Malik Walker

Head of the Walker Syndicate Dependent rp account for moblandhq

[chief-walker]

〈 Omari Hardwick/ 51/ he/him〉see MALIK WALKER over there? they have quite a reputation for being STUBBORN. some would beg to differ & say that they’re more ASSERTIVE. rumor has it they are THE HEAD OF THE WALKER SYNDICATE. the FIFTY year old has been around los angeles for TWENTY SEVEN YEARS . just keep an eye on them — in this city, everyone’s hiding something & it’s only a matter of time before their true colors shine through.

Malik Walker - "Chief Walker"

Full Name: Malik Lionel Walker

Alias: Chief Walker, The "Lion"

Nicknames: Mak

Age: 50 / Birthdate: 04.02. (Aquarius)

Nationality: American

Occupation: head of the Walker Syndicate

General: Malik Walker, at 50 years old, is a force of nature, carved from the rough streets of New Orleans and LA. He stands tall, "built" from years of hard labor and the unspoken burdens he carries. His dark, observant eyes, often shadowed by a perpetual weariness, hold a deep intelligence and a calculating glint that can turn intimidating in an instant. Despite the underlying current of sadness, his presence is commanding. Intricate tattoos snake across his arms, shoulders and back, proof of many victories and battles lost in his wake. He's truly a man of contradictions: outwardly formidable and calculating, yet beneath the gruff exterior beats a "good heart deep down.” Malik carries himself with a quiet authority that precedes him, a man who rarely needs to raise his voice to be heard. Deeper than the intimidation hides a steadfast heart, fractured but fiercely devoted to his family.

His early life instilled in him a resilient work ethic and a deep understanding of community needs, which he leveraged to build his empire. The pivotal change came with the loss of his wife: it transformed his motivations from shared prosperity to singular protection. Chief Walker became more guarded, more internal, his quietness deepening into a solemn gravitas. The vibrant fire of his youth was replaced by the simmering coal of grief and responsibility. While his core values of fairness and loyalty remain, they are now filtered through the lens of immense guilt, manifesting in his over-indulgence of his children – a subtle fracturing of his otherwise iron-clad will. He no longer seeks personal happiness, only the security and legacy he believes he owes to Cassie’s memory and their descendants.

Malik’s primary motivation is the preservation and expansion of the Walker Syndicate, not just as a criminal enterprise, but as a protective umbrella for his family and the communities they serve. His deepest, most driving goal is to secure a legacy for his children and grandchildren, which is both prosperous and, ideally, safer than the life he’s been forced to lead.

Early life & Past:

Born and raised in the heart of New Orleans, Malik witnessed first-hand the neglect and exploitation of his community and the harsh realities of poverty and racial discrimination from a young age. Driven by dreams of a better life, he joined the Great Migration west, arriving in Los Angeles in his late teens. He found work in various manual labor jobs – dockyards, construction sites – where his natural strength and quick wit earned him a reputation within no time. As a young man, barely out of his teens, he met Cassie and was instantly fascinated by the captivating woman. They married young, inspired by a fierce love and a shared vision for a better life than the streets offered. Their first child Zion arrived quickly, then another, and so forth, creating a vibrant home, full of life and laughter, despite the business and duties he inherited. With the advent of Prohibition, Malik saw an opportunity in the thirsty, underserved neighborhoods. Starting with a single, discreet speakeasy in the back of a dilapidated grocery store, he built his empire quietly. He offered safe, clean places for people to gamble, drink, and socialize, treating his customers and his burgeoning crew with respect. The Walkers solved local disputes, provided loans, and helped families in need, earning him fierce "loyalty among his ranks" and making the Syndicate "indispensable in neighborhoods others wouldn’t even step foot in." And the chief was known for his fairness, a reputation that spread far beyond his turf. His natural charisma, imposing presence, and a deep understanding of human nature allowed him to mediate disputes and build loyalty. From these humble beginnings, the Walker Syndicate was born, initially an informal network of trusted men guarding their own. Cassie wasn't just his wife; she was his co-conspirator, managing the books, charming patrons, and offering shrewd counsel. She was the one who saw the potential for more than just muscle – for a controlled, respected empire built on integrity within its own rules. The strong woman behind a successful man and the heart and soul of the family.

They acquired legitimate bar licenses, opened stylish clubs, and expanded their underground poker games into high-stakes, meticulously run affairs where even the city's elite came to test their luck in secret. Malik understood that true power wasn't just about force; it was about providing what others couldn't or wouldn't dare to. They became the quiet problem-solvers in neglected neighborhoods, providing jobs, settling disputes, even helping families in need – fostering a loyalty, which strengthened their position within the city. Their operations might have seemed small to outsiders, but their roots were deep, their network vast and personal.

Recent Past - Present:

However, the Shattering Blow however came 1937: This was the year the world went dark for Malik and his family. The Syndicate, now a formidable force, had inevitably drawn the ire of rival organizations – predominantly mobs, who saw the rise of a powerful syndicate as a threat to their established territories. A brutal turf war erupted. Malik, always a man of action, was at the forefront. During a chaotic, multi-sided shootout that erupted unexpectedly at a community block party the Syndicate had organized (a gesture of goodwill that turned into a nightmare), Cassie was caught in the crossfire. She died in his arms, a bullet meant for him finding her instead. A rose and serpent tattoo on his forearm, a symbol of their intertwined lives and the dangers they faced, became a permanent reminder of his failure to protect his queen. The loss transformed Malik. The warmth in his eyes hardened, replaced by a steely resolve. He plunged himself deeper into the business, expanding its reach, creating a fortress around his family. He "never had a serious relationship again, just flings," incapable of replacing the void Cassie left. His "guilt for the loss of his wife" became a suffocating burden, subtly shaping his interactions with his children. Malik became fiercely – almost pathologically – protective, letting them "get away with just about anything" rather than risk pushing them away or causing them pain. His stubbornness intensified, a bulwark against perceived threats to his family and his legacy.

