Page 65 of The Street Disciples
The Impala roared beneath me, its engine humming like it knew every secret I’d buried in these streets. My hands gripped the wheel tight, leather groaning under my palms. The Crest blurred outside the window—streetlights bleeding gold onto wet pavement, neon signs buzzing like dying fireflies. Each block I passed felt heavier, like the city was weighing me down, daring me to stop running.
Trigger’s smirk haunted me in the reflection of the windshield. He’d orchestrated tonight like a maestro, and I’dplayed his note perfect. The speeches, the cameras, the whispers—he didn’t even have to speak to prove I was still a pawn on his board. And I hated myself for it.
My knuckles whitened. Memories clawed their way to the front of my mind. Sal’s voice telling me to hold it together, his hand on my shoulder the night everything fell apart. Nova’s tears the night I walked out. That hospital room. The baby that never came home. The sound of her sobs when she thought I wasn’t listening. I slammed my hand against the steering wheel, breath ragged. That was the night I stopped believing I was built for anything but pain.
Rain streaked across the windshield, wipers squeaking like they were tired too. The streets smelled like exhaust and fried food, that permanent Crest scent that clings to your skin. Every turn I took brought me closer to Nova’s block, and with it, a fear I couldn’t shake. Not fear of death. Fear of facing her. Fear of looking at Aaliyah and seeing my failure staring back.
“Pull it together,” I muttered to myself, jaw tight. My voice sounded foreign in the cabin, hoarse and hollow. “You gon’ protect ‘em or you gon’ fold again?”
I rolled past the old bodega, the same one I used to post up at when I was fourteen, pockets empty, heart full of ambition I ain’t earned. Murals of dead men watched me from brick walls, faces frozen in time, names whispered like prayers and warnings. I was next if I didn’t play this right. Trigger knew it. The city knew it. Hell, maybe even Nova knew it.
I slowed at a red light that barely worked, the bulb flickering like it couldn’t decide if it cared. For a second, I thought about turning around. Hitting the freeway. Disappearing like I should’ve years ago. But I couldn’t. Aaliyah’s face—her smile, her laugh, the little way she clung to Nova’s chain—dragged me back to reality. That little girl didn’t ask for a father like me, but shehad one anyway. And I wasn’t about to let Trigger or anybody else write her story.
The Crest loomed quieter the closer I got to her street, but quiet didn’t mean safe. Quiet meant plotting. I checked the mirrors, every shadow a threat, every set of headlights behind me a maybe. My Glock sat heavy on the seat beside me, a silent reminder that I wasn’t just driving home. I was driving into a warzone I couldn’t leave again.
I circled the block twice, engine low, eyes sharp. Every parked car was a question mark, every alleyway an invitation I didn’t trust. Streetlights buzzed faint, throwing halos over cracked pavement that looked like it remembered everybody that ever fell on it. A black Tahoe sat at the corner, windows tinted too dark, and I clocked it hard, slowing just enough to catch movement behind the glass. Nothing. Still, my gut told me it was somebody’s ears. Crest streets were loud even when nobody spoke.
I cut down an alley, tires splashing through puddles, checking my six. Even the dogs weren’t barking tonight, and that silence clung to me worse than the rain. This was the kind of night where Trigger’s name felt heavier, like he was breathing down every neck in the city, mine included. The Crest didn’t forget, and it sure as hell didn’t forgive.
I eased back onto Central, passing the liquor store with its buzzing neon “OPEN” sign, the same one I used to post up at when I was a kid. Ghosts lived here, staring at me from every corner—old friends who never made it out, enemies who got put under, and versions of me I couldn’t kill no matter how far I ran. The block was mine once, but now it felt like I was trespassing in my own story.
I turned down a side street that ended at my old apartment. The building stood tired, leaning like it had been carrying too many secrets for too long. The paint had peeled worse, windowsboarded up where glass used to be, but that smell—the mix of mildew, fried chicken grease, and cheap weed—hit me like a slap. Home. The kind of home you don’t brag about, just survive.
I parked the Impala a few houses down, engine idling low. My chest tightened as I sat there, staring at that door I used to walk through like I owned the world. The memory of that night in ’99 bled in quick. Sal’s voice yelling, Nova crying, me running. I could still feel the weight of my cut on my shoulders, still smell the blood in the air. That was the night I stopped calling this place home. But here I was, back again, like I’d never left.
I killed the engine and let the rain fill the silence. Every instinct screamed not to get out of the car, but I’d already made up my mind. Trigger wanted me cornered. I wanted him to see I wasn’t scared. This block didn’t own me no more, but I had ghosts to face, and they were all waiting inside that building.
