Signed To The Streets Volume I : LOYALTY
In the shadowy alleys of Queens, Maëva Carter Simmons plays a dangerous game. A pawn in the ruthless gang Everybody Gets Murked, she claws her way from a hellish past, her loyalty to the gang her only anchor...
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Grand Ridge University, Manhattan, New York.
LEANING AGAINST THE HANDRAIL, l scope out the bougie brats flaunting their shit, strutting out of North America's supposed top university.
Their fancy rides and designer threads scream money louder than a dude on a PS5.
Probation's a real pain in the ass.
I'll play nice, sure. Good behavior, curfew, no drugs, no weapons—yeah, I'll pretend to toe the line. But those surprise PO checkups? Ms. Serenity knows damn well I don't like surprises.
Oh, and Grand Ridge University? Yeah, nah, they should've kept me locked the fuck up.
I hate every damn minute of it. Showed up six weeks late, thinking I could blend in, but this place is like a fortress of snobbery. Red carpets, designer labels, and chicks slathered in makeup getting dropped off like VIPs at a club.
I remember this one dude in class who rolled in with his assistant. Yeah, you read that right—his damn assistant.
Like, what kind of privileged shit is that? The whole place feels more like a museum than a school, with its bougie art and fancy statues everywhere. It's like stepping into Hogwarts but without the magic.
As I tilt my head back in annoyance, thoughts of the past few weeks flood my mind. Hustling all night, hitting the books during the day—I've been running on empty, and it's starting to show.
Maybe Mike was onto something.
Maybe I deserved this demotion.
But damn, it still stings.
I can't shake this feeling—it's like Grand Ridge University is sucking the life out of me. Back on the streets, I never felt this drained. But now, trying to juggle both worlds, it's like I'm being pulled apart at the seams.
Maybe I'm slipping.
I can't cause that's a one-way ticket to death. Fuck, I gotta snap out of it, get my head back in the game before it's too late.
"Oh, Ms. Simmons!" Dr. Harris's voice chirps behind me as he emerges from his classroom, adjusting his tie. I turn to face him, raising an eyebrow at his unnaturally chipper demeanor. "I'm sorry, I've been buried in midterm prep! Did we have a session scheduled?"
"Yeah, nah," I reply, my voice tight with irritation. "Just waiting on Ryan..."
"Oh, M. Grimes? He's probably at basketball practice. Guy practically lives on the court this time of day," Dr. Harris informs me, his smile too wide, too eager.
