The rain hadn't stopped, and neither had the tension.
J-Rock walked down Holloway Street, his hoodie pulled tight, every step echoing in puddles. The meeting spot was an abandoned laundromat on the edge of Dre's block — neutral ground, at least on paper.
Inside, the smell of mildew and old detergent mixed with cigarette smoke. Dre was there, sitting on top of an old dryer, his gold chain catching the light from a single flickering bulb. Two of his boys leaned against the wall, their hands suspiciously near their waistbands.
"J-Rock." Dre's voice was cool, but his eyes were sharp. "Didn't think you'd show."
"I almost didn't," J-Rock said, keeping his distance. "But we need to talk."
Dre smirked. "Talk? Last time you 'talked' to somebody, Big L's shipment went missing. People still wonder who dropped that location to the cops."
J-Rock's jaw tightened. "I told you before, Dre. I wasn't the one. But I do know someone's trying real hard to make me look like it."
Dre slid off the dryer and stepped closer. "So why'd you call me here? To clear your name? Or to check if I'm the one gunning for you?"
J-Rock didn't answer right away. He scanned the room. Every instinct screamed this was a trap.
"I called you," J-Rock said slowly, "because if someone's setting me up, they could be playing you too. And if that's true… we've both got a problem."
Dre studied him for a long moment, then chuckled low. "You got guts, Rock. I'll give you that. But guts don't mean you're not a dead man walking."
Before J-Rock could respond, the back door of the laundromat banged open. A shadow moved fast — too fast.
Gunmetal flashed.
"Down!" J-Rock shouted, diving behind a washer as the first shots cracked through the stale air