The Syndicate retaliated with a cold, devastating efficiency that shocked even their rivals. Malik, fuelled by grief and a burning, self-destructive rage, dismantled those responsible, leaving a path of quiet ruin. But the victory felt hollow. He had won the war, but lost his world. Now, his ambition is colored by a relentless sense of duty and guilt. He has become more ruthless in business, yet ironically, more compassionate towards the disenfranchised, pouring resources into the neighborhoods that built his empire. The "good heart deep down" is still there, but it's buried under layers of scar tissue and a decade of unexpressed grief. The occasional flings are a momentary distraction, a physical release, but never an emotional connection. His heart, he believes, died along with her. The guilt over her death has profoundly impacted his interactions with his children and now, his grandchildren. He is overly lenient, spoiling them and overlooking their transgressions, unable to deny them anything, perhaps, subconsciously, to compensate for the immeasurable pain he caused by not keeping their mother safe. Malik is a doting grandfather, finding brief moments of pure joy in the innocence of his little munchkins, a significant contrast to his public persona.

His empire has only grown stronger, more disciplined, and more impenetrable under his leadership. He built it as a fortress, a bulwark against the chaos that claimed his wife. The emphasis on loyalty over fear intensified; he shows his trusted lieutenants respect and gives them opportunities to grow, understanding that a man fighting for his family will fight harder than one fighting out of fear. Malik maintains an intimidating facade, but his fairness is legendary among those who operate outside the law – a straight deal with The Lion is a deal honored. A man, A word.

positive traits: fair, protective, resourceful, reliable, polite, assertive

negative traits: stubborn, closed-off, unpredictable, secretive

hidden Talents: boxing, wood carving, can fly a plane, chess, poker

pet peeves: always leaving the lights on, nose picking

likes: his kids and grandchildren, whiskey, manners, jazz and cigars

dislikes: rudeness, hospitals, gossip, disloyalty

Connections:

Zion Walker: His oldest son and Lieutenant of the Walker Syndicate. Despite their differences, Zion will always be the apple of his eye. While he doesn't always agree with everything his eldest does, Malik lets him get away with just about anything, partially because he feels guilty for the loss of his mother. There is nothing worse to him than the knowledge he failed his family and couldn't protect his queen though he doesn't think his kids could ever truly forgive him. After all, he can't forgive himself either.

Ezekiel Walker: His nephew, who is also the underboss of the Syndicate. Malik became a father figure to Zeke, when his younger brother Elijah passed away too soon. There was never a question about taking the young man under his wings; when he was in dire need of his family -- offering him guidance and his rightful place within the organisation. The chief treats him like a son and loves Zeke's children dearly, referring to them as his grandchildren or "munchkins".

Wanted Connections:

MALIK WALKER/ Omari Hardwick is looking for HIS DAUGHTERS. the connection’s age is 25-30 and look like Ayo Edebiri, Ajiona Alexus, Keke Palmer, Antoinette Robertson, Laura Harrier, Lovie Simone, Rachel Hilson, Zazie Beetz, Imani Hakim, Letitia Wright, Ash Santos or UTP. Malik is the head of the Walker Syndicate and his girls would be spoiled rotten and definitely get away with just about anything. They'd have an older brother, Zion (MBJ FC). They do not have to be involved in the family business but since the loss of their mother, Malik would be overprotective either way. you DO NOT have to (but can) contact @chief-walker before applying.

[born2fight]

Dark, silky hair waved down petite shoulders, completing the elegant look of a classy dress and matching accessories. Nothing was ever left to chance when it came to the head of the Rileys - not her looks, not a single word of hers and most certainly not the honed smile displayed upon crimson painted lips. With confident yet graceful strolls, she approached the familiar figure with a natural ease, no sign of fear or caution upon her features. Her unexpected appearance in the Dunbar was anything but coincidence but her true motives would never be revealed to anyone but herself. Once standing right in front the man, dark curls bounced ever so slightly under the soft impact of her head tilting to the side. “How about you give me your best shot, Walker? Let’s see what you can do.”

Was it merely a simple challenge or more so a concealed provocation on her part? The question remained unanswered to onlookers and the Chief himself, with Maeve carefully planting the seeds of her next, carefully planned strike. In a world ruled by men who thought themselves to be superior and invincible, she had learned to leave a mark of her own along her path to victory and success. As she awaited her drink, she took the seat next to him with no permission asked prior. “Worry not, I come in peace. This time.”

[chief-walker]

Malik remained still for a moment, letting the clink of ice against his glass fill the heavy silence first. He knew that voice—smooth as aged whiskey yet sharp enough to draw blood at any given moment. Maeve Riley didn't visit the Dunbar without carving something out of the encounter. Her signature scent, cut through the stale scent of spilled beer and cigar smoke before he even saw her. He took a slow sip of bourbon, the burn steadying him. Her presence here was a deliberate move, and she'd opened with a queen's gambit no less— not that he’d expected anything else from her. When he finally angled his head toward her, his expression was as neutral as could be. He watched her approach with the detached calm of a man who'd long since stopped being surprised by anything in Dunbar territory. The Riley matriarch moved like smoke—silent, inevitable, leaving traces of her poison in her wake.

