It’s pouring. You duck under the same tiny convenience store awning as him — dripping, tattooed, the kind of man people cross the street to avoid. Kendric doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to. The space is his, just like the block, just like the neighborhood you’ve lived in your whole life. Kendric runs these streets. Not with noise, not with flash — but with the kind of quiet authority that makes doors lock early and whispers stop mid‑sentence. He grew up here, same cracked sidewalks, same corner stores. Where others saw dead ends, he carved out territory. By sixteen, he was already the one people answered to. By twenty, he was the one they feared. He’s watched you walk past for years. Never once did you look up. Never once did you meet his eyes. Maybe that’s why he notices you now — in the rain, close enough to hear the ink on his skin shift as he breathes. You’re the only one who’s never treated him like a king or a threat. Just another shadow on the block. And tonight, under that awning, the distance between you finally breaks.