Who
Is Boom?

The Jeep hummed low, engine idling, headlights cut, parked halfway down a Brooklyn backstreet that smelled like fried food and smoke. Inside, the air was thick with weed—hotbox haze so heavy you could draw your name in it. The windows cracked just enough to let the night breathe.

Boom leaned back in the passenger seat, hood up, ski mask pulled high like a crown. Black Nike tech suit, fresh. He exhaled slow, a cloud spilling from his grill, gold catching the dash lights. His braids brushed the edges of his mask. That half-smirk sat on his face like it was stitched there—cocky, confident, dangerous.

Beside him, Pooh—his partner in crime—rolled another blunt with the calm of somebody who'd done this dance a thousand times. Pooh wasn't the pretty-boy type like Boom, but he was cut from the same cloth—reckless, loyal, and built for pressure. His eyes stayed locked forward, steady as a gun barrel, but his body language said he was ready to move at a moment's notice.

"Yo, Pooh," Boom said, voice low but sharp. "We about to eat tonight. Weed, cash—everything. Anybody blink wrong…" He tapped the Glock on his thigh, the sound hollow but heavy. "…shoot'em, fuck it. You ready?"

Pooh grinned, cocked his gun back with a click that cut through the silence. "You funny," he said. "I been doin' this longer than you, lil' bro." Boom's smirk widened, then snapped away. "Shut up and let's go." They bumped fists once—quick, no words. Mission locked.

— End of preview —

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