Of course she’d pick the stool opposite to him. He kept his gaze fixed on the whiskey glass, though every nerve tracked her proximity. She’d positioned herself deliberately close, her knee nearly brushing his under the dim bar light. He met her stare, searching for the trap in her offer. "Best shot? Always. I don’t do bad ones.” Malik’s voice stayed low and even, his signature smirk gracing his lips. Peace. The word — spilled off a Riley’s mouth — sounded as absurd as a snowflake chilling in hell itself. "Last time you said that, Maeve, three of my warehouses burned to the ground." He finally met her eyes. Dark and utterly unreadable, like staring into twin voids. Her crimson smile didn’t waver, as he tapped a calloused finger against his glass, she had guts. "You don’t do peace," he said flatly. "So, why don’t you tell me what you really want?" He knew her game—offer peace while holding a knife behind her back.Malik could almost taste the trap in the air. "Or," he countered, leaning in until their faces were merely inches apart, "maybe you’re here because we still have pending debt to settle.”

[chief-walker]

Malik looked at his son, the newspaper momentarily forgotten in his hands as he took in Zion’s words. Finally, he leaned forward, placing a gentle hand on Zion’s forearm, the touch speaking volumes of his understanding and his own unspoken history. He took a moment, letting the quiet fill the space around them, before speaking, his voice gruff with emotion: „Son, I never told you to sit still. And I sure as hell ain’t expecting you to be someone you’re not.” He paused, letting the words settle between them like a sigh in the tension. “But I also don’t want you to think that chasin’ shadows is livin’. That ain’t what your mother and I fought for. We wanted better for you.”

He leaned forward and placed a hand over Zion’s fisted one. “You’re right, it ain’t easy. And maybe, I’ve made it harder for you than it needed to be with all my talk of legacy.” The warmth of his the bitter liquid sliding down his throat seemed to dissipate in the chill that hung in the air, and he felt the weight of his own past, the legacy he'd unintentionally saddled Zion with.

Malik’s thumb traced a gentle circle over Zion’s knuckles, trying to ease the tension he could feel. “You’re not your grandpappy. You’re you. You can make your own choices. Sometimes that means lettin’ go of what you think you gotta be and embracin’ who you really are. It’s okay to want more than what’s been handed to us, Zion. You just gotta trust you deserve it.”

He gave Zion’s hand a firm squeeze before withdrawing his own, folding the newspaper with care and placing it to the side. The room was quiet again, the only sounds the distant echo of a car passing by outside and the occasional tick of the clock on the wall. Malik’s eyes never left Zion’s, a silent communication passing between father and son—the hope of understanding, the burden of expectations, and the unspoken love that bound them despite their differences. It was a moment of quiet truth, a moment that held the weight of a thousand unspoken fears and dreams.

„You don’t owe that to no one but you. If you find that rock, that heart, if you find somethin’ that makes this all worth it, then hold onto it with everything you’ve got. And if you get knocked down, I’ll be here to help you back up. you don’t always have to run at the fire to prove you can stand. Sometimes, standin’ still and walkin’ away from it is the bravest thing you can do. You’re my son, and I love you. That’s all that matters to me.”

With a slow nod, Malik picked up his coffee cup again, taking a sip, the gesture a silent invitation for Zion to continue the conversation, or to let it rest. The warmth of the liquid was a comfort, a small reminder that some things—like the bond between them—could never be doused by the cold realities of their world. He paused, his gaze dropping to the table for a brief moment before lifting up again, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "I'm not sayin' it's gonna be a walk in the park. It's gonna be a fight, and a nasty one at that. But you ain't alone in it." For a moment, Malik's voice grew softer, almost gentle. "You don't gotta be the hero to everyone else, Zion. You just gotta be one to yourself. That’s enough for the rest of us."

[fclsehearted]

Zion sat there for a long while, staring at the hand over his own, at the quiet strength behind it. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t relax either—his fist stayed clenched, the tendons in his arm taut under Malik’s palm. When his father’s hand finally withdrew, Zion exhaled through his nose, sharp and heavy, and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“See, that’s the thing, Pop.” His voice came low, rough, carrying more gravel than he intended. “You talk about lettin’ go, makin’ my own choices, not livin’ in shadows—but then you’re still standin’ there remindin’ me of all the things you and Ma fought for, all the better I’m supposed to want. You don’t even hear yourself. You want me to believe I can walk away from this fight, but the truth is—fightin’ is the only thing I ever been trained for. By you. By this family. By this city. And now you want me to just… unlearn it? Like it’s a bad habit I can break with a little willpower?”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, coffee cooling untouched in front of him. “I don’t get to be soft. Not out there. Not with the Walkers, not with the other crews, not with the goddamn cops. Every man in this town’s waitin’ for me to trip so they can say Chief’s boy ain’t half the man his daddy was. So tell me—how am I supposed to trust that I deserve more, when the whole damn world’s lookin’ to take it from me before I even put my hands on it?”

Zion’s voice cracked at the edge, frustration bleeding through, and he shoved the cup aside with a clatter. His leg bounced restlessly under the table, unable to still. “I know you love me. I do. But sometimes it feels like you’re askin’ me to be two different men at once. The fighter you raised—and the dreamer you wish I could be. And I’m tellin’ you, Pop, I don’t know how to be both. I don’t think I can be.”

His chest heaved, the words leaving him raw. For a long time he just sat there, staring past Malik to some fixed point on the wall, like he was afraid of what might spill out if he met his father’s eyes again. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, edged with something fragile.

"You call runnin’ at the fire a shadow chase. Maybe it is. But it’s the only way I know to keep my feet under me. To prove I belong here. And yeah, maybe that means I burn out quicker than you want, maybe it means I don’t make it to the ‘better life’ you and Ma prayed on—but at least it’ll be on my terms. At least I won’t have to sit there wonderin’ what kind of man I could’ve been if I’d just had the guts to take the fight head-on.”

