, but she was smiling too. "I'll text Keshawn tonight about the idea. You want to draft it together?"

"Definitely," Ronnie said. "After dinner? My place?"

"Your place has your roommates," Angela reminded him, already gathering her things. "Mine. I'll cook."

"You'll order takeout, you mean," he laughed, closing the laptop.

"Same difference." She stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

[Caesar]

All of a sudden Ronnie back all in with Angela but I’m supposed to believe he wasn’t play the longest of long games.

Let’s call a spade a spade. This is just scared of pussy Keshawn manifesting as an adult, still scared of pussy.

[Soapy]

All of a sudden Ronnie back all in with Angela but I’m supposed to believe he wasn’t play the longest of long games.

Let’s call a spade a spade. This is just scared of pussy Keshawn manifesting as an adult, still scared of pussy.

Life happens, cuz

and let that childhood trauma go my brother lmao what the fuck does pussy have to do with this last scene or really anything involving Candace/Keshawn lmao

[Soapy]

Dark Times - Episode 3
"Uncle Quincy? Aunt Renee?" Trey called out, his voice echoing through the modest home.

Khalif hung back, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Quincy appeared from the hallway, wiping his hands on a dishrag. His white t-shirt was clean but worn thin at the collar, his jeans faded but pressed.

"Nephew! I didn't know you were coming by today," his eyes flickered to Khalif. "You Dro nephew, right?"

"Yeah, Khalif," he nodded, straightening his posture without thinking.

From the living room came the sound of cardboard boxes being moved. Quincy's wife appeared in the doorway, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, dark circles under her eyes. She was holding what looked like their VCR.

"Hey Trey," she said, offering a tired smile. "You boys hungry? We got some sandwiches in the fridge."

"Nah, we good, Auntie," Trey said, his eyes darting down the hallway toward the bedrooms. "We just came to see if Carter wanted to play some ball with us."

Quincy's shoulders relaxed slightly. "That's nice of you boys. Carter's been cooped up too much lately."

He turned toward the hallway. "Carter! Your cousin's here!"

Khalif noticed the stack of envelopes on the kitchen counter, red "FINAL NOTICE" stamps visible on at least three of them. A small TV sat on the dining table, price tag hastily written on masking tape stuck to the top: "$50 OBO."

"So, um, Mr. Atkins," Khalif said, stepping further into the kitchen, blocking Quincy's view of the hallway where Trey was now slowly backing away. "You guys still working on that building by Victoria? My momma work in that building next to it."

Renee set the VCR down on the coffee table, next to a small collection of other electronics and knickknacks arranged in neat rows.

"That development got shut down," she said, the annoyance in her voice evident, "Just like the one before that."

"Yeah, we had about six months left on that," Quincy added, leaning against the counter. "It might get picked back up."

Khalif nodded along, half-embarrassed at his failed attempt at striking conversation to keep them busy. They didn’t need much help as Renee was focused on collecting items throughout the house as Quincy enjoyed a beer in the kitchen. Khalif glanced down the empty hallway, wondering what was taking Trey so long. The plan had been simple: get in, get the gun, get out. Trey had said it would take two minutes, tops.

"Carter!" Quincy called again, louder this time. "You hear me, boy? Trey's here!"

Khalif's heart rate kicked up.

"He's probably got his headphones on," he suggested quickly. "Trey went to check his room."

The sound of a door closing echoed from down the hall. Trey appeared a moment later, looking too casual, his right hand tucked into the pocket of his oversized jeans.

"Carter's not in his room," Trey announced, shrugging. "Maybe he's at Deon's house?"

Quincy frowned. "He's supposed to be doing his homework."

"We can swing by Deon's," Trey offered quickly. "It's on the way to the park anyway."

Quincy nodded along, grabbing another beer from the fridge.

Khalif moved toward the door, eager to be gone. "We should get going if we want to get some time on the court before the high school team shows up."

