The sound of siren in East Brooklyn didn't scare Zariah Monroe anymore.it was like background music-loud, constant,and always just a little off-key .They screamed through the street like broken promises, bouncing off graffiti-tagged buildings and slipping through the cracked window of her third- floor walk-up. Still, when the wail squad car ripped through the early morning fog. She paused mid-stanza ,pen frozen above her notebook.
"Hope didn't grow on concrete...she'd written.
She glance out the window
Two block down blue and red light painted in violence flashes. A black Escalated sat smashed against a fire hydrant,water spraying like a geyster into the morning air.
A body lay motionless on the hood, chest torn like a book someone has stop reading halfway through.
Zee blinked once,then twice
It was only 6am .And already death has clocked in.
"Zariah! you gonna be late
Her grandmother shot through walls like a bullet. The smell of fried bologna and burnt toast followed close behind. Zee tore her self away from the window. Shoved the notebook into her backpack , and tied her box braid into a bun as she moved.The moment she stepped into the hallway ,the floor groaned like it didn't want to hold her weight anymore.
"Morning, Nana, Zee said grabbing the slice of toast already slathered with butter and strawberry jam.
Nana looked up from her seat by the stove, eyes cloudy but sharp "you up early, writing them poem again.
Zee smiled,"can't sleep when the street is louder than dreams."
"Mm." Nana stirred her tea, the clink of the spoon against the mug the only sound in the room for a moment. "You heard what happened down on Gates?"
Zee nodded, her voice quiet. "Somebody caught a body. Young, I think."
Always young." Nana shook her head, her gold hoops swinging. "They don't even bury old folk no more. Just babies and boys with bullets in they backs."
Zee didn't reply. She knew better. In East Brooklyn, silence was survival. Questions got you noticed. Answers got you dead.
By 7:00 a.m., Zee was out the door, backpack slung low, hoodie up, headphones in. The city was waking up slow—bodega gates rolling open, tired mothers dragging strollers to bus stops, men on corners rolling dice with faces cracked like sidewalks. Everyone hustling. Everyone hoping.
She kept her head down as she passed the corner where Deek and his crew usually hung out. Deek was there today, shirtless despite the morning chill, his gold chain dancing on his chest.
"Ayo, Zee!" he called out, grinning like he owned the sun. "You drop another poem yet?"
She smirked, eyes still forward. "Maybe."
"You need to let me shoot a video for you. You blowin' up."
"I'm good."
"You ain't gotta act like you too cool. I see you trending on TikTok and all that!"
Zee chuckled and kept walking. Deek was all talk, but the kind that made people disappear if they laughed too loud. She respected the hustle, but she wasn't trying to be nobody's come-up.
At the subway station, she caught the J train headed into downtown Brooklyn. As it rocked along the tracks, Zee scrolled through her phone. Notifications lit up like fireworks.
@RosesFromTheConcrete:
"This girl got bars like Kendrick. East Brooklyn got a queen."
"When the streets speak through a poet, you get Zariah Monroe."
DMs: Yo you wanna do a collab? / We tryna book you for an open mic in Harlem next Friday.
She bit her lip.
The fame was creeping in faster than she expected. One viral poem about gun violence, one gritty video in front of a mural of Nipsey Hussle, and suddenly the world wanted a piece of her pain. But she hadn't told them the whole story.
Not yet.
She hadn't told them about Jamal.
---
As the train pulled into Myrtle Avenue, Zee's phone buzzed again.
Blocked Number. 1 New Voicemail.
She hesitated, then played it.
> "Zee. It's me. Don't hang up. I know it's been years, but I had to make sure you were still breathing. Things are moving fast now. Real fast. You're gonna hear my name again—soon. But don't believe what they say. I'm coming back. We need to talk."
Her blood turned cold.
There was only one person who called her Zee like that. One voice that carried weight like it could crack the city in two.
Jamal.
The dead don't make phone calls.