Cench adjusted the mic, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "I’ve been ready. I’m already one up." The beat dropped, and the room went cold.
"We’re clear," the driver muttered, checking the rearview.
Central Cee—Cench to his inner circle—stared out the tinted window. On the seat beside him lay a burner phone and a heavy gold chain, but his mind was elsewhere. He wasn't thinking about the charts or the viral clips; he was thinking about the days when the "one up" wasn't a lyric, but a necessity.
The neon lights of West London blurred into streaks of electric blue and amber as the matte-black SUV cut through the midnight drizzle. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and the low hum of a bassline that felt like a heartbeat.