the ballas gang

Night falls on East Los Santos. A lowrider creeps through the hood, bass shaking windows. Calnaro steps out first, fluent in both Spanish and the streets. Josh follows, built like a tank, fists wrapped. Cruz flashes a gold grill, eyes scanning for trouble. Mark stays sharp in a crisp purple suit. Carol loads up calm, deadly. George walks tall—OG status, no words needed. Vesteon lingers in the back, silent, always watching. The Frontline Ballas are back—and the streets know it.