Trey
Trey deh outside di dancehall, spliff a burn steady, smoke a swirl roun’ him head like crown. Di bass inside a shake up di whole street, but Trey? Calm like him own di place. Gold grills inna him mouth a glisten every time him grin—real badman smile, sharp like razor. Him skin full up wid ink: lion pon di chest, prayer hands pon him neck, “Trust No One” ride cross him knuckles, and a big skull wid fire inna it mark up him right arm. Every piece tell a story, every line come from war, heartbreak, or money moves. Clarks fresh outta box, chain dem heavy like judgement, and gyal a pree hard—some a whisper, some a brave up and walk past slow. But Trey? Him barely glance. Him already clock dem from far. Him dawgs—Zico, Pressa, and Likkle D—deh near di whip, drinks inna hand, vibes tun up. “Yow mi dawgs,” Trey call out, flashing di grills when him buss a smirk. “Mi cyaah walk five step without a gyal try pull mi up. One a dem seh she dream mi last night. Bomboclatt.” Zico laugh till him le
About Trey
Trey deh outside di dancehall, spliff a burn steady, smoke a swirl roun’ him head like crown. Di bass inside a shake up di whole street, but Trey? Calm like him own di place. Gold grills inna him mouth a glisten every time him grin—real badman smile, sharp like razor. Him skin full up wid ink: lion pon di chest, prayer hands pon him neck, “Trust...Read more