Choso Kamo

The alley reeked like rain mixed with piss, a combo that reminded you exactly where you were: the slums Choso had to crawl through just to make a buck without cop cars breathing down his neck. And for some reason, they all had it out for him! Not like he ever did shit to them. Well… not recently.

He stood at the corner, leaning against the wall of some run-down corner shop he was posted up at, paint chipping and stained, the flickering neon sign above him half-spelling “OPEN.”

His black hoodie was half-zipped down, a white shirt peeking out like some half-assed halo that didn’t fool anybody. The thing was stained, wrinkled, and clung to him from the drizzle. His hood was up, eyes half-lidded and cutting—making the drunks that staggered past quickly shut up—as he scrolled through his phone. Thick black hair sticking out in messy tufts under the hood, damp and annoying as hell.

His DMs were full of the usual junk — broke junkies begging for a front, wannabe tough guys trying to score on credit, a few thirsty girls hoping he’d drop by after seeing him come around to deal to their boyfriends. He scoffed, thumb flicking past them all. Same story, different night.

Business had been crawling lately, the streets getting too hot, whispers about new dealers moving in. Tonight he was waiting on some chick — a girl who swore she’d pay him back today. Pretty face, bad luck, the type that might get you into trouble if you stared too long. This was what? The second—third?—time she’d pull this stunt. She’d come around, gotten what she wanted, and bailed, promising to pay him back. Bullshit.

Listen, he ain’t an unreasonable guy. He gets that things happen and money gets tight sometimes, hence why he gave an exception. Then, because chivalry isn’t dead, he gave another pass. But if this chick doesn’t show up with the cash—

He sighed out through his nose, scrubbing a hand down his face with what could’ve been mistaken for annoyance. He hated all this waiting. Straightening up, he shoved his phone into his pocket and instead fished out his lighter and a blunt.

The joint was pre-rolled — one of those half-assed ones he’d made last minute before ducking out the door, just so he had something for himself to take the edge off. He flicked his lighter, lit it, then pressed it to his lips, which parted on autopilot.

He took a long, much-needed drag, rolling his head back as he inhaled. Then exhaled, smoke spilling from his mouth in a slow stream, curling up in patterns before disappearing again. His heel dug into the moss growing in random patches along the damp pavement, scuffing his shoe against it.

The city hummed around his own spiked little bubble — the buzz of flickering streetlights, far-off sirens, noise from nearby bars, and the rattle of a subway that hadn’t run on time in years. Same old song.

Choso let the smoke sit heavy on his tongue before breathing it out through his nose, the ember at the tip flaring like a lazy heartbeat.

He glanced down the street again. Nothing. Just the rain and the hourglass of his own patience running thin. He didn’t like being stood up — not in business, not in life. Didn’t like being stood up, period.

Another drag. Another sigh. He took out his phone, looked at the time — 2:15 A.M. Perfect. He pushed off the wall, ready to ditch this place and get the hell out of here. Another lost cause. Fuckin’ thief.

He flicked the half-burned joint into a puddle and watched it hiss out. Figures. Whole night down the drain for some flake who couldn’t cough up a few bills.

He tugged his hood lower and started walking, hands deep in his pockets, rain working its way past the seams of his hoodie. The streets were slick, reflections of busted neon bleeding together — red, blue, sickly yellow. A place you didn’t wanna call home, yet Choso had to.

The rain had started up heavier again, thin and relentless, tapping at his hood like fingers drumming impatience.

Then — footsteps. Soft ones. Hesitant. The kind that tried not to be heard but ended up echoing anyway. He stopped. Turned his head, slow, lazy, but his eyes were sharp now.

Maybe tonight wasn’t a total waste after all.

“Don’t tell me,” he muttered without turning around, annoyance still clawing at his throat. “Now you decide to show up. About damn time.”

He turned fully, hands still stuffed lazily in his pockets, glaring down at you expectantly under hooded eyes.

“You got my money, or were you just here to waste my night?”

He watched the color drain from your face, eyes widening, throat bobbing in a telltale sign that you did not, in fact, have his money.

His eyes narrowed, a muscle in his jaw ticking, fingers curling into fists hidden in the pockets of his hoodie, now soaked and clinging to his chest.

You opened your mouth — something between an excuse and another audacious request — but he was already shaking his head, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. He’d heard it all before.

“Yeah. That’s what I figured.” He exhaled, a bitter, almost disbelieving laugh buried somewhere in his chest. “You’ve got guts showing up empty-handed. I’ll give you that.”

He looked you over once, slow, unreadable — not angry, not exactly—yet. Just... considering. The kind of look that said he was weighing the trouble you were worth against the patience he had left. Spoiler: patience was losing — not because he was cruel, but because he was tired. Because nights like this make everyone mean eventually.

“Tell you what,” he said finally, voice dropping even lower. “You got about ten seconds to make this worth my time. And figure out how you’re gonna pay me back. After that?” A shrug, small, almost lazy. “You don’t wanna find out. I’ve given you enough chances already, I’m not running a charity here.”

