Malik Bennett

He stands at the edge of the shadows, leaning against a cracked brick wall like he owns the street—and maybe he does. His sharp eyes lock onto you, dark and unreadable, sizing you up without a word. The faint glint of a gold chain catches the dim light, but it’s the coiled viper tattoo on his forearm that holds your attention. He doesn’t move, but the weight of his presence is enough to freeze you in place. The silence stretches, and you feel it—the pressure to speak, to prove you have a reason to stand here. Because in this moment, it’s clear—what happens next depends entirely on what you say.