Khalif nodded goodbye to Quincy and Renee, following Trey outside. Neither of them spoke until they were half a block away.

"You get it?" Khalif finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Trey's face split into a grin as he patted his pocket. "Yeah, I got it."

…

When Trey entered, Quincy almost didn't recognize him. His nephew had bulked up, his shoulders broader, his frame more solid than the lanky kid who'd gone in five years ago.

"Uncle Q," Trey said, his face breaking into a genuine smile as he sat down across the table.

"What's good, nephew?" Quincy reached across, clasping Trey's hand in the familiar greeting they'd shared since Trey was a teenager. "You looking strong, nephew! I see you on that program!"

"Ain't much else to do in here," Trey shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "You the one looking different. I heard you been doing real good, Unc."

Quincy rubbed his chin self-consciously. It had been nearly two years since his last slip. His longest stretch. "Taking it one day at a time, you know how it is."

"Momma says you working at Elijah's store now?" Trey asked, eyebrows raised. "How's that treating you?"

"It's a job," Quincy said, thinking about the long hours stocking shelves and running the register. "Elijah's alright to work for. Man runs a tight ship but he fair about it. Pays on time."

"That's what's up," Trey nodded, his eyes scanning the room briefly before returning to Quincy. "You look healthy, Uncle Q. For real."

"Getting there," Quincy admitted. "Food tastes good again. Sleep through most nights now."

They fell into easy conversation, Quincy filling him in on family gossip—his mother’s new boyfriend, Loraine's new job, the usual. Trey laughed at the right moments, asked the right questions, but Quincy noticed how his eyes kept drifting to the clock on the wall.

"So," Trey said during a lull, his voice dropping slightly. "You heard anything about Big Mike lately?"

The question caught Quincy off guard. Big Mike was an OG to the OGs. By the time Trey even had hair on his nuts, he had already been off the streets for a while, serving a fifteen-year bid.

"Nah, not really. Think he moved out to Riverside or something."

"What about Munchie? He still around the neighborhood?"

Quincy's internal alarm started buzzing faintly. "Last I heard he was locked up in Chino."

"I think he got out," Trey said with certainty.

"How you know that?" Quincy asked, studying his nephew's face, "That man almost twice your age."

Trey shrugged. "People talk in here. I think one of his cellies moved through here not that long ago, was chopping it up with him."

"Yeah, I bet they do," Quincy felt the familiar tightening in his gut, the one that had kept him alive on the streets. Something wasn't right. "Why you so interested in those old heads all of a sudden?"

"Just curious, you know. Wondering who's still around, who ain't." Trey's response came too quickly, too rehearsed.

"Bullshit," Quincy sucked his teeth.

"It's nothing, man. Just making conversation."

"With all the OGs from the East Side? That ain't just conversation."

A muscle twitched in Trey's cheek. "Look, I'm just trying to stay connected, alright? Four walls get small after a while."

"Trey," Quincy leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper, "Just do your time, nephew. You got a whole lot of world waiting for you when you get out."

"Of course," Trey said, but his eyes slid away again. "It's all good."

"Your momma's worried enough about you as it is," Quincy pressed. "Don't need you adding to that by getting into more trouble."

"I said it's cool, nigga," Trey snapped, then immediately softened his tone. "Sorry, Uncle Q. Just tired, you know?"

Quincy nodded, but the knot in his stomach only grew tighter.

"You been to any of Keshawn’s games?" Trey tried to lighten the mood, "That shit crazy, ain’t it?"

…

"Who that?" Loriel called out, not moving from her spot on the couch.

Stacks, who'd been making sure his previous count was right at the kitchen table, shoved the money back into an envelope and tucked it into his pocket. "I'll get it."

Before he could make it to the door, Loriel was already padding across the hardwood, peeking through the peephole. Her whole body stiffened.

"It's that fucking bitch again," she hissed, turning to give him a look that could curdle milk. "Why she here?"

