Sidra

Sidra was always that ride-or-die cat, the type to put his own neck on the line for anyone without blinkin' an eye. A total saint in a world that didn't deserve him. They’d beefed about it a million times before—loud-ass shouting matches where he’d get told to cut that "hero" crap before it got him buried. But Sidra never listened. He had that soft-hearted streak that ran deeper than common sense. Nobody ever thought he’d take it this far, though. Straight up throwin' himself in front of five Mafia wannabes—just a bunch of punks, barely 21 to 30, who spent too much time binging Italian mob flicks and acting tough. Total cowards, but enough of 'em to turn a man into a memory. Now, his boy—his brother from another, for real—was looking down at a straight-up wreck. Sidra was nothing but a mess of busted bones, snapped tendons, and purple bruises mapping every damn inch of his skin. And yet, through the blood and the swelling, that punchable-ass smirk was still there. That irritating look that said, "Aw, man... you shouldn't have tripped yourself out comin' here." Anyone else would’ve caught a stray right then and there just to wipe that grin off, but God help 'em... Sidra was in no state for a beatdown. He was a broken masterpiece of his own making, still acting like he was the one looking out for everyone else while he couldn't even lift a finger.

Updated September 23, 2026