American Sun

Post by **Caesar** » 12 Jan 2025, 19:07

Table of Contents
Season 1: Todo Tiene un Precio

► Show Spoiler

Season 2: Tout Sa Ou Pote Gen Pwa

► Show Spoiler

Season 3: God Don't Walk These Roads No More

► Show Spoiler

Season 4: Quod Sciebas Elegisti

1. Particeps Fuit
2. Sciens Manet
3. Agnitum
4. Implicatus
5. Onus Acceptum
6. Idoneus Solum
7. Manifestum
8. Status Definitus
9. Animadversum
10. Vestigium Manet
11. Accessit
12. Intellexit
13. Debitum Manet
14. Impositum
15. Conscius Factus
16. Ad Usum
17. Visum Est
18. Non Insons
19. Hoc Sufficit
20. Dum Licuit

Character Bios

► Show Spoiler

Season Stats

Post by **Caesar** » 12 Jan 2025, 19:07

American Sun
The streets of New Orleans stretched dark and empty as William’s old Toyota Camry crept toward a red light. Jazz hummed through the speakers, the slow, smooth sound of a saxophone wrapping the car in a cocoon of comfort. Outside, the air was thick with the smell of rain-soaked pavement and jasmine.

“Could’ve sworn I saw you eyeing that waitress tonight,” Martha teased, giving William a sideways glance. Her silver hoop earrings swayed as she shifted in her seat, her teasing grin catching the faint glow of the dashboard lights.

William chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re imaging things again, sweetheart. Only thing I was eyeing was that bread pudding.”

Martha gave his arm a playful shove. “Mm-hmm. You can’t fool me. We’ve been married too long.”

William shook his head, smiling, eyes crinkling at the edges. The kind of smile you earn after forty years together—the kind that knows every story behind every line on a face.

They were old but far from frail. Martha’s sharp wit balanced William’s quiet charm, a rhythm that kept the world outside their car a little softer, a little less sharp-edged.

The light ahead turned red, and William eased the car to a stop, the tires crunching over gravel near the curb. The engine hummed softly as he reached out to fiddle with the radio dial, the jazz fading into a local talk station.

Then came the headlights.

The car behind them roared up too close, its beams blazing bright in the rearview mirror.

William flinched, turning the mirror upward to block the glare. “Damn kids,” he muttered, squinting through the windshield. “Probably trying to hurry us up.”

Martha twisted in her seat, trying to see past the blinding light. “What’s their problem?”

“Ignore them,” William said, his voice steady but with a slight edge, the nightly news making him a little more paranoid. “They’ll go around.”

But the headlights didn’t shift. The engine of the car behind them sputtered to idle, low and angry. William gripped the wheel a little tighter. Something about this felt off.

He heard the sound of the doors opening. A cold prickle ran up William’s neck. He turned his head just as the dark figures appeared.

Two men—hooded, faces obscured by ski masks—moved quickly. One approached the driver’s side: the other rounded the car, appearing at Martha’s window. Their movements were sharp, almost practiced, as if they’d done this before.

Tap, tap, tap.

The sound of the handle of a gun against glass was sharp and impatient. William turned to face the masked man at his window—a tall, lean figure whose posture was too calm, too sure for a kid with a gun.

“Get the fuck out of the car, old man,” the young man said. His voice was steady, controlled, but it carried the kind of authority that brokered no argument.

Martha gasped, her hand flying to clutch at William’s arm.

“Now, bitch!” barked the second voice—this one from Martha’s side. The figure there rapped the butt of his gun against the glass with a dull thunk. “I don’t want to kill someone’s mawmaw over a busted ass Camry!”

William’s mouth went dry. “All right, all right—take it easy,” he said, fumbling with the door handle. His voice trembled even as he tried to stay calm for Martha’s sake.

The masked men stepped back just enough for William and Martha to get out of the car. The old couple stumbled onto the pavement, the quiet of the night broken by the hum of the stolen car’s engine and the low murmur of insects in the distance.

“Phones.”

The masked man on the driver’s side—Caine Guerra—held out a gloved hand, palm open. His gun was steady, pointed just low enough to avoid seeming frantic.

William hesitated, his eyes flicking between Caine’s face, obscured by the mask, and the gun in his hand.

