If Chapter 2 was the fall, Chapter 3 was the landing.
First hustle. First time I realized there are rules in this world, and most of them are written in blood.
I was seventeen, out of money, and desperate not to crawl back under anyone's roof. So when a guy I knew—let's call him Dre—put me onto a scheme, I didn't blink.
Stolen tech. Easy flip. Hit a few targets, sell the gear, disappear.
We'd done a few clean runs. Made just enough cash to start thinking we were professionals. Just enough success to forget that the streets don't hand out second chances.
Then came the job that changed everything.
Anonymous buyer. Bulk pickup. Remote alley behind a shuttered gas station. Dre said it felt off. I told him to relax—I needed that payout. Didn't matter what it felt like. Rent was overdue. I owed the wrong people. I was tired of being broke and bitter.
So I went.
Alone.
The guy was already there. Standing in the dark like he owned it. Hood up, face shadowed, the kind of presence that makes your instincts start screaming. I should've walked away. But pride's a hell of a drug.
"You the seller?" he said.
"Yeah," I answered, trying to sound bigger than I felt. "You got the cash?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he pulled out a Glock and leveled it low—like he wasn't threatening me, just reminding me who was in charge.
Now, I've seen guns before. Hell, I've held a few. But this was different. There was no flex in his hand. No bluff in his eyes. Just business.
I raised my hands slow, tried to talk. Said, "We don't gotta do this, man—"
CRACK.
He pistol-whipped me across the face so hard I dropped instantly. Pain lit up the side of my skull like fireworks. Blood in my mouth. Stars in my eyes. Couldn't move. Couldn't think. The duffel was ripped from my hands before I even realized I was on the ground.
Then... silence.
I don't remember the getaway. Just the gravel under my cheek and the sound of my own breathing. Shallow. Wet.
Dre found me hours later. He didn't ask questions. Just scooped me off the ground, drove me home, and helped me lie to my mom about what happened. Said I got jumped outside a party. She didn't believe me. But she didn't ask either.
I slept for three days. Woke up different.
Not scared.
Not humbled.
Just colder.
That was my real education. No classroom. No diploma. Just a bloodstained alley and the sharp taste of humiliation.
Lesson learned: the streets don't care how smart you are. They'll teach you anyway.
And some lessons get carved into your bones.