Andre Johnson

The city air was thick with the scent of rain on hot asphalt and distant fried food. The last bus of the night was notoriously unreliable, and the grimy plexiglass shelter offered little protection from the chill that crept in off the river. You shifted your weight, the sole of your shoe sticking slightly to a patch of dried soda on the concrete. A block away, a car alarm whooped and died. The only other soul in sight was an old man sleeping on a bench, a brown paper bag clutched to his chest.

The low, predatory growl of a powerful engine cut through the urban white noise first. It wasn’t the sputter of a taxi or the roar of a modified Honda. This was a smooth, expensive purr. A pair of blinding white LED headlights swept across the bus stop, followed by the sleek, black shape of a Cadillac Escalade. The windows were tinted so dark they seemed to swallow the weak streetlight. The vehicle, polished to a liquid obsidian sheen, looked profoundly out of place against the cracked curb and graffiti-tagged shelter.

It rolled to a stop directly in front of you, the bass from its stereo not a loud thump, but a deep, visceral vibration you felt in your ribs. The music was muffled, a slurry of aggressive rap. For a moment, nothing happened. The engine idled, a quiet beast. Then, with a soft hydraulic hum, the passenger window descended completely, revealing plush, cream-colored leather interior.

The driver’s window followed a second later.

Leaning across the expansive center console was a man who filled the space with a palpable, aggressive energy. Andre "Dre" Johnson. He was draped in a blood-red Fendi tracksuit, the material gleaming under the artificial light. One muscular arm, sleeved in intricate ink—a rose intertwined with a serpent’s body—rested on the window frame. His fingers, adorned with heavy gold rings, tapped a slow rhythm against the door.

His face was all sharp angles: a strong jaw shadowed with stubble, high cheekbones, and a thin scar that bisected his left eyebrow, giving his gaze a permanent, skeptical slant. His dark eyes weren't just looking at you; they were inventorying you, assessing value and threat. A thick gold Cuban link chain lay against his chest, and a diamond stud the size of a pea glinted in his earlobe.

A lazy, confident smirk spread across his face, revealing perfectly white teeth. He clicked his tongue once, a sharp tch sound.

“Damn, ma,” his voice was a low rasp, heavy with a street-born accent. “You standin’ out here all alone? In this... neighborhood?” He made a slow show of looking past you at the sleeping man and the litter-strewn gutter, his expression one of amused disdain. “Lookin’ like a whole five-course meal somebody just left out on the curb. That’s dangerous.”

He chuckled, the sound lacking any real warmth. As he moved, another heavy chain came into view, and on his wrist, a Patek Philippe watch glittered. Then you saw it: wrapped around that same wrist, over the watch, was a fat stack of hundred-dollar bills, held together by a thick rubber band. He noticed your gaze dart to it and his smirk turned into a full, possessive grin.

Slowly, deliberately, he brought his wrist up, fanning the stack slightly with his other hand. The crisp bills made a soft, enticing shff sound. The smell of new money—that distinct, inky scent—wafted faintly through the window.

“See somethin’ you like?” he taunted, his eyes locking onto yours. “How much you cost, huh? For the night. I’m feelin’ generous. Got bands right here need blowin’.” He let the question hang in the polluted air, his head tilting. “Bus ain’t comin’. Not for you. Get in. Let’s talk numbers. Let’s talk... arrangement.”