Page 9 of Siren

Last was the secondhand vinyl shop near the busway. Old soul records. Crates that smelled like dust and genius. I slipped a hundred into the tip jar while the owner argued with someone about the difference between Marvin and Luther. I didn’t stay long. I never did.

I didn’t do this for praise.

I did it because it felt like mine. Because when the checks started clearing, I promised I wouldn’t forget where I came from. Not the labels. Not the playlists. But places like this. People like them.

And truth be told, I stayed low for a reason.

The industry kept trying to bait me into the spotlight. Always pushing for a moment. A photo op. A soft launch of some woman I was supposed to parade around, pretend we were blissed out for the cameras. I wasn’t even dating like that—but the few I had seen since signing the contract? Most of them wanted the perks. The exclusives. A picture with the plaques. A front-row seat to the illusion.

But I’d already learned the hard way what came with being too visible.

I almost died behind a bad deal once. A handshake turned handcuff. A late-night meeting that ended with a man’s brains splattered on the floor across from me.

It wasn’t just contracts and clauses—it was survival.

So yeah, I moved quiet. I let the music speak louder than my mouth. And I was damn grateful to be with VoxRitual that got that… mostly.

By the time I pulled up to Kingsley, the sun was climbing and my hoodie clung to my back. The center sat where East Liberty kissed the edge of Homewood—right on that seam where two worlds met and tried to hold each other up. A heartbeat between histories. Basketball sounds echoed through the walls, sneakers squeaking over old hardwood. Somebody’s playlist spilled out of a cracked window—Pittsburgh soul, warm and familiar.

I stepped inside, duffel in hand.

The gym was already alive. Rico was halfway through a rant about missed calls, talking with his whole body like always, Iverson jersey clinging to his chest. Dre and Tay were near the scorer’s table, arguing over which one of them had a better high school record—again. And Deuce was at half-court, taking lazy shots like he hadn’t been winded since 2019.

“Look who finally remembered where he came from!” Dre shouted, his voice booming like an uncle on the grill.

“Y’all act like I moved to Mars,” I laughed, dropping my bag by the bleachers.

“You might as well have,” Rico called. “The whole city been waiting on a callback. We thought you traded us in for the blue check crowd.”

I dapped them up—Rico’s slap-and-hug always came with a headbutt threat, Dre pulled me in deep like he needed to feel my heartbeat, and Tay hit my chest like I still owed him for a barbershop bet.

“Working,” I said, stretching. “Nonstop.”

“Working?” Tay raised a brow. “You mean staring into the distance and looking poetic for album covers?”

“Man, shut up,” Deuce laughed. “That’s a brand now.”

We ran full court for two hours. Trash talk turned scripture.Elbows and fouls blurred into rhythm and muscle memory. Rico talked more than he moved. Dre still hustled like the NBA was watching. Tay coached the whole game like he forgot he was playing. And Deuce fouled out twice, dramatic every time.

And me…

I played the way I used to—before the contracts. Before the boardrooms. Before they started dressing my trauma in branding and asking for vulnerability on demand. I moved like I remembered myself. And for a while, I did.

We collapsed on the sideline after the second game, soaked and breathless.

“You still got it,” Tay said, panting. “Barely.”

I grinned. “Still faster than you with that busted dad-knee.”

Laughter rippled. Not the fake kind. That under-the-ribs, back-in-time kind.

Deuce cracked open a Gatorade and tossed me one. “Alright, be honest. Is this some warm-up for a big rollout, or you just needed a reminder that you still got us?”

“Little of both,” I said, wiping my face. Let the bottle rest against my neck. “Label’s plotting. They want a collab. A narrative.”

“With who?” Rico asked, leaning in.

“Sienna Ray.”

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