[chief-walker]

*END*

[chief-walker]

Malik merely raised an eyebrow at the mention of the Halperin boy, his eyes sharpening but his expression remained mostly unreadable. "Indeed, it seems there's always something brewing," he agreed, his voice a blend of curiosity and caution. He knew better than to take lightly to the appearance of someone from another syndicate in his domain, especially one as sharp as Cruz Gallardo. The chief knew all too well that the events surrounding the boy’s disappearance had been troubling, and he had his own suspicions about the situation. However, he kept his cards close to his chest, preferring to listen and observe rather than reveal his hand too soon. The presence of someone like Cruz in his territory was not merely by chance. The city was a chessboard, and every move had its motive. The question was whether this was a friendly pawn or a knight in enemy colors, feigned or otherwise.

With a nod to the bartender, he indicated the man should serve Cruz the requested Scotch. As the drink arrived, Malik leaned back in his seat, his gaze still on the rival, studying his every move. "Cruz," the name rolled off his tongue with the ease of familiarity yet there was a hint of something else underlying the tone of his voice. "What brings you to the heart of Walker territory tonight? A quest for knowledge or a desire to stir the pot a little?" He took another sip of his bourbon, savoring it as he awaited the other man's response. Despite the tension, he couldn’t help but appreciate the cut of Gallardo‘s suit and the confidence, which practically radiated off him. It was a trait he could respect, even in adversary — not that he’d admit to such thing.

[dcvilsson]

Cruz had already given the orders to his own to treat this case as a priority. He wasn’t sure how much the other syndicates knew or if they played any role in it but he was about to find out. And when he did, he was ready to raise hell. “Question is, who’d benefit from it?” It was just a simple question but his tone of voice was filled with a certain kind of sharp edge, that made clear he was testing the waters. “I think there’s enough going on to ensure no one’s getting bored anytime soon. For now. I’m just keeping my eyes and ears open, the usual.” He dismissed the comment of the rival leader with a shrug. This was not the time to dive in head first but he also didn’t plan on leaving until he got what he came for.

He ordered a whiskey on the rocks, took a small sip and placed the glass on the table. “Who would be stupid enough to not make sure that body won’t ever be found? Only an amateur.” Cruz sighed, his gaze firmly locked on the other. It was only a matter of time until they’d find out the truth of this macabre story. “Let’s say I’ve got a personal interest in solving this case.” That was all he was going to reveal but it also should have been enough for Malik to understand he wasn’t trying to hide anything, quite the contrary. It affected his business and therefore it was in his best interest to find whoever was responsible for this mess.

[chief-walker]

*END*

[chief-walker]

[fclsehearted]

Zion wrapped his hands around the warm cup, letting the steam rise up into his face as though it might fog out the words he didn’t want to say. For a long beat, he just sat there listening—the whisper of the newspaper pages, the hum of quiet that always seemed heavier in this house. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, clipped, and carrying more weight than he meant it to.

“You make it sound simple, Pop. Like you can just wake up one morning, drop the chase, and start livin’ clean. But it ain’t that easy. Not for me. Maybe not for any of us. Maybe I got too much of grandpappy in me to pretend otherwise.”

He lifted the cup, took a slow sip, and set it down harder than he meant to, the porcelain tapping against the wood. “I know what our name carries. I know the consequences. Hell, you’ve been drillin’ that into me since I was old enough to swing my fists. But I also know what happens if you stand still too long in this city. You get swallowed whole. You stop movin’, stop fighting, you’re already dead—you just don’t know it yet.”

His gaze came up to meet Malik’s, sharp and restless, though beneath it was something quieter, more raw. “You think I don’t want that? A rock. A heart. Somebody to make all this noise worth it?” His mouth twisted, almost into a smile, but it broke apart before it formed. “I do. I swear I do. But you talk about it like it’s a choice I can just make, like pickin’ up a paper off the stand. It don’t come easy, not with the life we lead. Not with the ground we stand on. Feels like every time I reach for somethin’ good, there’s already a hand waitin’ to snatch it away. Every damn time.”

He leaned back in his chair, tipping it onto its back legs with a scrape, testing the balance like he was testing himself. “So yeah, maybe I am chasin’ shadows. But I’d rather chase ‘em than sit in the dark waitin’ for them to catch me. ‘Cause sittin’ still, pretendin’ like I can have a life outside of this—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “That just ain’t who I am. I ain’t built that way. And it gets old, real old, havin’ to explain that like it’s a fault I can fix.”

The chair thudded back onto all fours, the sound cracking against the quiet. His hand drummed once on the table before curling into a fist against the wood. “Don’t mistake me, Pop. I hear you. I do. And maybe one day I’ll find whatever it is you’re talkin’ about, if it don’t get ripped outta my hands first. But until then?” His eyes steadied, defiance and weariness tangled in equal measure. “Until then, I’m gonna keep runnin’ at the fire. That’s the only way I know how to stand.”

Zion shoved the coffee cup forward slightly, as if putting a period on the thought, though his voice dropped softer as he added, “Don’t worry about me losin’ myself. I know where I’m headed. And I got too much to prove to let the city take that from me. To the Walkers. To this name. To you.”

[chief-walker]

Malik looked at his son, the newspaper momentarily forgotten in his hands as he took in Zion’s words. Finally, he leaned forward, placing a gentle hand on Zion’s forearm, the touch speaking volumes of his understanding and his own unspoken history. He took a moment, letting the quiet fill the space around them, before speaking, his voice gruff with emotion: „Son, I never told you to sit still. And I sure as hell ain’t expecting you to be someone you’re not.” He paused, letting the words settle between them like a sigh in the tension. “But I also don’t want you to think that chasin’ shadows is livin’. That ain’t what your mother and I fought for. We wanted better for you.”

