The Story of a Kid Born in the Game

I wasn't born in the hood-I was born from it.
Born from two hustlers who made it out and promised I'd never have to look back. My crib had a gated driveway, but my roots were still tied to the projects. My mom wore designer heels to Sunday brunch, but she used to rock Reeboks while finessin' bank accounts. My pops? Quiet type. Always kept his circle tight and his heat closer. You wouldn't know it from the custom suits or the luxury whips, but the streets never left him.

By the time I turned seven, I thought we were just lucky. Blessed, even. Private school. House with ten bathrooms. Birthdays that felt like rap videos.

Then one morning, the feds kicked in our front door like we were hosting a war. Red dots on my father's chest. My mom in cuffs, still wearing her Versace robe. I'll never forget her last words before they took her:

"No matter what they say, baby, I did it all for you."

That was the day I found out money don't buy silence, and love don't erase a record.
She was hit with a $30 million fraud case. My pops got caught dirty with enough firearms to start a small war.

And just like that, the fantasy life ended. The mansion emptied. The trust funds froze.
And I, the kid raised on wealth but bred in hustle, had to figure out who I was without them.