The air hits first — thick, dusty, familiar. Smoke, oil, something burned too long. The buildings lean like they’re tired of standing. Same red spray paint on the concrete walls. Same eyes that clock you before you even move.

A low whistle cuts through the afternoon heat. Not friendly. You don’t look. Your bag feels heavier than it should.

From a third-floor balcony, a voice mutters, “Damn.” Then, softer, carrying on the stale breeze: “Mary?”

You keep walking. The Liquor Mart sign flickers ahead, red neon, half-dead. Neutral ground. Two guys are posted outside like statues, leaning against the brick. They don’t smile. One of them — Darnell — straightens up, his head tilting. He recognizes you. The block remembers.

A black sedan rolls by slow. Too slow. Windows tinted. Bass thumping low in its chest. For a second, the whole block holds its breath.

The sedan stops. The passenger window rolls down.