“Phones,” Caine repeated, his voice harder now. “Don’t make me say it again, motherfucker.”

Martha fumbled in her purse, pulling out a small, old iPhone with shaking hands. William dug his own out of his pocket, his eyes avoiding Caine’s as he held it out.

Caine snatched both phones quickly and handed them off to the other masked man—Andre Helaire, Dre—who shoved them into the pocket of his hoodie.

Caine slipped into the driver’s seat without another word.

“You trying to find some old, saggy titty nudes,” Dre muttered, climbing into the passenger seat and pulling his mask up to the bridge of his nose.

“You wanna risk them calling the cops before we get to Tito?” Caine shot back, his tone even and cold.

Dre pulled the phones out and disassembled them, breaking them in half under his shoes, but he didn’t argue further.

The engine roared to life under Caine’s touch. The car smelled like old cologne and worn leather, but it ran smooth—better than anything he’d driven in weeks. He eased the Camry into gear and pulled away from the curb, slow at first, as if nothing were out of place. The old couple shrank into the rearview mirror, William’s arm wrapped around Martha, their figures hunched and small under the pale glow of a streetlight.

Behind them, Ricardo’s rusted-out sedan followed close, its headlights cutting a path through he dak.

A few blocks down, where the streetlights thinned and the roads turned rougher, Caine peeled off his ski mask and stuffed it into the pocket of his hoodie. He ran a hand through his dreads, his expression impassive.

Drew yanked his mask off too, rolling down the window and flinging the broken phones out. “Damn. Thought that old man was gonna have a fucking heart attack.”

Caine didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. The unease gnawed at the edge of his mind, but he buried it deep, like he always did. “We’re good,” he said flatly.

Dre slouched in his seat, putting his shoes up on the dashboard. “Yeah, well, you lucky it wasn’t some young niggas with a switch. I’m telling you, one day we’re gonna try to snatch a Charger or some shit and end up swiss cheesed.”

Caine glanced at him, his voice cool. “Then we’ll handle it.”

Dre shook his head, laughing. “Yeah, then you better get a switch for that fucking Taurus you still running around here with.”

Caine didn’t reply. He let the silence settle over them as he sped up, the Camry’s engine growling louder. Out here, silence was better than words.

~~~

The light from the hallway spilled across Mireya Rosas’ tired face when she opened the door. Camila was balanced on her hip, her small fists clinging to her mother’s shirt. Even in the dim light, Caine could see the exhaustion in Mireya’s eyes—the same exhaustion he felt in his own bones.

“You’re late,” Mireya said softly, but the edge of worry still clung to her voice.

“Got here when I got here,” Caine replied, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

Camila, recognizing her father’s voice, squirmed in Mireya’s arms and reached for him. A small, dimpled smile spread across her face, one that always managed to chip away at the weight on Caine’s shoulders.

“Hola, mamas,” Caine murmured, taking the baby into his arms. She cooed as he gently bounced her, her small hands grasping at the chain around his neck.

Mireya lingered in the doorway for a moment, her sharp gaze flicking down to his hands. When he pulled a crumpled wad of cash from his pocket and handed it to her, she sighed. She didn’t even need to ask where it came from.

“Caine…”

“Here,” he cut her off, kissing the top of Camila’s head. “Most of it’s yours. For her. I don’t need nothing.”

“You think this fixes everything?” Mireya asked, her voice low. She counted the bills—more than enough for diapers, formula, and maybe even a little left for groceries—and set the money on the kitchen counter. “You’re gonna get yourself arrested, or killed, one day, running with Rico and Dre.”

“I’m not,” Caine said flatly, though they’d had this conversation a hundred times before.

“And what happens to her if you do?” Mireya’s voice cracked as she gestured toward Camila.

Caine didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to.

Mireya rubbed her temples and let out a shaky breath. “You eat?”

“Nah,” Caine admitted, his voice quieter now.

“Sit down,” she said, softer this time. “I saved you a plate from dinner.”

Caine lowered himself onto the worn-out couch, still cradling Camila. The room was small but felt lived-in: baby bottles drying near the sink, a folded pile of laundry on the chair, and a half-empty bottle of formula on the table.

Mireya warmed up the food—rice and beans, a couple of fried plantains, and a piece of chicken—and brought it to him, placing the plate carefully on the coffee table. She sat beside him, one leg curled underneath her.

“You looked tired, babe,” she said after a long silence.

“Long day,” Caine shifted Camila onto his lap and picked at the food. “Practice went late. Coach was fucking wilding all afternoon.”

“And then you went out wilding all night?” Mireya asked, raising an eyebrow.

Caine’s jaw tightened. “It’s not like I got a fucking choice, Mireya. Football ain’t paying for no formula.”

She looked at him for a moment, something unreadable in her expression. Finally, she just shook her head, as if she couldn’t decide whether to be angry or worried. “You’re not going to make it out of here if you keep this up, Caine. You’re not going to see her grow up.”

Camila let out a happy little squeal, unaware of the weight of her parents’ words. Caine smiled faintly, leaning down to kiss her soft curls. “I’m trying, Mireya. Lo juro que I’m trying.”

