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Chapter 1: Welcome To The 5th Ward (REVISED)

The hood. It wasn't just a place; it was a way of life. Black folks knew it like they knew the air in their lungs—the hood was everything. It was where little Black boys learned to be men, where Black joy and Black pain tangled together so tight you couldn't tell 'em apart. 

The hood was home, even if that home was crumbling. It was where little Black girls grew up too fast, where grown men with bad intentions turned 'em into women. 

The hood had your back when you needed it—until the day it didn't. It was broken homes, shattered dreams, gangstas, gun violence, and bloodshed. And for most folks like Assad, the hood was where you'd live, where you'd hustle, and eventually, where you'd die.

5th Ward was Assad's home, his territory. But it didn't feel like it no more. The hood was fading, swallowed up by gentrification. The same streets that raised him were being sold off, one block at a time. 

Empty houses he'd seen his whole life were being torn down and replaced by shiny new buildings. They'd turned the corner liquor store into some organic food market that had nothin' to do with the people who grew up here. And the folks that didn't leave? They were getting bought out with hush money, just enough to make them think they won big. White folks always thinking Black folks were stupid, throwing them crumbs while they took the whole damn loaf.

Assad stood on the porch of his childhood home, the only one that still looked like it belonged on the block. He took a long drag from his blunt, eyes scanning the streets he used to run wild on. Now, they were quiet, too clean, like someone had washed the hood right out of them. Two white boys in matching joggers pushed a stroller past his house, a couple of dogs wagging behind them.

"Shit changin' too fast," Assad muttered, blowing smoke into the air.

There was a time when walking these streets in broad daylight was a death wish. Cops didn't even fuck with the 5th back then, too scared to roll through unless they had a full squad. Now? They circled like sharks, trying to make sure there weren't no more "Assads" roaming the streets. But these streets? They'd been his. Assad used to own this block, wild and reckless, shooting up anybody that came at him or his potna, Black, sideways.

The hood was dying a slow, silent death.

Assad thought about moving to 3rd ward, a place that hadn't been gentrified yet, but how long would that last? How long 'til they tore down that hood too? He wasn't leaving though, not yet. Not until he saw another liquor store knocked down for some bullshit Whole Foods or Trader Joe's.

He had bigger shit to focus on—money to make, product to move. The streets might've changed, but his hustle hadn't. He and Black had these streets on lock, a duo nobody wanted to cross. Where you saw one, you saw the other.

It was late in the evening when Assad pulled up at Black's apartment. They rode together, picking up money from Black's girls—women who worked the streets for him. Black didn't call himself a pimp, though. Said the word was out of date, made him sound like some '70s movie villain. He was a "money-getter," just putting broken women on the corners and getting paid. At least he treated 'em right, kept them tested, fed, and safe, made sure they had clean drugs and not that fentanyl-laced trash other dealers were pushing.

"Some niggas tryna buy the complex," Black said, counting up his money. "Landlord sent out a text sayin' he thinkin' 'bout sellin'."

"He stalling," Assad replied. "Waitin' for a bigger check. You know how they do. What you gon' do if he sells?"

Black stuffed the wad of cash into his pocket. "I got a lil' mama I could crash with. She got some badass kids, but the pussy a hunnid."

Assad chuckled, taking a turn down a side street. "She gon' have you playin' step-daddy."