I sat there, hands gripping the wheel, knuckles pale in the dim glow of the dashboard. The Impala ticked as it cooled, each sound sharp in the heavy quiet. My chest felt tight, like the walls of this car were pressing in, like Lyon Crest itself was leaning on the roof. The air smelled like wet asphalt and memory—burnt rubber, gun oil, cheap weed smoke that lingered in hallways no matter how many times you scrubbed them clean.
The building stood there across Mapleview Ave, near Gram’s House, a black silhouette against a sky that didn’t bother showing stars anymore. Windows were boarded up or cracked, doors painted over too many times to hide the dents. It looked smaller than I remembered, but I knew every squeaky stair, every warped floorboard, every corner that had soaked up fights and whispers and promises that never made it past the block. This wasn’t just a building. This was a reminder of who I used to be.
I grabbed the Glock, slid it into the back of my waistband, and pushed the door open. The rain hit me cold, sharp as nails,plastering my hoodie to my shoulders. It waited for just the right time to appear again. Streetlights flickered overhead, turning puddles into mirrors that reflected a man I barely recognized. I scanned the street slow, making sure I wasn’t being followed. No cars rolled by. No movement in the alley. Just a neighborhood holding its breath, watching.
I crossed the street, boots splashing through the puddles, every step echoing in my head like I was walking back into my own mistakes. The closer I got, the heavier the air felt. That front door, the same one I used to walk through like I owned the place, now looked like a gate to hell. My stomach turned, but I swallowed it down. You can’t let a building punk you. Not when it’s got your blood in the walls.
The key was still buried deep in my pocket, rusted, edges bent from too many years of not using it. This wasn’t just a visit. This was me stepping back into a warzone I left bleeding.
The hallway swallowed me whole, the door clicking shut behind me like a cell locking. My Glock was low, but my eyes cut every corner. The smell hit first—mildew, old wood, stale cigarettes sunk deep into the carpet. It smelled like nights I spent counting money with Sal, like arguments whispered too loud through thin walls, like the kind of memories that stick to you even after you leave the block.
I slid along the wall, boots soft on the creaking boards. Every groan from the floor was a voice from the past calling my name. The flickering lightbulb above buzzed weak, throwing shadows that moved like they were breathing. I checked the first door on the left—empty. Just a broken chair and a window cracked open enough to let the cold slip in. The second door—locked. I jiggled the knob once, twice, then let it go. Not my problem. Not tonight.
My breathing was slow, steady, like I was back in ‘99 sneaking through this same hallway, but this time I wasn’t running—I was hunting ghosts. My palm brushed the chippedpaint on the walls, fingers catching on scars left by years of fights. Bullet holes patched sloppy, dents from boots that kicked too hard. This building had seen more blood than a hospital.
I reached the stairwell. The handrail wobbled under my grip, the smell of rust and damp wood stronger here. I tilted my head, listening. A faint drip of water. The hum of a refrigerator somewhere. No voices. No footsteps. Good. Or bad. Hard to tell in the Crest.
Each step groaned under me, slow, deliberate. My Glock followed my gaze—up, down, left, right. Second floor looked worse than the first. Hallway stretched narrow, dim lights casting long shadows. A rat darted across the hall, claws scratching wood. I didn’t flinch.
I moved down the hall, clearing each doorway. One cracked open—empty room, mattress on the floor, a spoon and lighter on the windowsill. Another door closed but unlocked. I pushed it open with my foot, gun ready—just peeling wallpaper and an old TV still plugged in but dead. Every corner was quiet, but it wasn’t peace. It was the kind of quiet that comes before something loud.
Finally, I reached my old apartment door. The number was barely hanging on, rusted screws holding it like they were tired of the job. My breath hitched, just once. Memories came in flashes: Nova laughing in that kitchen, Sal leaning on that counter, me pacing this hallway with blood on my hoodie and a decision I couldn’t take back.
My hand slid into my pocket, fingers curling around the key. Same one I’d used back then. Same key to a life I buried. I eased it into the lock, twisting slow. The click echoed. The click echoed like a gun cocking, and every nerve in me was on high alert.
The hallway smelled like lemon cleaner and fried chicken, same as it always had, but there were new details—fresh paint patches over old cracks, a new welcome mat under my boots,faint chalk drawings taped to the wall. A kid’s touch. Her touch. Aaliyah’s.
I pushed the door open, slow enough to make the hinges groan. The apartment was dim, soft lamplight flickering from the corner, shadows stretching over furniture I recognized but didn’t feel welcome on anymore. Nova’s scent hit first—coconut hair oil, vanilla lotion, and something faintly floral that didn’t belong back then.
The living room was alive in a way it never was when I was here. Toys stacked neatly in bins, a baby doll stroller parked by the window. There was a blanket folded over the couch’s armrest—hers. Always hers. And there, on the coffee table, a small open Bible with a note slipped between the pages.