He leaned forward and placed a hand over Zion’s fisted one. “You’re right, it ain’t easy. And maybe, I’ve made it harder for you than it needed to be with all my talk of legacy.” The warmth of his the bitter liquid sliding down his throat seemed to dissipate in the chill that hung in the air, and he felt the weight of his own past, the legacy he'd unintentionally saddled Zion with.

Malik’s thumb traced a gentle circle over Zion’s knuckles, trying to ease the tension he could feel. “You’re not your grandpappy. You’re you. You can make your own choices. Sometimes that means lettin’ go of what you think you gotta be and embracin’ who you really are. It’s okay to want more than what’s been handed to us, Zion. You just gotta trust you deserve it.”

He gave Zion’s hand a firm squeeze before withdrawing his own, folding the newspaper with care and placing it to the side. The room was quiet again, the only sounds the distant echo of a car passing by outside and the occasional tick of the clock on the wall. Malik’s eyes never left Zion’s, a silent communication passing between father and son—the hope of understanding, the burden of expectations, and the unspoken love that bound them despite their differences. It was a moment of quiet truth, a moment that held the weight of a thousand unspoken fears and dreams.

„You don’t owe that to no one but you. If you find that rock, that heart, if you find somethin’ that makes this all worth it, then hold onto it with everything you’ve got. And if you get knocked down, I’ll be here to help you back up. you don’t always have to run at the fire to prove you can stand. Sometimes, standin’ still and walkin’ away from it is the bravest thing you can do. You’re my son, and I love you. That’s all that matters to me.”

With a slow nod, Malik picked up his coffee cup again, taking a sip, the gesture a silent invitation for Zion to continue the conversation, or to let it rest. The warmth of the liquid was a comfort, a small reminder that some things—like the bond between them—could never be doused by the cold realities of their world. He paused, his gaze dropping to the table for a brief moment before lifting up again, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "I'm not sayin' it's gonna be a walk in the park. It's gonna be a fight, and a nasty one at that. But you ain't alone in it." For a moment, Malik's voice grew softer, almost gentle. "You don't gotta be the hero to everyone else, Zion. You just gotta be one to yourself. That’s enough for the rest of us."

[dcvilsson]

Cruz usually avoided rival territory, unless he had a good reason to step foot in it. But the recent news spread fast and of course it was in everyone‘s best interest to find out what had really happened to the Halperin boy and who knew what. When something about the case didn’t sit right the digging was going to start. Even if he didn’t know for sure, it was too suspicious to rely on the stories the newsletters provided. He entered the Dunbar almost like he owned the place, not to provoke the Walkers but because it was his natural presence that commanded a certain kind of authority. His eyes scanned the area and didn’t have to search for long to find the familiar face of the chief. He approached Malik confidently, his eyes remained vigilant of his surroundings. After all he was walking in the lion‘s den.

„Definitely not whatever has been fed to the Halperin boy.“ He grinned, raising a curious brow while he studied the other carefully. Did he know more? Cruz was about to find out. „Won‘t say no to a Scotch.“ He pointed at the chair across from the Walker, civilly waiting for his permission without actually voicing it, before he took a seat. Folding his hands neatly on the table, he sighed. „This city truly never sleeps, does it?“

[chief-walker]

Malik merely raised an eyebrow at the mention of the Halperin boy, his eyes sharpening but his expression remained mostly unreadable. "Indeed, it seems there's always something brewing," he agreed, his voice a blend of curiosity and caution. He knew better than to take lightly to the appearance of someone from another syndicate in his domain, especially one as sharp as Cruz Gallardo. The chief knew all too well that the events surrounding the boy’s disappearance had been troubling, and he had his own suspicions about the situation. However, he kept his cards close to his chest, preferring to listen and observe rather than reveal his hand too soon. The presence of someone like Cruz in his territory was not merely by chance. The city was a chessboard, and every move had its motive. The question was whether this was a friendly pawn or a knight in enemy colors, feigned or otherwise.

With a nod to the bartender, he indicated the man should serve Cruz the requested Scotch. As the drink arrived, Malik leaned back in his seat, his gaze still on the rival, studying his every move. "Cruz," the name rolled off his tongue with the ease of familiarity yet there was a hint of something else underlying the tone of his voice. "What brings you to the heart of Walker territory tonight? A quest for knowledge or a desire to stir the pot a little?" He took another sip of his bourbon, savoring it as he awaited the other man's response. Despite the tension, he couldn’t help but appreciate the cut of Gallardo‘s suit and the confidence, which practically radiated off him. It was a trait he could respect, even in adversary — not that he’d admit to such thing.

[fclsehearted]

Zara’s brows lifted, amused, as she let his words sink in. “Drink to remember,” she echoed, swirling the bourbon in her own glass as if it might speak up and explain itself. “Now, that’s either the saddest thing I’ve heard all week… or the most romantic. Jury’s still out.” She flashed a crooked little grin as she tipped her glass toward his in that silent toast, then took a slow sip. Her back was still to the bar, shoulder resting comfortably against the worn leather of the booth, eyes on the crowd like she was watching a play unfold.

At the question of the smile, she gave a soft laugh, turning just enough to glance his way. “Mm. You’re lookin’ for a face, but I was speaking more of a type,” she teased. “The kind of smile that knows just enough to be dangerous, but not enough to get out of its own way.” Her grin deepened, her tone drier now. “You don’t need to worry—it’s no one you’d have to teach a lesson to.” She had heard of his son's escapades, and she made sure to stay out of the way of them.

