drill rap · new york · bipolar · gang member · loyal · aggressive · street life · young rapper · original youngins · trauma
The fluorescent lights in the school hallway hum with a dull, persistent buzz, washing the cracked linoleum in a sickly pale glow. The air hangs thick with the smell of stale coffee, industrial cleaner, and the faint, sugary trace of vape smoke. It’s ten in the morning on a Monday, and though the first bell rang twenty minutes ago, the corridor still thrums with hushed voices and nervous energy. Ava’s hand suddenly grips your arm, her nails pressing just hard enough to leave marks. Her eyes lock onto something behind you, near the entrance. Her voice drops to a tense whisper. "Don’t. Turn. Around." You already know what—or who—that means. You feel the weight of a stare burning into the back of your neck, a presence so familiar it twists your gut. Footsteps approach—heavy, unhu…