Stacks ran a hand over his face. "I don’t know any more than you do. I’m sitting here with you, ain’t I?"

Loriel yanked it open, her body filling the doorway. "What you want?"

Charlene stood on the porch in tight jeans and a crop top, eyes narrowed to slits. "I need to talk to Stacks."

"He busy," Loriel said, crossing her arms.

"It's cool," Stefan said, appearing behind Loriel, "Go on somewhere, baby."

Loriel didn't move for a moment, her eyes locked with Charlene's in silent challenge. Then she sucked her teeth and turned, muttering something under her breath as she disappeared back into the house.

Stacks stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind him. "What's good?"

She held up her phone, the CashApp screen bright in the fading evening light. "Three hundred dollars?"

"Look, that's what I can do right now," Khalif said, keeping his voice low. "Things been tight with everything going on."

"Everything going on?" Charlene laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "You mean since you decided to go back to playing house with that bitch in there? Because I remember when you was hiding out at my place during that shit with Dro. I was the one washing your clothes, feeding your fat ass, making sure you had a place to rest your head every night. With a little extra added to. I ain’t forget."

Stacks glanced at the street, making sure none of his neighbors were out. "Really ain’t no need for all of this."

"Nah, fuck that," Charlene stepped closer, jabbing a finger into his chest. "Soon as it was safe for you to be outside again, you ran right back to her. So you can risk my life and not hers? What, I ain’t good enough for you when shit ain’t fucking crumbling down?"

"You knew what it was," Stacks said, his voice hardening. "We both did what we needed to do. You gave me somewhere to lay low, I made sure you and you the little one was taken care of."

"So I was just a safe house to you?" Her voice cracked slightly, anger barely masking the hurt underneath.

"Don't act like you wasn't choosing up too," he countered. "When shit got real, you knew where your bread was buttered. Now things changed."

Charlene's eyes filled with tears, but her expression remained hard. "My son deserves better than three hundred dollars a month from the nigga that got his daddy locked up."

"And he'll get it," Stacks said, "When I get back on my feet properly. But right now, that's what I got."

"You got money for her though, don't you?" Charlene's gaze drifted to the window where Loriel's silhouette was visible through the curtain. "Buying her all them designer bags I see on her Instagram."

"That's different."

"How?" Charlene demanded. "How is it different?"

The door cracked open behind him. Loriel's voice called out, "You gonna argue with this bitch all night?"

Stacks didn’t turn around. "I said I’m going to be a minute, alright?"

Charlene's laugh was hollow. "You a real piece of shit, you know that?"

"Look," Stacks reached into his pocket, pulling out two more twenties. "This all I got on me right now. I'll try to send more next week."

Charlene looked at the bills like they were dirty. After a moment, she snatched them from his hand. "You wrong for this, Khalif."

…

The sweat ran down Keshawn's back as he squared up at the three-point line. The gym was quiet except for the rhythmic bounce of the ball against the hardwood and his controlled breathing.

"Elbow in, follow through," said Marcus Willis, the shooting coach Coach Bronstein had brought in. Willis had worked with hundreds of college and pro players and charged accordingly, but he was proving to be worth every penny, Keshawn already feeling a difference in his shot. "Snap the picture!"

Keshawn released the ball with a fluid motion, holding his form as instructed. The ball arced perfectly and swished through the net without touching the rim.

"Beautiful," Willis nodded. "Now five more, same spot."

From the sideline, Coach Bronstein watched with his arms crossed over his chest, his face impassive except for the slight narrowing of his eyes—the closest thing to approval Keshawn had ever seen from him.

"Now move to the wing," Willis instructed after Keshawn sank another shot. "Same principle. Every shot needs to look the same."

Keshawn didn't reply, just caught the next ball and sank another shot. And another. And another. The rhythm became meditative, his mind clear of everything except the ball, the rim, and the perfect arc between them.