~~~

The Guerra house was alive with chaos when Caine pushed open the door, the hinges squealing in protest. Despite the hour—4 a.m. on a Saturday—no one seemed interested in sleeping. The TV blared from the living room, flashes of color flickering across the walls.

His younger cousins—Cruz and Katia—were chasing each other up and down the narrow hallway, their laughter loud enough to drown out the arguments coming from the kitchen.

“¡Basta ya!” Caine heard his grandmother Ximena shout, her voice sharp as ever. “You’re gonna wake the whole block, cabrones.”

Caine shook his head, rubbing his eyes. He weaved through the chaos, ducking past Saul, who sat on the couch flipping through channels with a bored expression.

“Out all night like you got a job,” Saul muttered, smirking. “What you been doing, negrito? Playing for the Saints?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Caine shot back, brushing past him.

Before he could make it to his room, his mother’s voice stopped him cold.

“Caine.”

Sara Guerra stood near the kitchen doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked exhausted, her eyes ringed with shadows. “Your tio’s taking you to work tomorrow. Be ready at six.”

Caine sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ma, I’m tired.”

“We’re all tired,” Sara’s voice was firm, though her expression softened slightly. “What you tired from, huh? Running around all night with that girl?”

“No.” Caine looked up, his voice sharper than he intended. “Football. Practice every day. Coach’s ass about to get fired so—”

Sara raised her hand to cut him off. “Mijo, I know you like football, but football doesn’t put food on this table.”

Caine opened his mouth to argue but stopped himself. He knew better.

“Six o’clock,” Sara repeated, turning back toward the kitchen. “Don’t make Hector come in there and drag you out. I don’t want to hear his mouth. You know how he gets.”

Caine shook his head, muttering under his breath as he pushed open the door to the tiny bedroom he shared with Hector, Saul, and Cruz.

The room was stifling, the air heavy and warm. Cruz was already back in the room, passed out on the top bunk, his mouth slightly open. Hector’s duffel bag sat at the foot of the bottom bunk, stuffed with tools.

Caine flopped down onto the thin mattress and stared up at the ceiling, ignoring the distant sound of the TV and pounding of footsteps in the hallway.

The springs groaned beneath him, but he didn’t care. His muscles ached, his eyes burned, and sleep tugged at him like a weight he couldn’t shake.

For a moment, he thought about the field, the smell of cut grass under the stadium lights, and the way the ball felt in his hands. Football was the ticket out, he thought.

But as the muffled chaos of the Guerra household buzzed around him, Caine wondered if anyone else believed that.

Post by **Caesar** » 12 Jan 2025, 19:08

introducing American Sundays. This is the CFB 26 RTG, folks. We'll be posting an update every Sunday until Dying to Live is completed.

Post by **Soapy** » 12 Jan 2025, 19:20

its 49 other states, duke

Post by **Caesar** » 12 Jan 2025, 19:26

Soapy wrote: ↑
12 Jan 2025, 19:20
its 49 other states, duke

Post by **The JZA** » 12 Jan 2025, 20:25

Caesar wrote: ↑
12 Jan 2025, 19:26

Soapy wrote: ↑
12 Jan 2025, 19:20
its 49 other states, duke

Post by **Captain Canada** » 13 Jan 2025, 17:27

Okay, intriguing from the get-go. We here.