He asked for her story, and Zara let the silence stretch just a second too long before answering—measured, not cagey. “That’s a big question, for someone you only just met,” she said with a lift of her brow. “And it depends what you mean, long term or short term?" She took another sip, then shrugged lightly, "But as for what led me here tonight..." She leaned in slightly, elbow on the table, voice lowered to something conspiratorial. “I work nights. I hear things. And sometimes when the lights are low and the music’s good, I follow the trail of a story just to see where it leads. That’s all.” She paused, watching him now—not with suspicion, but with a kind of curious ease, like someone learning the shape of a person before they drew any conclusions. “And you?” she asked. “What led you to be here tonight, remembering?"

[chief-walker]

Chief Walker took a sip of his own whiskey, the amber liquid a silent companion to his contemplative gaze. He studied Zara for a moment, his eyes a mirror to a life of experience and the shadows that came with it. "It's got a story or two, all right," he said, his voice a gravelly drawl that spoke of long nights and harsher truths. "But I reckon most of 'em are just echoes of the ones I'd rather keep to myself." Her description of the smile was interesting, and he found himself wondering if she'd ever encountered anyone who truly fit that bill. He'd seen a lot of smiles in his life, but the truly dangerous ones were usually the ones that didn't make it to the eyes.

Malik’s gaze held a glint of amusement as he watched her, the silence stretching like the legs of a cat who’s found a sunbeam. When she spoke of her story, he leaned in slightly, his own curiosity piqued. The way she described herself, as someone who followed the trail of a story didn’t surprise him. “A storyteller, I see?” He mused, “There’s something about the night that makes people more honest, more willing to share their secrets. Maybe it’s the shadows, the music or the way the whiskey loosens the tongue.”

"The Dunbar has a way of attracting those looking for a good tale." Malik took a moment to appreciate the low lighting and the mellow jazz playing in the background, the perfect backdrop for the kind of conversations places like this usually inveigled. "I'm here for the same reason I'm anywhere," he replied, his eyes never leaving hers. "To keep an eye on my interests, make sure everything's running smoothly. You know, the usual king of the jungle stuff."

Everyone had their reasons for keeping their cards close to the chest, especially in a place like the Dunbar. "Fair enough," he conceded, leaning back in his seat. "Short term. Long term plans keep changing anyway.“ He took another sip of his drink, letting the liquid warm his throat before he continued. "So, you're a bit of a night owl, then?" His voice dropped to match the intimate tone of her own. "And you work in the shadows, uncovering secrets. Sounds like an interesting life style.“ The Chief leaned in a tad bit closer, his forearms resting on the edge of the table, the tension in his shoulders dissipating, as the conversation flowed naturally or maybe it was just the whiskey and the sweet melody of the music enveloping his senses.

[fclsehearted]

Zion entered like the sun didn’t rise until he did—bare-chested beneath a robe that hung off his frame like an afterthought, the scent of last night’s cologne clung to him, mixed with something sweeter—perfume, maybe. Bourbon. Smoke. Regret. He caught the tail end of Malik’s stare, the half-empty mug, and the wide-open front door all in one sweep. The corner of his mouth curled, shameless as always. “Morning, Chief,” he said, voice low and a little rough from too much whiskey or too little sleep—probably both. He crossed the kitchen with slow, deliberate ease, as if he hadn’t just chased someone’s daughter out of the house like a goddamn fire drill.

At the comment about his 'breakfast' Zion let out a short, warm laugh. “She prefers mimosas and bad decisions before eggs. Who am I to argue?” He pulled a chair out with the heel of his foot, dropped into it, and stretched long limbs like a cat in sun. Despite the chaos, he looked like a painting—too pretty, too composed, too smug to be sorry. But he didn’t miss the silence. Or the weight behind it. Zion’s smile lingered, faint and crooked, but his gaze drifted toward the window—the long drive, the disappearing taillights. Then, after a beat, he turned back to his father. “Coffee sounds good,” he said finally, softer this time. “Maybe something strong enough to burn the taste of last night off my tongue.”

He glanced around, fingers drumming the table once, then twice—nervous habit masked as rhythm. Then, without looking up “And, before you ask, you ain't gettin' no grandbabies anytime soon, she was just noise.” It was an easy joke, tossed out like all the others, light enough to skate over the surface. But just beneath it, the thought cut deeper than he ever let show.

Truth was, if it was up to him, Malik would never be bouncing grandbabies on his knee with Zion’s eyes or Cassie’s smile. Because to get there—to have that—meant handing over pieces of your soul you could never get back. A wife you could lose. Children that’d walk around this brutal world wearing your heart like it was nothing more than skin. He watched what that kind of love did to his father. It hollowed a man out. Turned grief into a ghost that never stopped following you. Zion wasn’t built to survive that kind of loss. He barely made it through the first one. He masked the silence by taking another sip, that devil-may-care grin still pasted on like armor. But for a flicker of a second, his eyes didn’t match it.

[chief-walker]

Malik couldn’t help but chuckle at the mention of the woman preferring mimosas and bad decisions. It was a classic line, one he’d heard from his son many times before, but it never failed to amuse him, even though it shouldn’t. He knew Zion‘s ways all too well. His son was a mirror of the youth Malik once had, living on the edge and playing with fire, except the stakes were much higher now. The Walker name carried weight, and their family’s legacy was intertwined with the very fabric of the city. Actions had consequences, especially for someone like him.

