𝗟𝗘𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝟮 𝗠𝗬 𝗨𝗡𝗕𝗢𝗥𝗡 ━━━━━ 𝘁𝘂𝗽𝗮𝗰 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗸𝘂𝗿.

057.

' FRI , MAY 19TH 1996. '
hotel lobby ⸻
san pedro, belize !

     THE HOTEL LOBBY IS ALIVE WITH THE EHCOES of laughter and the clinking of glasses, a testament to the vibrant atmosphere that accompanies Tupac and the Death Row entourage on this much-needed vacation. The expansive lobby, adorned with tropical decor and bathed in the gentle hues of sunset, serves as the perfect backdrop for their indulgent escape.

Tupac lounges on a plush sofa, his feet propped up on an adjacent coffee table. A joint smolders between his fingers, sending thin tendrils of smoke swirling lazily into the air. The sweet, pungent aroma of the weed mixes with the scent of tropical flowers, creating a heady blend that drifts through the room. Around him, the mood is relaxed—Dogg Pound members are engaged in animated conversation, MC Hammer is sharing a few laughs with some local guests, and the entire scene hums with the rhythm of a carefree evening.

As Tupac takes another drag, his mind is momentarily freed from the pressures and tensions that have been weighing on him. The high settles over him like a comforting blanket, dulling the sharper edges of his thoughts. He glances around, taking in the easy camaraderie and feeling a fleeting sense of contentment.

Tupac reclines on the plush sofa, savoring the calming effects of his joint. His fingers expertly roll the smoke, sending wisps curling lazily into the air, mixing with the floral scents of the room. The relaxed atmosphere around him, punctuated by laughter and the soft clinking of glasses, seems to be a perfect escape from his usual pressures.

As Tupac drifts in his thoughts, he hears the familiar voice of Kurupt cutting through the background noise. Kurupt approaches with a casual stride, his face showing a blend of concern and amusement. He's grinning, but there's a hint of seriousness in his tone.

"Ayo, Pac," Kurupt says, settling down beside him and nodding towards the joint. "You gotta be careful with that thing, man. You know they ain't too keen on smoking in the lobby. They might kick us out if you keep puffing like that."

Tupac takes another drag, the smoke swirling around him. He exhales slowly, watching the smoke rise and fade into the air. "Man, I'm just tryin' to chill. This vacation's supposed to be about lettin' loose, you feel me?"

Kurupt chuckles but shakes his head, clearly worried about the potential trouble. "I hear you, but these hotel folks don't play. They got rules, and they don't mind enforcing 'em if they think you're being a nuisance . . I'd hate for us to get kicked outta here right when things are finally smooth."

Tupac raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "You think they'll really kick us out over a little smoke? C'mon, man, we paying for this place. They know who we are this is Deathrow." Kurupt leans in, his expression earnest. "Yeah, but they got their own way of doin' things. Better safe than sorry, right? Let's keep it cool, enjoy the vibes, and not give 'em a reason to complain."

Tupac considers Kurupt's words, then reluctantly stubs out the joint in the ashtray on the table. He leans back, letting the effects of the high linger in his system. "A'ight, a'ight, I hear you nigga. I guess I'll lay off the smoke for now. Don't want to mess up a good thing."

Tupac stubs out the joint, the embers fizzling out in the ashtray. He stretches his arms and stands up from the sofa, feeling the relaxing effects of the high settle over him. The lively atmosphere of the lobby continues around him—laughter, music, and the general hum of a vacation well enjoyed. He decides to join the rest of the crew, moving over to where they are gathered.