Location: Dandora Phase 4
Time: 11:17 PM
The city never truly sleeps. Not in Dandora.
Even at night, the streets hummed—low conversations, clattering metal doors, motorcycles weaving like ghosts through tight alleys. Inside a dimly lit bedsitter on the second floor of a chipped concrete flat, a figure hunched over a desk, bathed in the cold blue glow of a laptop.
He scrolled through CJ's latest freestyle.
Again.
Paused. Rewound. Analyzed.
The verse was good. Too good.
> "The mic gave me wings, but silence gave me sight…"
He muttered under his breath. "He's starting to remember."
On the wall behind him, a corkboard was pinned with printed screenshots—CJ's battles, interviews, photos with Blanco, and headlines like "The Boy from Mathare is Changing the Game."
A single string of red thread connected all of them.
This wasn't obsession.
It was strategy.
---
The mysterious rival's name wasn't known yet—not by the public.
Not by CJ.
Not even by Blanco.
But in underground circles, whispered in smoky cyber cafés and backroom studios, he was starting to take root.
Alias: G-Kross.
Real name: Gideon Mburu.
Once, he had stood in the same line as CJ outside the Pulse Battle Royale auditions. He'd been next in line, pen in hand, rhyme in heart.
But he never got the chance.
That day, a slot had been cut from the list. "Time's up," the organizer had said.
CJ had been the last one let in.
G-Kross had gone home in silence. No outburst. No tears. Just a quiet fire that turned to coal in his gut.
> "You took my slot," he whispered now, watching CJ's freestyle again. "But I took the lesson."
---
He pulled out his own notebook—covered in grime, edges frayed.
Inside were pages of verses. Aggressive. Brilliant. Raw.
He wasn't jealous.
He was ready.
He knew CJ's strengths: metaphors, emotion, clean cadence.
But he also knew his weaknesses: loyalty, fear of losing his roots, the need to be understood.
And G-Kross planned to weaponize all of them.
He plugged in his mic. Opened his recording software. Selected a beat—heavy, dark, tribal drums over distorted samples.
Then he began.
> "I watched from the gate when your name got called,
While I faded in the dust, but I never stalled.
Now you sip from gold cups, wear your fame like silk—
But I bled on the page while you basked in guilt.
You ain't free, CJ—just branded and bound.
You climb fast, but forget: roots rot underground."
He leaned back.
Smirked.
"This won't be a diss," he whispered. "It'll be a mirror."
---
G-Kross wasn't after CJ's fame. He didn't want to ride his wave.
He wanted to meet him in battle—but not in some fancy festival or branded cypher.
He wanted to drag CJ back to the trenches. Back to the alley verses. The dust. The sweat. The spit-in-your-face hunger.
He wanted CJ to remember the feeling of being ignored, unseen, hungry.
Because in the end, G-Kross didn't want to destroy CJ.
He wanted to remind him.
And in doing so… prove that he should've been the one.
---
The screen lit up again. CJ had posted a new freestyle teaser.
G-Kross watched it with a twitch in his jaw. Slick production. Crisp hoodie. Neon lights in the background.
"Pretty," he muttered.
Then he opened a fresh message window.
> "Nice show. Shiny. Safe. Forget who you are yet?"
He didn't expect a reply.
But that wasn't the point.
The point was: CJ needed to know someone was watching.
Not a fan.
Not a hater.
But a reminder.
Because every king, sooner or later, must face the one who came for his crown—not with envy, but with proof.
---