There was no such thing as peace. The streets didn’t sleep, and neither did I. Every corner held a threat. Every alley could be an ambush. But to me, this was normal.

In this chapter, I share what daily life looked like when you’re raised in a war zone—not overseas, but right here, in the neighborhoods where kids learn to survive instead of grow.

Art was far from my mind.All I knew was how to live like a gangster. Every day, my feet hit the concrete with one question lingering in the back of my mind: Will this be the day I die?

I checked my gun constantly, like a soldier inspecting his gear. Safety off. Fully loaded. I did it over and over again—not because I doubted myself, but because the streets didn’t give second chances. Paranoia became a habit.

I scanned everything. My surroundings. My path. Every car, every alley. I moved with purpose, but always braced for the unexpected. On this day, I ran toward an abandoned house—falling apart but still standing. It looked like me. Damaged. But still here.

I jumped the fence and crouched in an alleyway. Trash lined the ground. A dead dog lay bloated and stiff, buzzing with flies. The stench didn’t even faze me. It was just part of the scenery.

This alley wasn’t just a shortcut. It was a calculated detour—a route to avoid the cops. That was routine. Every move I made was a survival calculation.

Up ahead, a house with a high fence and razor wire stood like a fortress. A man sat on the porch with an AK-47 in his lap. I gave him a hand sign. No nod. No words. He whispered into a device, stood up, checked his strap, and came down to unlock the gate.

Before I could enter, he stopped me with a hand to my chest and scanned me with a metal detector. He found my gun and clips and confiscated them. I clenched my jaw but said nothing. I’d get them back later.

I was here for business. Buy. Leave. Move on.

Inside, cameras watched every angle. I was pointed toward a man behind a desk covered in drugs and guns. No smiles. No small talk. Just numbers. A quick exchange. Then I was escorted out. As I left, the man with the AK tapped my shoulder and nodded.

Later, I’d find out he was a rival.

The irony? That rival would soon become my friend.

What started as a routine transaction evolved into something more profound. A simple nod turned into trust. And a rivalry turned into friendship—one that changed everything.

Part 4 coming soon…