The streets ain’t got no heart. Ain’t no mercy in the trenches. You live by the code, or you die for nothing.

Saint, Relic, Ghost, Deuce, and Mercy—five names stitched into the city like bullet holes in brick. Five soldiers in a war they never asked for, trapped in a cycle that don’t leave survivors. They weren’t born bad, just born here—where the air smell like gunpowder and desperation, where loyalty is currency, and where every sunrise feel like borrowed time.

Out here, you don’t pray for peace, you pray your name don’t make the news. The past don’t stay buried, and the dead don’t rest easy. They’ve lost brothers, buried dreams, and learned the hard way that love is just another thing that’ll get you killed. But still, they’re searching—for a way out, a way up, a way to make it without losing what’s left of their souls.

But the hood don’t let go easy. And when you’re raised in the fire, you either burn... or turn into something worse.

Beau pulled his hoodie over his head, stepping out of the dimly lit warehouse with a slow, calculated stride. The scent of burnt cigars, gasoline, and old whiskey clung to his clothes like a badge of honor. It had been a long-ass week. A week of grinding, handling business, making sure everything was set right. Now, he was free to go home. Free to slide back into the arms of the one thing in this world that made all this shit worth it.

Pumpkin Butt.

He smirked at the thought of her, that little attitude, the way she bit her lip when she got mad at him but still let him hold her anyway. His hands twitched at the thought of running them down her back, grabbing handfuls of what was his. But first, he had to see her, had to put eyes on her before he could breathe right again.

Beau moved through the city streets like he belonged there, like he was part of the concrete itself. Hood shit ran through his blood, but he wasn’t reckless. He kept his head on a swivel, but his focus was set on one thing—her.

When he reached her job, he didn’t walk inside like a normal boyfriend. Nah, that wasn’t his style. He posted up outside, waiting for her to step near the window, waiting for that moment when her eyes landed on him. And when they did—when those pretty brown eyes widened just a little—he grinned, slow and deliberate, running his tongue over his teeth.

He held up his phone, nodded toward her, and waited. A few seconds later, hers buzzed.

Beau: Come outside, Pumpkin Butt. Call out. I’m takin’ you home.

He watched her glance around, lip caught between her teeth, debating. He already knew she was gonna do it. He had that pull on her, same way she had it on him.

Tonight, she wasn’t clocking back in.

(Beau's Valentine's day ALT)

-his bedroom.