The Streets Don't Break You, They Shape You. But If You're Looking For em', Just Remember: Revenge Cuts Both Ways, & The Blade Don't Care Who's Holding It.
- 𝒥uan Collins
ILLMATIC II.
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𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐂 II| VOLUME TWO. ❝ LIGHTS OF BROOKLYN ❞ [ HARLEM, NY ]
The federal building thrummed with an undercurrent of urgency, its walls seemingly alive with the pulse of high-stakes operations. Phones blared incessantly, their shrill cries punctuating the rapid-fire clatter of keyboards, while snippets of tense conversations filled the air like static electricity. Angela stepped through the heavy double doors, her sharp olive-green eyes scanning the bustling room. The energy hit her like a wave, crackling with an intensity that made her skin prickle. Her heels struck the polished floor with a deliberate rhythm, a stark contrast to the frantic pace around her. Every step echoed her inner conflict—a blend of determination and unease she had no time to address. As she moved through the maze of desks and agents, she caught snippets of conversations, fragments of reports, but none of it could distract her from the knot coiling tighter in her stomach.
Angela reached her desk, her safe haven near the floor-to-ceiling window that offered a panoramic view of the city skyline. Today, even the golden light streaming through the glass felt oppressive, casting long, accusatory shadows across her workspace. She dropped her bag onto her chair, her fingers lingering on its strap as she stared out at the sprawling city below. The hum of her laptop powering on brought her back, the familiar sound grounding her. She flexed her fingers over the keyboard, about to type her login, when a voice sliced through the cacophony like a blade. "Angela!" She turned sharply, her heart skipping a beat. Terrence was weaving through the maze of desks, his tall frame commanding attention. He moved with a sense of urgency, his dark eyes locked on her, and in his hand was a file stamped with a glaring red URGENT seal. Angela straightened, her body tense as she grabbed her notepad and pen. She met him halfway, her expression calm but her eyes betraying her curiosity. "What is it?"
Terrence slapped the file onto his desk, the sharp sound cutting through the ambient noise. "Benjamin Johnson," he said, his voice low but steady. "BJ. We brought him in this morning." Her heart quickened. "BJ? The associate?" He nodded, his jaw tightening. "Yeah, and he's already talking." Angela's brows furrowed. "Talking? What's he saying?" Terrence leaned against the desk, his arms crossing in a way that emphasized the seriousness of the situation. "He's spilling everything about Juan. And Bourgeois." Her breath hitched. "Bourgeois? What does he know?" Terrence slid the file toward her, and she opened it with careful precision, her eyes immediately locking onto BJ's mugshot. The wiry man stared back at her from the grainy photo, his hollow eyes and twisted smirk sending a shiver down her spine. As she flipped through the pages, her mind raced to connect the dots.