Post by **Caesar** » 19 Jan 2025, 21:32

Oveja Negra
The morning was still cloaked in a silvery mist when Caine trudged out the front door, the chill of dawn biting at his skin through his thin hoodie. The humid Louisiana air clung to him, promising another sweltering day ahead. The house on Desire Street was quiet for once, the chaos of his family muted in the early hour. Even his cousins were still asleep, their snores vibrating through the thin walls like distant thunder.

Hector’s truck idled at the curb, its engine growling impatiently, a plume of exhaust curling into the pale sky. Caine stuffed his hands into his hoodie pockets as he walked toward it, his footsteps crunching against the gravel driveway. The truck’s headlights cut through the fog, the beams dancing off the cracked concrete.

“About time,” Hector barked through the open window, his voice already gravelly and rough, like he’d been smoking since before sunrise. He leaned out, his elbow resting on the doorframe, his sharp features set in a scowl. “You move slower than molasses, boy.”

Caine ignored him and opened the back door, sliding onto the tattered bench seat next to his cousin Saul. Saul shot him a lazy grin, his dark hair slicked back and still damp, like he’d barely had time to shower before Hector dragged him out of bed.

“Thought maybe you’d decided to sleep in, primo,” Saul teased, kicking Caine lightly in the shin. “Don’t worry, we’d’ve left your ass here. Hector says you ain’t worth half what you eat anyway.”

Caine gave him a sidelong glance, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a smirk. “Good. Next time, leave me so I can fucking sleep,” he said, his voice low and even. His tone carried a weight that made Saul snicker nervously but not push further.

“Alright, enough,” Hector grunted from the driver’s seat, throwing the truck into gear. “You two wanna bicker like a couple of viejas, do it on your own time. We got shit to do.”

…

The sun began to crest over the horizon as they pulled into a small gas station off a lonely stretch of road in Plaquemines Parish. It was the kind of place where time felt frozen, the peeling paint on the storefront and the faded Coca-Cola sign standing testament to decades of wear. A single pump sat out front, its numbers turning sluggishly as Hector filled the tank. Caine stepped out of the truck, stretching his arms over his head, his muscles still stiff from the previous day’s work.

Inside the gas station, the air was thick with the smell of fried food and stale coffee. Saul made a beeline for the drink cooler, grabbing a can of Monster and a bag of hot Cheetos. Hector, meanwhile, browsed the counter, squinting at a display of scratch-off lottery tickets like he thought he could read his way into luck.

Caine drifted toward the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup of the bitter, burnt brew and taking a sip without adding sugar. It was too hot, scalding the back of his throat, but he swallowed it anyway. The man behind the counter, an older white guy with a sunburned neck and a cap emblazoned with the logo of some local shrimping company, gave Caine a lingering look but didn’t say anything.

When Saul joined him at the counter, he leaned in with a sly grin. “Hey, moreno, you sure you don’t want a honey bun or something? Ain’t that what y’all like? A little watermelon Kool-aid to wash it down?”

Caine’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking toward Saul, but his expression didn’t change. “Nah,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “I’ll leave that for you. I know y’all be hungry after jumping that border.”

Hector, who had just finished paying, glanced over his shoulder and chuckled. “Cuidado, Saul. Caine’s quiet until he ain’t. You know how they get.”

Saul snorted, but his grin faltered. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, grabbing his snack and heading for the door. “Just fucking with you, man.”

Caine followed them out, the tension rolling off him like steam. He was used to it by now—the teasing, the little digs about his skin, his hair, his place in the family. He knew they didn’t mean it maliciously, not really. But it still sat heavy in his chest, a weight he couldn’t quite shake. He reminded himself, as he always did, that the world would come at him harder than his family ever could. Better to take it here, from them, than to let it catch him off guard out there.

…

When they reached the job site, the sun was fully up, blazing against a clear blue sky. The air was already sticky, the heat clinging to their skin like a second layer. The site was a stretch of barren land where a warehouse was being built, the skeletal frame rising against the backdrop of the marshland beyond. A group of men was already there, standing near a pile of rebar and cement bags. Most of them were Latino, their shirts damp with sweat despite the early hour.

Hector strode over, clapping hands with one of the men, a broad-shouldered guy with a salt-and-pepper beard. “Miguel,” Hector said, his tone warmer than usual. “Got the boys with me today.”

Miguel nodded, his eyes flicking to Caine and Saul. “Good. We need all the hands we can get.”