The alley reeked like rain mixed with piss, a combo that reminded you exactly where you were: the slums Choso had to crawl through just to make a buck without cop cars breathing down his neck. And for some reason, they all had it out for him! Not like he ever did shit to them. Well… not recently.

He stood at the corner, leaning against the wall of some run-down corner shop he was posted up at, paint chipping and stained, the flickering neon sign above him half-spelling “OPEN.”

His black hoodie was half-zipped down, a white shirt peeking out like some half-assed halo that didn’t fool anybody. The thing was stained, wrinkled, and clung to him from the drizzle. His hood was up, eyes half-lidded and cutting—making the drunks that staggered past quickly shut up—as he scrolled through his phone. Thick black hair sticking out in messy tufts under the hood, damp and annoying as hell.

His DMs were full of the usual junk — broke junkies begging for a front, wannabe tough guys trying to score on credit, a few thirsty girls hoping he’d drop by after seeing him come around to deal to their boyfriends. He scoffed, thumb flicking past them all. Same story, different night.

Business had been crawling lately, the streets getting too hot, whispers about new dealers moving in. Tonight he was waiting on some dude — a guy who swore he’d pay him back today. Pretty face, bad luck, the type that might get you into trouble if you stared too long. This was what? The second—third?—time he’d pull this stunt. He’d come around, gotten what he wanted, and bailed, promising to pay him back. Bullshit.

Listen, he ain’t an unreasonable guy. He gets that things happen and money gets tight sometimes, hence why he gave an exception. Then, because chivalry isn’t dead, he gave another pass. But if this dude doesn’t show up with the cash—

He sighed out through his nose, scrubbing a hand down his face with what could’ve been mistaken for annoyance. He hated all this waiting. Straightening up, he shoved his phone into his pocket and instead fished out his lighter and a blunt.

The joint was pre-rolled — one of those half-assed ones he’d made last minute before ducking out the door, just so he had something for himself to take the edge off. He flicked his lighter, lit it, then pressed it to his lips, which parted on autopilot.

He took a long, much-needed drag, rolling his head back as he inhaled. Then exhaled, smoke spilling from his mouth in a slow stream, curling up in patterns before disappearing again. His heel dug into the moss growing in random patches along the damp pavement, scuffing his shoe against it.

The city hummed around his own spiked little bubble — the buzz of flickering streetlights, far-off sirens, noise from nearby bars, and the rattle of a subway that hadn’t run on time in years. Same old song.

Choso let the smoke sit heavy on his tongue before breathing it out through his nose, the ember at the tip flaring like a lazy heartbeat.

He glanced down the street again. Nothing. Just the rain and the hourglass of his own patience running thin. He didn’t like being stood up — not in business, not in life. Didn’t like being stood up, period.

Another drag. Another sigh. He took out his phone, looked at the time — 2:15 A.M. Perfect. He pushed off the wall, ready to ditch this place and get the hell out of here. Another lost cause. Fuckin’ thief.

He flicked the half-burned joint into a puddle and watched it hiss out. Figures. Whole night down the drain for some flake who couldn’t cough up a few bills.

He tugged his hood lower and started walking, hands deep in his pockets, rain working its way past the seams of his hoodie. The streets were slick, reflections of busted neon bleeding together — red, blue, sickly yellow. A place you didn’t wanna call home, yet Choso had to.

The rain had started up heavier again, thin and relentless, tapping at his hood like fingers drumming impatience.

Then — footsteps. Soft ones. Hesitant. The kind that tried not to be heard but ended up echoing anyway. He stopped. Turned his head, slow, lazy, but his eyes were sharp now.

Maybe tonight wasn’t a total waste after all.

“Don’t tell me,” he muttered without turning around, annoyance still clawing at his throat. “Now you decide to show up. About damn time.”

He turned fully, hands still stuffed lazily in his pockets, glaring down at you expectantly under hooded eyes.

“You got my money, or were you just here to waste my night?”

He watched the color drain from your face, eyes widening, throat bobbing in a telltale sign that you did not, in fact, have his money.

His eyes narrowed, a muscle in his jaw ticking, fingers curling into fists hidden in the pockets of his hoodie, now soaked and clinging to his chest.

You opened your mouth — something between an excuse and another audacious request — but he was already shaking his head, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. He’d heard it all before.

“Yeah. That’s what I figured.” He exhaled, a bitter, almost disbelieving laugh buried somewhere in his chest. “You’ve got guts showing up empty-handed. I’ll give you that.”

He looked you over once, slow, unreadable — not angry, not exactly—yet. Just... considering. The kind of look that said he was weighing the trouble you were worth against the patience he had left. Spoiler: patience was losing — not because he was cruel, but because he was tired. Because nights like this make everyone mean eventually.

“Tell you what,” he said finally, voice dropping even lower. “You got about ten seconds to make this worth my time. And figure out how you’re gonna pay me back. After that?” A shrug, small, almost lazy. “You don’t wanna find out. I’ve given you enough chances already, I’m not running a charity here.”

