"Scrim? We’ve been trying to reach your management. We’ve got a contract that’ll change your life."
He took a drag of a cigarette, the smoke curling around his face. “Now I’m up to my neck with offers,” he muttered to the empty street. It wasn't a boast; it felt like a drowning. "Scrim
Scrim didn't move. He didn't even look over. He just flicked the ember of his cigarette into the gutter and watched it die. His life had already changed; he’d changed it himself in a basement with a laptop and a broken heart. He didn't need their ink to validate his blood. “Now I’m up to my neck with offers,”
His mind flashed back to the "Northside." The nights spent in the back of a beat-up van, the smell of cheap pills and desperation. He remembered when the only offer he had was a choice between a 12-hour shift for pennies or a risky hand-off in an alleyway. Back then, the hunger was simple. Now, the hunger was a beast that everyone wanted to feed for a price. He didn't even look over
He turned his back on the car and started walking toward the shadows of the Northside, the beat for a new track already thumping in his skull. The offers were high, but his autonomy was higher.
The neon hum of the New Orleans corner store flickered, casting Scrim’s shadow long and jagged against the grease-stained pavement. He leaned against a rusted pump, the heavy humidity of the 504 clinging to his skin like a second layer of tattoos.