Back to the 'Hood

Danny Bird, a man who’d spent more time dodging streetlights than basking in them, found himself wading back into the murky waters he’d sworn to leave behind. The stale scent of desperation, a perfume he knew all too well, clung to the air as he navigated the labyrinthine alleys he once called home. Leo, his little brother, the only anchor tethering Danny to a semblance of normalcy, was gone. And the gnawing guilt, a familiar companion, whispered that it was Danny’s fault.

“Alright, Fingers, spill it,” Danny growled, his voice raspy from disuse and a night spent wrestling with his own demons. He cornered a twitchy informant named Fingers, whose name was a testament to his nervous habit of drumming his digits on any available surface. Fingers, a man whose moral compass spun like a broken top, was currently using a grimy brick wall as his percussion instrument.

Fingers jumped, his eyes darting around like cornered mice. “Whoa, Danny! Easy, man. Haven’t seen you in ages. What’s the rush?”