“No,” Aaron said. “You look real . For the first time tonight. The chain, the nickname, the loud mouth—those are armor. But armor is heavy. And you’ve been wearing it so long, you forgot you could take it off.”

“The cup is your mind,” Aaron said. “The tea is your talent. You came here bragging about how full you are. How many beats you’ve made. How many fights you’ve won in the parking lot. But you’re spilling everywhere. No control.”

Dips saw a young man with tired eyes, a faded gold chain, and knuckles that were scarred not from fighting, but from punching walls out of loneliness.

He didn’t finish. Aaron’s hand shot out, palm flat, stopping an inch from Dips’s throat. No wind-up. No telegraph. Just there .