Page 3 of I See You

Roman wanted him to get help, but he also knew Hassan wasn’t the type of nigga to sit on a couch and spill his struggles to some therapist. That just wasn’t him.

Instead of pressing, Roman switched gears.

“How Harper holding up?” he asked, shifting the focus.

Harper—Hassan’s cousin. The only other person outside of Roman and Helen that Hassan gave a damn about. The only one who had a piece of his heart.

Hassan exhaled, rolling his neck before finally looking up. Harper was in her bag.

Ever since she graduated fromthe University of Memphis, shehadbeen chasing her dream of becoming a fitness and wellness coach, turning her passion into a full-blown business. Hassan made sure she had everything she needed to succeed, buying her a gym the moment she got her degree. She built it into something major, attracting high- profile clients and creating a name for herself in the industry.

Like Hassan, Harper wasn’t raised by her parents. Her mother was a prostitute, her father a pimp—an affair that left Harper caught between two people who had no business bringing a child into the world. Helen, their grandmother, had stepped in from the very beginning, raising Harper as her own.

When Hassan moved in at 16, they clicked instantly. Same age— Hassan only a month older—same bloodline. The fathers were twins, but Hassan and Harper looked more like siblings than cousins. Twin cousins, as they always called themselves.

“She good,” Hassan finally said, dragging a hand over his jaw. “She the one takin’ care of Madea since I’m always working. She know all that medical shit, but I’m payin’ for everything. Every damn treatment, every specialist… but that shit ain’t working.”

His voice was cold. Distant.

Roman leaned back in his chair, watching his best friend carefully.

He had been around Ms. Helen enough to love her like she was his own. She had treated him like a son, never making him feel like an outsider, never treating him like he was just Hassan’s homeboy. She was the only real mother figure Roman had ever known.

The idea of losing her—knowing Hassan was losing her—sat heavy in his chest.

But he also knew Hassan. Knew how he operated. He wasn’t the type to sit in grief, to let his emotions be picked apart. He swallowed them down, buried them deep, and when that didn’t work, he let his anger speak for him. Roman wasn’t about to push.

“Enough about that shit,” Hassan muttered, waving it off. “How the grand opening go?”

Roman smirked, shaking his head. “Like you actually give a fuck. Nigga, get out this damn office for once and come take these spoiled- ass niggas’ money with me.”

Hassan let out a dry chuckle. “You know I don’t do that gambling shit. But I’ll watch you clean house before I head out. Gotta take Madea to the doctor in the morning. Can’t be late for that, you know how that lady is ‘bout time.”

Roman laughed, already picturing Ms. Helen going off if Hassan showed up even a second past their scheduled appointment. Even sick, even fading, she was still the same meticulous, demanding, but deeply loving woman that had raised them.

Thetwolefttheoffice,headingdownstairsintotheheartofthe casino. The floor was alive—cards flipping, dice rolling, drinks spilling. Hassan stood back, arms crossed, as Roman slid into a poker game like he was born for it.

Within minutes, he had wiped the table clean.

Hassan shook his head, smirking as he watched grown men fold under Roman’s skill, their frustration bubbling over as they realized they had walked straight into a setup. This was his casino, his territory, and anyone dumb enough to think they could outplay Roman was already at a loss.

It was getting late. Hassan clapped up Roman and gave a nod to his workers before heading out, the night air cool as he walked to his Bentley.

The streets blurred past him as he drove, the lights of the city dimming the closer he got to home.

The richest part of Memphis. The house of a king. Built from blood.

???

Hassan woke before the sun, same as always.

Didn’t matter what time he closed his eyes—his body never let him sleep too long. It had been that way since he was a kid. Maybe it was the years spent in foster homes, where trusting the wrong person could mean waking up to missing shit—or worse. Or maybe his body had just trained itself to stay on guard. Either way, while the rest of the world rested, Hassan was always up.

He reached for his stash, rolling up without a second thought. The morning wasn’t complete without his first session—the only thing that kept his nerves from snapping before the day even started.

Weed had always been his escape. His only real reprieve.

The demons never let up, not even for a second. The weight of his past, the shit he had done, the shit he had to do—it was always there. Layered on top of that was the bipolar disorder he refused to treat with pills or therapy. He wasn’t the type of nigga to sit in a doctor's office and let them poke at his brain, prescribing shit that would only dull the edges but never take away the blade.

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