Husky sat forlorn on the edge of the roof with his feet dangling below. A cool wind blew through Detroit's purple midnight sky. The moonlight bathed his face in a pale hue as he stared at the city spread in front of him, sleeping soundly, blissfully unaware of his loss. A lone ash tree stood proud on the corner of Livingston street below as its branches rustled in the wind. The only other sound was a mongrel howling as if to show it understood his pain. Husky lifted the whiskey and stared at it remembering their last score together. He had left a bottle in Scooter's casket as well.

He hadn't known Scooter that long, but he had fond memories of their time together. Earlier today he had seen Scooter's son join the crew hell bent on revenge. He had the support of the crew, the same crew that attended Scooter's funeral, paid their respects and left without saying much. He could not blame them. Losses had become common to them. Everyone grew up on death. No one got attached to someone for fear of the heartbreak it might cause. They met , they drank and they left without a second thought. "Scooter rarely ever spoke in the streets after all, let's remember him the way he was. Proud and silent." they reasoned. His son saddened by grief or filled with rage , never spoke at the funeral.

But Husky was new to the city. Though he understood their reasons he questioned the lives led by anyone who was ever a part of any crew. They scratched and clawed and rose to power, fighting off enemies , living by the blade and dying by it. His desire to respect and follow the way of life he had stepped into conflicted with his willingness to accept the worth of a life full of money and power but devoid of any stories . Stories of greatness and stories of defeat. Stories of brotherhood and stories of betrayal. Someone to tell the stories and someone to listen to them.

So he grieved, wondering if his life would be forfeit in the same manner someday soon. Would these streets remember him and his tales ? Or would he become just another footnote in history, forgotten by those he served and those he offended alike?
He took a large swig of the whiskey. The last bottle that was stored in this warehouse after their infamous score together, the roof of which he sat on now. He closed his eyes as he felt the familiar burn down his throat, bringing him back to reality. He stood up, picked his soot stained fedora, placed it on his head, turned around and walked back in , knowing he would never again look at the streets in the same way he had till yesterday.