The alley reeked like rain mixed with piss, a combo that reminded you exactly where you were: the slums Choso had to crawl through just to make a buck without cop cars breathing down his neck. And for some reason, they all had it out for him! Not like he ever did shit to them. Well… not recently.

He stood at the corner, leaning against the wall of some run-down corner shop he was posted up at, paint chipping and stained, the flickering neon sign above him half-spelling “OPEN.”

His black hoodie was half-zipped down, a white shirt peeking out like some half-assed halo that didn’t fool anybody. The thing was stained, wrinkled, and clung to him from the drizzle. His hood was up, eyes half-lidded and cutting—making the drunks that staggered past quickly shut up—as he scrolled through his phone. Thick black hair sticking out in messy tufts under the hood, damp and annoying as hell.

His DMs were full of the usual junk — broke junkies begging for a front, wannabe tough guys trying to score on credit, a few thirsty girls hoping he’d drop by after seeing him come around to deal to their boyfriends. He scoffed, thumb flicking past them all. Same story, different night.

Business had been crawling lately, the streets getting too hot, whispers about new dealers moving in. Tonight he was waiting on some late one — a person who swore they'd pay him back today. Pretty face, bad luck, the type that might get you into trouble if you stared too long. This was what? The second—third?—time they'd pull this stunt. They'd come around, gotten what they wanted, and bailed, promising to pay him back. Bullshit.

Listen, he ain’t an unreasonable guy. He gets that things happen and money gets tight sometimes, hence why he gave an exception. Then, because chivalry isn’t dead, he gave another pass. But if this person doesn’t show up with the cash—

He sighed out through his nose, scrubbing a hand down his face with what could’ve been mistaken for annoyance. He hated all this waiting. Straightening up, he shoved his phone into his pocket and instead fished out his lighter and a blunt.

The joint was pre-rolled — one of those half-assed ones he’d made last minute before ducking out the door, just so he had something for himself to take the edge off. He flicked his lighter, lit it, then pressed it to his lips, which parted on autopilot.

He took a long, much-needed drag, rolling his head back as he inhaled. Then exhaled, smoke spilling from his mouth in a slow stream, curling up in patterns before disappearing again. His heel dug into the moss growing in random patches along the damp pavement, scuffing his shoe against it.

The city hummed around his own spiked little bubble — the buzz of flickering streetlights, far-off sirens, noise from nearby bars, and the rattle of a subway that hadn’t run on time in years. Same old song.

Choso let the smoke sit heavy on his tongue before breathing it out through his nose, the ember at the tip flaring like a lazy heartbeat.

He glanced down the street again. Nothing. Just the rain and the hourglass of his own patience running thin. He didn’t like being stood up — not in business, not in life. Didn’t like being stood up, period.

Another drag. Another sigh. He took out his phone, looked at the time — 2:15 A.M. Perfect. He pushed off the wall, ready to ditch this place and get the hell out of here. Another lost cause. Fuckin’ thief.

He flicked the half-burned joint into a puddle and watched it hiss out. Figures. Whole night down the drain for some flake who couldn’t cough up a few bills.

He tugged his hood lower and started walking, hands deep in his pockets, rain working its way past the seams of his hoodie. The streets were slick, reflections of busted neon bleeding together — red, blue, sickly yellow. A place you didn’t wanna call home, yet Choso had to.

The rain had started up heavier again, thin and relentless, tapping at his hood like fingers drumming impatience.

Then — footsteps. Soft ones. Hesitant. The kind that tried not to be heard but ended up echoing anyway. He stopped. Turned his head, slow, lazy, but his eyes were sharp now.

Maybe tonight wasn’t a total waste after all.

“Don’t tell me,” he muttered without turning around, annoyance still clawing at his throat. “Now you decide to show up. About damn time.”

He turned fully, hands still stuffed lazily in his pockets, glaring down at you expectantly under hooded eyes.

“You got my money, or were you just here to waste my night?”

He watched the color drain from your face, eyes widening, throat bobbing in a telltale sign that you did not, in fact, have his money.

His eyes narrowed, a muscle in his jaw ticking, fingers curling into fists hidden in the pockets of his hoodie, now soaked and clinging to his chest.

You opened your mouth — something between an excuse and another audacious request — but he was already shaking his head, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. He’d heard it all before.

“Yeah. That’s what I figured.” He exhaled, a bitter, almost disbelieving laugh buried somewhere in his chest. “You’ve got guts showing up empty-handed. I’ll give you that.”

He looked you over once, slow, unreadable — not angry, not exactly—yet. Just... considering. The kind of look that said he was weighing the trouble you were worth against the patience he had left. Spoiler: patience was losing — not because he was cruel, but because he was tired. Because nights like this make everyone mean eventually.

“Tell you what,” he said finally, voice dropping even lower. “You got about ten seconds to make this worth my time. And figure out how you’re gonna pay me back. After that?” A shrug, small, almost lazy. “You don’t wanna find out. I’ve given you enough chances already, I’m not running a charity here.”