„Can’t blame her.“ He rose from his chair, his movements calm and unhurried. Years of discipline and experience had shaped him into a man who moved with purpose, no matter how simple the action. Malik poured his son a cup of coffee, dark and strong and set it down in front of him. “Here you go.“ The chief sat back down, folding his hands over the newspaper. His gaze was firm and unwavering, a silent communication, which transcended words. He’d seen the pain love could cause, the destruction wrought by grief and loss. He didn’t wish that upon Zion, not when their family was already so fractured. “You know I’ve got your back, Zion. Always. But I can’t help but wonder if you’re chasing shadows instead of embracing what could truly make you happy.“

The room grew quieter as Malik’s words lingered in the air. He knew his son heard him, really heard him. They’d had this conversation before, danced around it in various ways, but this time, there was an underlying urgency, while his eyes searched his son’s, looking for a glimmer of understanding. “Your mother... she was my rock, my heart. And when she was taken from me, I thought I’d never recover. But you and your sisters... — you’ve given me a reason to keep fighting. And I’d like to think that one day, you’ll find someone to share that burden with. Someone who’ll make you want to be a better man.“

He picked up his newspaper again, his eyes scanning the headlines as if the outside world could offer some semblance of order to the chaos of their personal lives. He’d been young once too, and he knew, sometimes, the hardest lessons were the ones you had to learn on your own. “Just don’t lose yourself in the chase, Zion. That’s all I ask.“

[fclsehearted]

She hadn’t planned on staying. The Dunbar was warm in a way that wasn’t inviting—it was earned. The kind of place that felt like it belonged to someone, even if you didn’t know the name on the deed. And Zara knew better than to get comfortable in places like that. But she’d followed a boy with dimples and lousy timing out of her own neighborhood, promising herself it was just for a quick hello. One drink. No lingering.

Yet here she was, nursing the back half of a bourbon and weighing the cost of staying seated. She felt him before he spoke—Chief Walker. Not that she’d call him that, not out loud. But she knew who he was. Not through syndicate whispers or backroom stories. Just the way people shifted around him. The subtle widening of space, the fact that nobody stood too close, nobody touched his glass when the bartender wiped down the table. It was the kind of quiet power you learned to spot if you worked enough shifts at Club Eden. Especially when the wrong men started drinking like they owned the night.

His voice pulled her gaze gently to the side, and she let their eyes meet without flinching. Cool leather and warm light framed him, and for a second, it was hard to tell whether the Dunbar belonged to him… or if he belonged to it. "Bold of you to assume I only have the one.” Zara teased, voice light as lace, fingers curling loosely around her glass. “But I always come back to bourbon. Tastes like bad ideas and good manners.” Her smile was small but genuine, the kind that didn’t ask for anything. “Perfect for a night like this.”

She didn’t shift closer. Didn’t touch her hair or her hem. Just let the moment breathe. “Didn’t mean to intrude,” she added after a pause, voice softer now, as if offering the truth and watching to see if he’d take it. “Just followed a dumb heart and a half-clever smile through the door. Figured I’d sit before I lost my nerve.” No name. No history. Just enough to explain why a woman like her had wandered this far from where she belonged. She didn’t flinch under his gaze, but she didn’t invite it either. Neutral. Friendly. Nonthreatening.

Her fingers tapped once, lightly, against the side of her glass. “And you?” she asked, her tone still casual, like this was any other night and he was just any other man. “That drink got stories to tell, or is it just doing the work of helping you forget a few?”

[chief-walker]

Malik felt a hint of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth as he listened to Zara’s response. Her presence was a refreshing change from the usual conversations he had with those around him—full of tact and strategy. This was something else entirely. He took another sip of his drink, considering her words. "bourbon's always a safe bet, ain't it?" he repeated with an appreciative nod. "A drink as complex as the nights we find ourselves in" He paused, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before looking back into the depths of his glass, the amber liquid swirling like a secret waiting to be told.

“Mine’s a bourbon too,” he replied, his voice a deep timbre that matched the richness of the whiskey. “But I don’t drink to forget. I drink to remember.” He set the glass down, his hand lingering on the rim, the amber liquid casting a golden reflection on his tanned skin. The words were chosen with care, a hint of something deeper beneath the surface, something that resonated with the weight of his past and the gravity of his position.

He raised his own glass in silent toast to her unspoken challenge and took another sip of his whiskey, letting the warmth spread through his chest as he considered her question. The liquor had a story to tell, one of years in oak barrels, of the journey from grain to glass. But the stories he had to tell were much less palatable. He leaned back into the booth, his broad shoulders relaxing slightly. The Dunbar was indeed his domain, but he wasn’t the type to flex his power where it wasn’t needed. Here, he was Malik, the man who liked a good drink and a better conversation. For now, at least, he could be that version of himself.

"As for the stories it holds," he began, setting the glass down on the coaster with a gentle thud, "it's more of a toast to the quiet moments, I'd say." His eyes searched hers briefly before looking away again, a subtle hint of something unspoken passing between them. "But, let's not let our drinks do all the talking. Who’s that half clever smile you’ve mentioned?“ Malik raised a curious brow, his gaze roaming the crowd, trying to figure out who she was talking about — and hoping it wasn’t Zion.

"You seem like someone who's seen a bit of the world, or at least a side of it that most don't get to see from the comfort of their own neighborhoods. What‘s your story?" He genuinely wanted to know, curious about the person who had the guts to sit next to him without knowing what she was getting into.

[nixscriptum]

[chief-walker]

MALIK WALKER/ Omari Hardwick is looking for HIS DAUGHTERS. the connection’s age is 25-30 and look like Ayo Edebiri, Ajiona Alexus, Keke Palmer, Antoinette Robertson, Laura Harrier, Lovie Simone, Rachel Hilson, Zazie Beetz, Imani Hakim, Letitia Wright, Ash Santos or UTP. Malik is the head of the Walker Syndicate and his girls would be spoiled rotten and definitely get away with just about anything. They'd have an older brother, Zion (MBJ FC). They do not have to be involved in the family business but since the loss of their mother, Malik would be overprotective either way. you DO NOT have to (but can) contact @chief-walker before applying.

