Chapter 6
1193 Words
(Song: "Tunnel Vision (Outro)" by Pop Smoke)
Onyx
The smell hits me before the engine even cuts.
Burnt rubber.
Gasoline.
Charred metal hanging heavy in the air.
I already know what I'm about to find.
The Lambo rolls to a slow stop at the edge of the empty warehouse lot. Headlights slice through the dark, stretching long shadows across cracked pavement.
And there it is—
A gray Altima.
Or what's left of it.
The front end's folded in on half, metal warped into something unrecognizable. Windows blown out. Interior reduced to blackened bones and ash.
Whoever did this made sure nothing survived.
I sit there for a second, jaw locked tight enough to make my teeth throb.
Shit.
I'm too late.
Somebody got here first.
Handled their mess.
Stayed ahead of the curve.
Meanwhile, the cops are probably still trying to figure out which direction to even look.
Headlights flare in my rearview.
A black truck rolls in behind me, engine rumbling low.
Door slams.
One of my boys jumps out.
Trigg.
Got that name 'cause hesitation ain't in his DNA.
And since I make sure his pockets stay full?
That trait comes in real handy.
"Boss," he calls.
I step out, heat from the burned-out wreck still lingering in the air, clinging to my skin like a warning.
"These motherfuckers move fast," I say, eyes dragging across the scorched shell.
Trigg comes up beside me, hands buried in his hoodie pockets, hood low enough to shadow most of his dreads and half his face.
"Damnnn," he mutters, mouth dropping open. "They cooked that shit."
Yeah.
No kidding.
I move closer, crouching to peer through what used to be the driver's window.
Nothing inside.
No weapon.
No phone.
Not even a scrap of fabric.
The car's clean.
Too damn clean.
"These ain't amateurs," I murmur, mostly to myself.
I straighten slowly, scanning the empty lot.
And then it hits.
This car wasn't abandoned here.
It was staged.
This ain't cleanup.
It's a message.
And something deep in my gut says it's meant for me.
The night shifts on me.
Too quiet.
Too still.
Like the world just paused mid-breath.
"Yo, O..." Trigg's voice drops low. "You feel that?"
Yeah.
I feel it.
That charge in the air right before s**t goes sideways.
Before shots ring out.
Before bodies drop.
Been moving in these streets too long to ignore instinct.
Then—
A faint ticking cuts through the silence.
My attention snaps back to the Altima.
It's coming from inside.
Every muscle in my body locks.
Oh hell nah.
"Move," I bark.
No hesitation.
No explanation.
Just instinct.
Because whatever message they left...
it ain't finished yet.
And I don't plan on dying in some empty-ass warehouse lot.
Part of me figures Officer Banks would sleep just fine if I did.
I dive back into the driver's seat.
"Oh, s**t!" Trigg shouts, sprinting for the truck.
Engines roar. Tires claw at pavement.
We peel out just as the Altima detonates.
Fire erupts in my rearview like a goddamn sunrise.
For a split second, everything turns white.
Then smoke swallows the light and the night closes in again.
I don't ease up.
My foot presses harder on the gas.
Trigg sticks tight behind me.
Good.
I ain't losing nobody else tonight.
After a few minutes of driving like our f*****g lives depend on it—because after that big-ass explosion, they probably do—my phone rings.
Trigg.
I answer without slowing down.
"Boss... you think we're being followed?" he asks, his breath coming out rough and uneven through the speaker.
"f**k if I know," I growl. "Just keep drivin'."
I pop the glove box, grab the Glock, and set it within reach on the console.
If this turns into a shootout, I won't get caught slipping again.
We tear through the last stretch of dead industrial road until the city finally starts bleeding back into view—traffic lights, storefronts, late-night movement.
Finally, I ease off the gas.
No headlights glued to us.
No suspicious cars lurking in the dark.
Still... I don't trust it.
Too much heat just went down for calm to feel real.
Anything could pop off.
"Stay two cars back," I tell Trigg. "Stop ridin' my ass. If we're bein' followed, we don't need to make it easier for them."
"Got you," he says, voice steadier now.
His truck falls back in the mirror.
Better.
Gives us room to split if we need to.
We drive in silence for a few more blocks before I make the turn—not home, not to the penthouse.
The studio.
The only place that ever clears the noise in my head.
Neon glows faint over dark brick as I pull into the lot. Headlights cut across the side wall, catching the graffiti that's watched every step of my climb.
Security clocks my car instantly.
The gate slides open before I even slow.
I park near the side entrance. Trigg pulls in beside me.
For a moment, I just sit there, gripping the wheel until my knuckles turn white.
My gaze drifts over to the empty parking spot next to me.
Vonn should be there.
Jumping out his ride, still riding the high from his set. Talking fast, already asking to replay the track so we could tweak a verse or tighten a hook.
That was his thing.
Clownin' one minute. Dead serious about the music the next.
We would've locked in for a few more hours, wrapped up the session, then he'd have gone home to his girl and their daughter.
Normal s**t.
Simple s**t.
I grit my teeth, anger swelling in my chest.
Instead... all we got is a half-finished record and his body laid out cold in some sterile room at the morgue.
And now it's real clear the same people who put him there got us in their sights too.
Fuck.
I push the door open and step out, shoving my gun into the waistband of my jeans.
I ain't going nowhere without this now.
Not after tonight.
I head straight inside. Trigg shadows me without a word.
The studio door shuts behind us, sealing out the world.
Inside, it's dim lights, expensive equipment, and memories hanging in the air like ghosts.
I don't speak.
Don't look at nobody.
Just move—straight to the booth.
My hand drags over my face as I load the last session, forcing my mind into focus.
The speakers crackle.
Then his voice fills the room.
Raw.
Driven.
Alive.
My chest knots tighter like someone just wrapped barbed wire around my ribs.
Still, I drop into the chair.
'Cause grief don't stop the grind.
Pain don't pause purpose.
And death damn sure don't get the last word.
I lean forward, eyes locked on the screen like it owes me something.
"I got you, brotha," I murmur.
Not for the charts.
Not for the streams.
Not even for the money.
This one's for the dream they tried to bury tonight.
They took his life, but they ain't taking his legacy.
Ain't taking what we started.
I drag in one last breath.
Then hit record.
- Writer
