Tyler stormed into the house, shrugging off his uniform jacket and tossing it carelessly onto the floor. He kicked off his shoes and socks, letting out a long sigh of relief as he rubbed his aching feet. Without hesitation, he slumped onto the couch, exhaustion written all over him.
Grabbing the remote, he flipped on the TV—hoping for something loud, something with energy. Maybe a trending hip-hop track, something that could match the restless mood buzzing inside him.
He sank deeper into the couch, chasing a moment of peace, when his twin walked in, his presence cutting through the quiet like a blade.
Despite being the same age—twenty—the two brothers couldn't have been more different. Kyle had dreadlocks and carried a rugged, almost suspicious look—someone the cops would keep an eye on without a second thought. In fact, they were what people often called "ideal turns"—the kind you could easily identify just by the way they dressed.
Tyler, on the other hand, leaned toward simplicity. He preferred clean, long-sleeved outfits…Tyler kept things simple—long-sleeved shirts and plain black pants most of the time. His hair was always neatly cut, and he carried himself with a calm, composed air. He was their parents' favorite, the one they pointed to with pride. Respectful. Disciplined. The "good son."
But that was only one side of the story.
Tyler was also the family's quiet burden—the one who carried struggles no one really talked about. He had a piercing on his left ear and another on the side of his nose. His ebony dreadlocks framed his light-brown skin, making his sharp features and soft pink lips stand out even more. Most days, he traded his neat look for baggy pants and oversized hoodies—his real comfort zone.
At twenty, Tyler was still trying to finish high school, stuck in a place he felt he should've outgrown by now. Meanwhile, his brother had already found his footing, moving ahead in life and building something real for himself.
But Tyler didn't care.
None of it weighed on him the way it should have. He didn't lose sleep over expectations or disappointments. Nothing seemed to shake him, nothing seemed to reach him. If anything, he looked almost empty—like he had learned how to shut the world out completely.
The only thing that mattered to him was his music.
He poured everything into his rap career, chasing a dream that felt more real to him than school ever did… even if it meant walking that road alone.
..................
"Tyler, turn that crap down, man!" Tyrell snapped, snatching the remote straight out of his hand.
Tyler shot him a look, irritation flashing in his eyes. "Can I have a little peace for once? Or are you just waiting for Mom and Dad to get back so you can start acting like their perfect golden boy again?"
Tyrell scoffed. "If they walked in right now, they'd see exactly what I see—a complete mess. Maybe then they'd finally realize you're not the 'good son' they think you are."
Tyler let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Oh, I see… that's what's got you so worked up?"
He stepped closer, his voice dropping, sharper now. "Take this crap and do whatever you want with it. I'm done."
Without another word, Tyler turned and swaggered out of the house, the tension he left behind still hanging thick in the air.
"Hey! Come pick up your uniform from the floor!" Tyrell shouted after him.
But Tyler didn't stop. Didn't even look back.
He was already gone.
Moments later, he walked down the quiet street, alone with his thoughts.
With his earphones plugged in, Tyler let the music take over, his mind drifting as the sound filled his head. He swayed slightly as he walked, completely lost in the rhythm, the outside world fading into nothing.
Carelessly, he slipped his hand into his baggy uniform pants, enjoying the calm the song brought him. It was the only thing that could quiet the noise in his head.
Going home didn't feel like an option—not today.
He was tired of it. Tired of his mom's constant scolding… coming home late, failing classes, unfinished projects, a messy room—there was always something. Always a reason for her to be disappointed in him.
What he really wanted was space.
Freedom.
Friends.
And maybe… just maybe… to try something that could take him even further out of his own head. A cigarette, maybe. Just to feel something different. His classmates always talked about it like it was pure bliss—like one drag could wipe your problems clean, even if just for a moment.
Tyler exhaled slowly, letting that thought linger—
Then suddenly, he was snapped back to reality.
A Maserati pulled up right in front of him.
Startled, he yanked his earphones out so fast it almost hurt, his heart skipping as the music cut off mid-beat.
The sharp click of heels hit the pavement.
The scent that followed was strong—expensive, spicy—something that carried confidence, danger… and control. It made Tyler's senses sharpen instantly.
Who the hell is this? he thought.
"Hey! Come here."
The voice was firm—commanding.
Tyler looked up.
A guy stepped out of the Maserati, dressed like he owned the street. Blue hoodie, baggy pants, a blue scarf wrapped around his head, and thick gold chains hanging heavy on his neck. He moved with slow confidence, like everything around him already belonged to him.