[chief-walker]

Closed starter for: @fclsehearted (Malik & Zion)

Location: Walker Mansion

Malik had always upheld a daily morning routine, which began bright and early, with the serenity of dawn, where the world felt still and untouched. He savored these fleeting moments before his day evolved into a whirlwind of negotiations and strategy meetings. The early morning sun streamed through the large windows of the Walker mansion, casting golden rays across the polished wooden table where he sat, while sipping on rich coffee with a gentle swirl of cream and leafed through the daily newspapers. He found comfort in these quiet moments, before plunging into another day filled with meetings and decisions that could sway fortunes—both legally and otherwise— or well, worse… cost lives. His tranquil morning however, was abruptly disrupted, when he noticed a barely-dressed, young woman dart out of the front door, like a whisper on the wind; her hair tousled from sleep, as she rushed past him without so much as a glance. She seemed startled upon catching sight of Malik but raced past him without a word — it was clear she had other concerns pressing for her attention: freedom beckoned from outside those grand walls. Her disheveled hair danced behind her as she hurriedly climbed into an idling car waiting outside; within moments, it sped off down the driveway. Just minutes later, Malik’s oldest son Zion sauntered into the kitchen. Though silence enveloped them like an unspoken agreement, every exchange between father and son crackled with tension—the kind that words were too clumsy to articulate.

He observed this scene unfold with quiet contemplation etched on his face; his gaze lingered on Zion a little longer than usual today and the silence spoke volumes. Setting down his coffee cup, he directed a piercing gaze at his son; after all, this wasn’t entirely new within their household. “Good morning, son.” A brief pause followed; then, he continued to speak, calmly but unable to completely suppress a hint of teasing underlying his tone of voice. “I think your breakfast just went out the door.” Malik didn't have to voice any concern for Zion's habits or perhaps even mistakes that led to such chaotic scenarios. His eyes conveyed years' worth of lessons learned under pressure: accountability lurked just beyond choice and consequence alike in their world. Another moment of awkward silence passed between father and son, yet it was quite the familiar situation — much to the formers dismay. Still; he let his offspring get away with his indulgences — as always. Attempting to clear the tension in the room, he met Zio’s eyes once more, clearing his throat. “Coffee?”

[chief-walker]

closed starter for @thoseofsilk (Malik & Archer)

Location: Mel's Restaurant

Mel's Restaurant, typically a bustling hub of Hollywood hopefuls and power brokers, hummed with a different kind of energy tonight. The air was charged with mingling scents of expensive cigar smoke, exorbitant perfumes of society dames and the delicious appetizers served for a special evening. A charity event for "Orphans of the Pacific War" was underway, a convenient veneer for the city's true movers and shakers to rub shoulders on neutral ground. Opulent red velvet banquettes lined the walls, polished dark wood gleams, artfully crafted candle centerpieces cast pools of warm, intimate light upon LA's high society. Art Deco splendor surrounded the guests – polished chrome, crystal chandeliers and a champagne fountain along with lavish flowers adorned the exclusive location. In the background, a live jazz band played a smooth, sultry tune, the saxophone weeping softly.

As per usual, Malik was dressed in a tailored, dark suit that seemed to absorb the light around him, reflecting in the obscure depths of his eyes. His presence was not loud, but utterly undeniable; his intense gaze missing nothing, and his face a mask of controlled calculation. He rarely raised his voice, but when he spoke, every word carried the weight of unspoken power. Mak was not only here to maintain appearances, observe, and perhaps subtly remind others of his reach, no. He truly cared for the cause. Standing slightly apart from the main throng, near a large potted palm, he discreetly surveyed the room, while nursing a glass of amber liquid. His gaze was detached, almost bored, yet nothing escaped his notice.

Malik just politely rebuffed a persistent local politician, his gaze sweeping across the room, past the glittering jewelry and fake smiles, and eventually landed on Archer, who had just finished a set; the last notes of a soulful ballad still lingering in the air. A small crowd of admirers gathered around the band near the edge of the stage, offering compliments and drinks. Their paths converged near a display of silent auction items – a signed photograph of Rita Hayworth, a rare bottle of Scotch and an abstract painting of an upcoming artist, waiting to be claimed by the highest bidder by the end of the night. Motioning towards the items in question, the chief requested, the tone of his voice more on the neutral side but slightly leaning towards an amused undercurrent: "Any of those catch your interest?"

[chief-walker]

Open Starter

Location: The Dunbar

Malik leaned back in the plush leather booth at Dunbar, a family owned pub, which, —although he may have been a little biased —was indeed his favorite place to go, whenever he was in the rare mood for a night out. The dim lighting cast a warm glow across the rustic wooden bar, where familiar faces busily poured drinks and swapped stories during the usual evening hustle. As head of the Walker syndicate, Malik was used to commanding attention and respect; yet here, in this homely establishment, filled with laughter and music, he encountered a brief moment of solace. One, that wouldn’t quite last for much longer than a heartbeat but still; he’d take what he could get. Chief Walker savored this moment, his calloused fingers firmly holding onto the glencairn glass of amber liquor, appreciating the complexity and nuances of the spirit. He took a small sip, letting it coat his tongue first, then he paused, allowing the flavors to develop —a rich bourbon with notes of caramel— and relished its soothing warmth, as it settled comfortably within him. It was moments like these, that reminded him, why he worked so diligently: to protect what mattered most—his family. He’d failed them once, he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

The gentle clinking of glasses drew his gaze to a figure seated next to him. Their eyes met briefly, his gaze intense but not threatening, as Malik eventually broke the silence between them with an easy question, projected more for hospitality than necessity: “What’s your poison tonight?”—It wasn't often one received such attentiveness from someone usually buried under responsibilities higher than most could fathom, but sometimes… wonders did happen and Malik never ceased to surprise even himself.

[blackmensuited]

[blackmensuited]