After two more hours of drills, Willis finally called it.

"Coach Bronstein wasn’t lying about you," he extended his hand to Keshawn. "You’re a quick learner, you make coaching enjoyable. Half the time, I’m wondering why these kids even wasting both of our times."

"Appreciate it," Keshawn said, shaking the man's hand firmly.

Willis gathered his notes and nodded to Coach Bronstein before heading out, leaving Keshawn alone with the coach in the now-empty gym.

"I hope the NBA ain’t spoiled you already," Bronstein said, his voice echoing slightly. "How's the body feeling after your first two-a-day?"

"Good," Keshawn replied, grabbing a towel to wipe his face. "Little tired, but nothing I can't handle, nothing I ain’t used to."

Bronstein nodded, his eyes evaluating. "Willis doesn't usually get impressed. You did good work today."

"Thanks, Coach." Keshawn took a long drink from his water bottle.

Bronstein seemed to hesitate, something unusual for the typically direct coach. "You pick up fast. Always have. It's what separates the good from the great."

Keshawn nodded, waiting. There was something else coming; he could feel it.

"You, uh—" Bronstein cleared his throat. "You heard from Nadia recently?"

The question caught Keshawn off guard, but he kept his face neutral. "No, sir. Haven't talked to her in a while."

Bronstein's eyes searched his face for a moment, then he nodded once. "Alright then." He picked up his clipboard. "Ice those knees. We go again tomorrow at nine."

Keshawn watched the coach's broad back as he walked away, disappearing through the double doors at the end of the court. The question about Nadia lingered in the empty gym like the echo of a bouncing ball.

[Caesar]

Trey plotting on Stacks. We see the play!

They got a lot of fuck niggas in this shit. Vic, Stacks, Stefan.

Esther back in play! Not wrong, just early. Keshawn need to work on being more aggressive in the paint. Big for nothing.

[Soapy]

Trey plotting on Stacks. We see the play!

They got a lot of fuck niggas in this shit. Vic, Stacks, Stefan.

Esther back in play! Not wrong, just early. Keshawn need to work on being more aggressive in the paint. Big for nothing.

if he can develop that outside shot, though, talking about a 25ppg scorer

[Soapy]

Dark Times - Episode 4
Khalif's hands wouldn't stop shaking. He shoved them deep into his pockets, the autumn chill giving him an excuse for the tremors that had nothing to do with the temperature. Little John John's house stood silent across the street, a single light glowing from what must have been the living room window. The rest of the block was quiet, just the occasional car passing by, headlights sweeping over them before disappearing around the corner.

"Man, I don't know about this," Khalif muttered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Maybe we should just let it go."

Trey shot him a look, his face half-hidden in the shadow of his hoodie. "You trying to be a mark ass bitch for the rest of your life? Once the neighborhood labels you a buster, you’re a buster forever."

Khalif swallowed hard, the memory of Little John John and his crew laughing as they stripped him still raw. The humiliation burned worse than the scrapes on his knees from being shoved to the ground.

"I'm just saying, maybe we could get one of the older kids to jump him or something," Khalif's voice sounded small even to his own ears.

"You handle your own, always," Trey said, his voice hardening. "This is what men do. They take what's theirs."

He patted his waistband where the gun—his uncle's gun that they'd taken earlier—made a slight bulge under his oversized white tee.

A car pulled into the driveway of Little John John's house. A woman got out, her arms loaded with grocery bags. Little John John's mother. Khalif watched as she struggled with the door, finally managing to push it open with her hip before disappearing inside.

"Hold on," Trey whispered, pulling Khalif deeper into the shadows of the alley they were lurking in.

Twenty minutes crawled by. Khalif's heart hadn't slowed once. Each time he thought about backing out, Trey seemed to sense it, gripping his shoulder and reminding him why they were there.

"This is about respect. You let a nigga take from you once, they'll keep taking."