Tyler froze for a second.
There were other guys still inside the car, watching him.
Waiting.
"What the hell do you want from me?" Tyler asked, his voice guarded.
The guy smirked, stepping closer. "Still in school?" he said, eyeing Tyler up and down. "When you should be out here making real money?"
He reached out and grabbed Tyler's arm.
Tyler tensed immediately, discomfort flashing across his face as he pulled back slightly.
Before he could react—
The car doors opened.
More guys stepped out, moving toward him.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Closing in.
"Never forget—I wasnt dying of hunger," Tyler said, his voice low but heavy with fear.
"Shhh…" Dave cut him off, tilting his head with a smirk. "Let's see what you've got."
Before he could react, the guy—Dave—snatched his phone right out of his hand, lifting it in the air like a trophy."Who still uses an android phone these days?"
The others burst into laughter.
"Give it back," Tyler snapped, stepping forward. "I'm not playing these games. I just want my phone."
Anger burned in his chest, rising fast—but underneath it, something colder tightened its grip.
Fear.
"You trying to fight me?" Dave said, amused, clearly enjoying this.
"Man, stop—what the hell…" Tyler's voice cracked slightly as he forced himself forward, gathering what little courage he had left to reach for his phone.
Bad move.
The guys closed in on him instantly.
Before he could defend himself—
Smack.
Smack.
Two hard slaps landed across his face, sharp and humiliating. His vision blurred, his body going weak as the world tilted beneath him.
Everything went quiet.
Then—
Rough hands grabbed him.
Dragged him.
Thrown into the car like he was nothing.
The door slammed shut.
And just like that, the Maserati sped off—carrying Tyler away… straight to their boss's mansion.
....,...............
"Mmm… not a bad catch," Diego's voice drawled. "Well done, Dave. At least you managed to bring in someone to replace Ryan."Diego added
Diego leaned back with a satisfied grin, casually swirling a glass of wine in his hand before taking a slow sip. His gaze shifted toward Tyler, who sat tied to a chair, his eyes covered with a blindfold.
Tyler's body felt weak—heavy, like it didn't belong to him anymore—but somehow, he forced his voice out.
"Is this… some kind of kidnapping?" he muttered. "Look, can I just call my brother after this?"
A low chuckle filled the room.
"Aww… such a sweet, clueless kid," Diego mocked. "Doesn't even know left from right."
With a flick of his hand, Diego stepped forward and ripped the blindfold off Tyler's face.
Light exploded into his vision.
The brightness from the chandelier above hit his eyes so hard he flinched, squeezing them shut before slowly forcing them open again.
And when he did—
He froze.
What he saw left him stunned.
The place was massive… luxurious beyond anything he had ever imagined. Every corner screamed money—wealth poured into every detail, every surface, every piece in the room.
For a moment, Tyler forgot where he was…
…and how he got there.
The house looked unreal.
Gold and glass blended seamlessly into the design, reflecting light in a way that made everything shimmer. Crystal chandeliers hung from high ceilings, casting a warm glow across polished marble floors. The walls were lined with expensive art, and through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, Tyler could see almost the entire city of Dallas stretching out beneath him—alive, glowing, untouchable.
This wasn't just wealth.
This was power.
Diego… this guy's loaded, Tyler thought.
"Have this…" Diego said casually, placing a handgun and a small package of hard drugs on the center table.
Tyler frowned, confusion tightening his face.
Before he could speak, Diego stepped closer, gripping his chin and forcing him to look up.
"Do yourself a favor," Diego said, his voice low and controlled. "Take the gun—protect yourself. Sell my product, bring back the money… and get paid instantly."
He gestured lazily around the room.
"You see all this?" he continued. "My boys—every single one of them—started with nothing. Now look at them. Rich. Comfortable. Respected."
Tyler swallowed hard.
"You don't have to think too long," Diego added with a faint smile. "One decision… and your life changes."
"I… I don't understand…" Tyler muttered.
Diego chuckled softly.
"Then call your brother," he said. "Tell him you've started a new life. Tell him you belong here now… in my world."
His smile faded.
In one swift motion, Diego pulled out a gun and pressed it against Tyler's throat.
The room suddenly didn't feel so beautiful anymore.Tyler trembled under Diego's cold stare, his body stiff with fear. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, leaving no room to think, no room to resist.
He swallowed hard.
There was no choice.
Slowly, with shaking hands, he reached for his phone. His fingers fumbled as he picked it up, his chest tightening with every second that passed.
He stared at the screen for a moment—
Then dialed his mom's number.