𝙨𝙖𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙚 𝙭 𝙘𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣. ❦ | 𝐔𝐑𝐁𝐀𝐍 𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 .
ᶜʰʳⁱᵃᵐᵒⁿᵗᵉ ʳᵉᵃˡ ᵍʰᵉᵗᵗᵒ
𝐌𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍 is a haunting, slow burn descent into the kind of love that feels mo...
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⌖ THE BOY NO DEY TAKE INSULT | O45. ‹ ⚜ › ❝ when i said we was planning two funerals, the other one i was talking about was yours. ❞
— JANUARY TWENTY SEVENTH, SAME DAY 12:OO P.M. ᐟ
"PROBATION? HOW? THEY HID HIS BODY!" Emery's voice exploded through the room, shaking Iris from a much needed sleep. She jolted upright, heart pounding, as he continued his tirade. "WHAT THE FUCK!"
Like millions of others, Emery had been glued to the live trial, watching every second unfold. But unlike most, he wasn't just a spectator—he was the one rooting hardest for a guilty verdict, for them to be locked away with no chance of walking free. He had planned for it, convinced there was no possible way they'd escape conviction.
But as the trial progressed, the confidence he carried began to crack. The world watched in real time as Jasiah proved just how intelligent he was, unraveling every accusation effortlessly, sending a wave of nail biting anxiety through Emery.
Jasiah's responses were calculated, delivered with a control that left the prosecution scrambling. Thompson had entered that courtroom certain she would have him cornered—Emery had thought so too. But Jasiah shot back with everything Thompson threw at him. & like always, he knew exactly how to win.
Emery's entire plan had come crashing down. What was supposed to be the perfect ending for him—Jasiah & Spoon rotting away behind bars for the rest of their lives—had flipped into the opposite. Instead of facing decades in a cell, they were about to walk free. & Jasiah was coming for everything, Emery knew that.
But before the two men could step out & reclaim the streets, there was one last formality to get through. Their probation officer. Ms. Pratt.
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MS. PRATT — Jasiah & Spoon's probation officer
They find themselves in a small, austere conference room within the courthouse. The walls are painted a dull beige, casting a harsh glare on the worn, wooden table at the center. Around the table are a few mismatched chairs, their surfaces scratched & faded from years of use. A single window let in a small amount of light, but the view is blocked by the building next door, creating an atmosphere that felt both oppressive & confined. The room was devoid of any personal touches—no artwork, no decorations other than a large clock.