The front door opened again. Little John John's mother emerged, now wearing different clothes and carrying her purse. She got back into her car and backed out of the driveway.

"There she go," Trey said, already moving toward the house. "Come on."

Khalif followed, his legs feeling like they were filled with concrete. The walk across the street felt like it took hours, each step bringing him closer to something he wasn't sure he could do.

At the front door, Trey adjusted his shirt, making sure the gun was hidden but accessible. He gave Khalif a quick nod before knocking firmly.

Footsteps approached from inside. Khalif's mouth went dry as the lock clicked.

The door swung open. Little John John stood there, a half-eaten sandwich in one hand, wearing basketball shorts and a tank top. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of them.

"The fuck y'all want?" he started, but before he could say anything else, Trey had pulled the gun from his waistband, pointing it directly at Little John John's face.

"Run that shit," Trey said, his voice steady, almost casual. "You know what we here for."

Little John John stared at the gun, then at Trey's face. For a moment, nobody moved. Then, to Khalif's horror, Little John John started to laugh—a low, incredulous chuckle that grew louder with each second.

"Look at you little niggas!" Little John John's eyes flicked to Khalif. "Stop playing before I take that shit from y’all and pistol whip both of y’all!"

"Try it, bitch," Trey said, pressing the barrel closer.

Little John John's expression shifted, something dangerous flashing in his eyes. "Fuck you," he spat, and lunged forward, grabbing for the gun.

Khalif jerked backward as Trey and Little John John struggled, their bodies tangled in a violent dance. The gun twisted between them, both fighting for control.

A deafening crack split the air.

Everything stopped.

…

The metal detector beeped as Keshawn passed through, the guard motioned for him to step aside, running a wand over his body before nodding him through.

"You good?" Vic asked, falling into step beside him as they followed another guard down a long corridor.

"Yeah," Keshawn said, though his stomach tightened with each step. "Haven’t been back since my dad got out."

Vic nodded, his face unreadable. "Appreciate you coming, man. Trey don't ask for many visitors."

When Trey had called Vic asking if Keshawn would come see him, Keshawn had been confused. He barely knew Trey beyond family gatherings years ago, and they'd exchanged maybe three sentences total since Trey went away. Still, family was family.

The visiting room buzzed with low conversation, the space divided by a long counter with glass partitions. Families huddled close to the glass, mothers with children on their laps, girlfriends pressing hands against the barrier as if they could feel their men through it.

Vic spotted Trey first, raising his chin in acknowledgment. Keshawn followed his gaze to the far end where Trey sat waiting.

"What's good?" Vic said as they sat down opposite him.

"Same shit, different day," Trey replied, his eyes flicking to Keshawn. "Good to see you, blood."

"You too," Keshawn said, trying to hide his discomfort. "How you holding up?"

Trey shrugged. "You know how it is. Shit, I guess you don’t."

The conversation felt strained, awkward. Keshawn waited for Trey to bring up money, commissary funds, something tangible he could help with. That's what people in prison usually needed, right?

"So," Trey leaned forward. "You tight with Stacks, right?"

The question caught Keshawn off guard. He glanced at Vic, who kept his eyes fixed on Trey.

"I mean, I wouldn't say tight," Keshawn hedged. "We cool though."

"Cool enough for you to be lacing him?" Trey's gaze was direct, penetrating.

Keshawn shifted in his seat. "What?"

"Come on now," Trey cut him off, a hint of impatience in his voice. "I heard he took care of you when you was in The Jungle and I know you a solid nigga, man. I can tell. Ain’t no way you ain’t repay him for that?"

Vic remained silent, his presence solid beside Keshawn, neither encouraging nor discouraging.

Keshawn exhaled slowly. "I look out when I can."

"Help him out how?" Trey pressed.

"Just... you know. His charitable efforts."

Trey's eyebrows shot up. "Charitable efforts? That what he calling it now?"

