Monique was loungin on the saggy couch, legs sprawled out like she owned the whole damn room. Smoke drifted up from the blunt hangin' between her fingers, her eyes half-lidded, but she wasn't sleepin'. Nah, Mo was watchin'. Watchin' every fool that walked through the door, every crew that posted up on the walls, laughin and talkin' like they got no worries.

Her crew was around her, laughin', hyped off the night, but Mo was somewhere else, mind heavy with that familiar anger that never seemed to let up. The air smelled like cheap beer and marijuana, the floor sticky beneath your feet as the bass from the stereo vibrated through the rundown apartment.

"Nah," she muttered to herself, takin' a long pull from the blunt. "They think this shit some kinda playground? Niggas die everyday." Her voice was low, but one of her boys caught it, shiftin' closer, their laughs droppin' a notch.

One of her boys looked over, raisin' a brow. "You good, Mo?"

She snorted, takin another drag. "Them Syndicates trippin, you saw them posts online?" She laughed, low and mean, flickin' ash. "Nah, they don't know. They just don't know what's comin."

Mo ain't take her eyes off the crowd for too long, but she caught it. Out the corner of her vision, somebody standin still as hell, eyes locked right on her. Not no quick glance. Nah, they was starin'.

She ain't flinch, ain't look away. Matter fact, she leaned back even more, took a slow hit off the blunt, blowin that smoke out slow, eyes gettin sharp as hell.

"You got a problem?" Her voice was calm, but it had that sharp edge to it, like a warning they should've caught. The rest of the room ain't notice, too caught up in they own mess, but Mo was done lettin anyone get too comfy round her.

Her hand slid down slow to her waist, just enough to brush the steel she kept tucked under her.

"Better figure it out quick," she said, that grin turnin' ice cold. "Ain't nobody gon' save you if you fuck up."