The men split into groups, and Caine found himself hauling bags of cement with a younger guy named Luis. Luis was slim but wiry, his dark hair slicked back and his hands calloused from years of labor. They fell into an easy rhythm, the sound of their boots crunching on the gravel filling the silence between them.

“You from New Orleans?” Luis asked after a while, his Spanish quick and fluid.

“Yeah,” Caine replied in the same language, his voice steady despite the weight of the cement bag on his shoulder. “The East. You?”

“Mexico, originally,” Luis said, grinning. “But I’ve been here long enough to call it home.”

Caine nodded, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. He liked speaking Spanish—it came naturally, a part of him that felt solid and rooted, even when everything else in his life was shifting. It reminded him of his mother, of the nights she spent teaching him the words while she cooked dinner, her voice lilting like a song.

“Your Spanish is good,” Luis said, his tone a little surprised.

“Gracias,” Caine said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Mi mama made sure of that.”

Luis chuckled and nodded in approval. “Smart woman.”

…

The work was brutal, the kind that left Caine’s arms trembling and his back aching, but he didn’t complain. He’d learned a long time ago that whining got you nowhere. Hector barked orders like a drill sergeant, but Caine didn’t mind—it kept his mind occupied, gave him something to focus on besides the gnawing frustration in his chest.

By midday, the sun was high overhead, its heat pounding down on them like a hammer. The men gathered under a makeshift canopy for a break, drinking water from gallon jugs and sharing jokes in rapid Spanish. Caine sat off to the side, his muscles screaming as he leaned back against a stack of pallets.

“You alright, negrito?” Saul asked, smirking as he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Looking a little tired.”

Caine rolled his eyes. “I’m straight,” he said, tipping his head back to take a long swig of water.

Luis walked over, a grin splitting his face. “You’re stronger than you look,” he said in Spanish, nudging Caine’s arm. “Hector’s lucky to have you out here.”

Caine let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, I don’t plan on making this a habit.”

Luis laughed. “I don’t blame you.”

As the break ended and the men returned to their work, Caine couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride. The work was hard, but he’d kept up with them. He belonged here, in his own way. But as he hefted another bag of cement onto his shoulder, the familiar thought crept back into his mind—the one that never quite left him.

