IT BEGINS IN THE DARK, as it always does. eyes scan the marred walls of dead end driveway, the only thing new in the few years of her absence being FLASHY CARS and DRYING INKS. even now she hears it, a chorus to the distant beat, faithful breaths of paints being laid on the walls like gospel. she stands, far from the light of the oracle; IT WASN'T MEANT FOR HER.
two blades cut through the air, shining in moonlight; their tips ricochet against the opposing brick wall, where he stood.
❝ PROPHET ! same gospel, same church ! now that's a man who stands for TRADITIONAL VALUES. ❞
❝ although i can see your entourage has welcomed some more WORMS. ❞ dark eyes narrow as the redhead approaches, hands behind her back. a mocking attempt at making herself seem HARMLESS.
she listens to the beat. it's one of his tracks, one that she knows.
❝ you've gotten older. ❞ // @mixtapc