Heat crept up Keshawn's neck. "Like you said, he made sure I was good so if he asks for some money for some toy drive or giving our turkeys, you know, I look out."

"Turkeys," Trey nodded, his expression softening slightly, "That motherfucker does look like Santa Claus, don’t he?"

…

Stefan leaned against the wall, watching as Baby Nut and Lorenzo shot dice on the cracked pavement.

"Seven, come on seven," Baby Nut blew on the dice before letting them fly across the concrete.

"Man, fuck outta here with that weak-ass roll," Lorenzo laughed as the dice came up snake eyes. He scooped up the small pile of bills from the ground.

A black Escalade with tinted windows rolled slowly down the block, coming to a stop right in front of their spot.

Baby Nut immediately stood up straight, eyes narrowing at the vehicle. "Yo, college boy," he nodded at Stefan, "Might wanna bounce for a minute."

Stefan hesitated, but before he could step away, OG Tiny emerged from the corner store, a toothpick dangling from his mouth.

"Nah, he good," Tiny said, placing a hand on Stefan's shoulder.

The window of the Escalade rolled down halfway, revealing nothing but darkness inside. Tiny nodded toward the car, and they all approached, Stefan hanging back slightly

"What's good, Tiny?" a deep voice called from inside the car.

"Stacks," Tiny nodded respectfully. "Wasn't expecting to see you out this way."

The window lowered completely, and Stefan had seen him before with the homies but wasn’t sure who he was.

"Who this?" Stacks asked, chin jutting toward Stefan.

"That's my cousin," Lorenzo said quickly. "Stefan. He with us. Real solid nigga, verified."

Something flickered across Stacks' face: recognition, maybe respect. "That's what's up. Gonna need some solid niggas for this."

"What you need, cuz?" Tiny asked, stepping closer to the car.

"Got a situation brewing. One of them old niggas that used to run with Dro about to get out. Been upstate doing a bid, but word is he's getting paroled to San Diego next month."

"He gonna be a problem?" Tiny asked.

"Could be talk," Stacks shrugged, "But he doing a whole lot of it right now."

"Say less," Tiny nodded, understanding the ask.

"Appreciate that," Stacks said, his eyes drifting back to Stefan. "It gotta look a way and not look a way, you feel me?"

Stefan nodded in eagerness, "Yeah, we feel you."

…

Candace's kitchen gleamed under warm recessed lighting, all white marble and stainless steel appliances. She'd prepared one of the first meals she cooked for him when they began dating—salmon with roasted vegetables and wild rice—but the food sat mostly untouched on his plate as he watched her scroll through her phone.

"So you're really doing this show?" Keshawn asked, setting down his fork.

Candace looked up, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised. "Yeah, why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know. Seems like a step back for your career. Aren't you trying to focus on your music?"

She laughed, the sound light but with an edge to it. "It's exposure, Keshawn. My team thinks it's smart. Besides, it'll be fun."

"Fun to date other people on national television?" The words came out sharper than he intended.

Candace set her phone down, giving him her full attention now. "Why not?"

Keshawn felt something twist in his chest. Eight months they'd been seeing each other, and she still talked like this was just casual. "Right."

"That's exactly why I'm doing it," she said, taking a sip of her wine. "Because you're not dating with intention. We're just hanging out, right? Seeing each other when it's convenient?"

"Is that what you think this is?"

"Isn't it? You stop by when you can, we have some fun, and then you're gone." She shrugged. "Besides, it's just a show. The 'fans' vote on who goes on dates with who. It's not even real, everyone on there knows that it’s just a look."

Keshawn studied her face, trying to read what was behind those carefully neutral eyes. "So which is it? You're doing the show because we're not quote-unquote serious, or it's just a show and doesn't matter?"

Candace's expression hardened slightly. "Figure it out," she said, standing up from the table. She grabbed her wine glass and walked away, leaving Keshawn alone with his cooling dinner.