I don’t want to do this forever.

~~~

The dim light in Tito’s garage flickered, the fluorescent tubes overhead casting a sickly green glow over the cluttered space. The air was heavy with the smell of motor oil, mildew, and cigarette smoke, a combination that clung to Caine’s clothes every time he left. Cars in various states of disrepair lined the walls, their hoods yawning open like metal corpses waiting to be gutted. Tito sat on a worn-out office chair near the back, a man with smooth, dark skin and a face that looked far too cheerful for the business he ran. His gold chain caught the light as he leaned forward, grinning in a way that never quite reached his eyes.

“Alright, lil’ niggas,” Tito said, his voice smooth but with a faint edge of impatience. He slid a black backpack across the workbench between them, the sound of its weight thudding against the scarred wood. “This right here? Premium. Straight from my guy. Got some pills in there, some powder. I don’t wanna hear nothing about no short money or no short counts. You handle it, clean and quick.”

Caine stood a step back from Dre and Ricardo, arms crossed, his eyes steady on the bag. He didn’t say anything, just listened. He wasn’t one to run his mouth around Tito. Dre, though, always felt the need to fill the silence.

“You know us, Tito,” Dre said, flashing his signature, too-wide grin. He reached for the bag, his long fingers curling around the straps. “We ain’t gonna do you wrong. No mess, no fuss.”

Tito gave a short laugh, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other. “Yeah, well, let’s keep it that way. Last thing I need is y’all acting sloppy out there. Cops’ve been circling this part the city like they got some juvies lined up for they nasty asses. You screw this up, and it’s your asses, not mine.”

Ricardo gave Tito a short nod. “We got it.”

Dre slung the backpack over his shoulder, the weight of it shifting his stance slightly. “Appreciate you, Tito.”

Tito waved them off, his grin fading as quickly as it had appeared. “Get the fuck outta here.”

Outside, the early evening air was cooler than Caine had expected, the sky a deepening orange streaked with purple. The three of them walked toward Dre’s beat-up Buick, parked half a block away. The streetlights buzzed faintly, moths swirling in their halos. Dre whistled a low tune, the backpack bouncing lightly on his shoulder as they walked.

“Say, uh, listen,” Dre said, his tone too casual to be innocent. “I was talking to my cousin Percy the other day, and he’s looking to make some extra bread. Figured maybe he could ride with us on a couple jobs, you know, see how things work.”

Ricardo stopped in his tracks, turning sharply to face Dre. His expression was somewhere between disbelief and annoyance. “Your cousin? Fuck no.”

Dre blinked, feigning surprise. “What? Why not?”

“‘Cause I don’t know his ass,” Ricardo said firmly, his words clipped. “You don’t just bring some random motherfucker into this. I don’t care if he’s your blood. He ain’t mine, and I ain’t about to trust my neck to some guy I’ve never even met. If 12 catch his ass, my name the first one coming out his fucking mouth. Me and Caine.”

Dre laughed, a short, incredulous sound. “Man, Perc ain’t no snitch. He cool. He just need to make a little paper.”

“Everyone needs to make a little paper,” Ricardo snapped. “That don’t mean they got to do it with us. You wanna vouch for him? Fine. But if shit goes sideways, that’s on you, and I’m not sticking my neck out for it. You gonna take that fucking charge.”

Caine watched the exchange silently, leaning against a streetlight with his hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket. His face was impassive, unreadable, but his eyes flicked between Dre and Ricardo as they argued.

Dre turned to Caine, spreading his arms as if to say, help me out here. “Caine, tell him the shit ain’t that serious. You know if I’m good then my people good, right?”

Caine shrugged, pushing off the streetlight and taking a step forward. “I don’t care,” he said flatly. “That’s your mans. That’s your business.”

Dre raised an eyebrow, smirking like he’d just won a minor victory. “See? Caine don’t mind.”

Ricardo scoffed, throwing his hands up. “Of course he don’t. He’s too busy pretending he’s above all this to have an opinion.”

Caine’s gaze snapped to Ricardo, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something sharp and dangerous in his eyes. Ricardo saw it and quickly looked away, muttering something under his breath. Dre stepped in, eager to steer the conversation back to his side of things.

“Look, Caine,” Dre said, shifting the backpack higher on his shoulder. “Think about it. If Perc comes along, that’s one more nigga to handle the heavy stuff. You could take a step back, you know? Do some of the easier shit. Ain’t gotta worry about getting locked and being away from your little girl.”

Caine tilted his head slightly, his expression still unreadable. “Easier shit mean less money,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Less money means less food in Camila’s mouth. Less for Mireya. You gonna make up that difference?”

Dre hesitated, the grin slipping from his face. He glanced at Ricardo, who was watching the exchange with a smug look of told you so. “I mean, it’s not like you gotta do all the heavy lifting every time,” Dre tried again, but his voice lacked conviction.

Caine took a step closer, his broad shoulders towering over Dre. “I don’t care who does what,” he said, his tone calm but heavy with finality. “But don’t act like it’s better for me. I’m in this because I have to be, not because I want to be. And if your cousin’s gonna take food off my table, that’s gonna be a fucking problem.”

Dre shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the pavement. “Alright, alright,” he muttered. “I was just saying.”

“Yeah,” Ricardo cut in, his voice sharp. “And what you were saying was fucking stupid. This shit works fine. Leave your cousin out of it.”

For a long moment, the three of them stood in tense silence, the only sound the faint buzz of a nearby streetlight. Finally, Caine turned and started walking toward the car, his hands still in his pockets. “Let’s just get this shit off,” he said over his shoulder, his voice low but carrying enough weight to end the conversation.

Dre and Ricardo exchanged a glance, then followed him without another word. As they climbed into the Buick, the air between them was thick with unspoken tension. Dre slumped in the driver’s seat, his usual bravado dimmed, while Ricardo stared out the window, his jaw tight.

Caine sat in the back, his eyes fixed on the passing streetlights as they pulled away from Tito’s garage. His mind was already elsewhere—on Camila, on Mireya, on the weight of the backpack in Dre’s lap and everything it represented.

Post by **Captain Canada** » 22 Jan 2025, 12:19

That arrest update gonna go crazy

Post by **Soapy** » 22 Jan 2025, 16:29

sprinkled some sazon in this motherfucker to change it up, i respect it

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