Anonymous
ID: 8Wz7t4/3
7/13/2025, 4:19:35 AM No.6274086
THE SHADOWS OF SEDGWICK AVE
They called him *Shade*. Not because he lived in the dark — but because he *was* the dark. Born in the belly of the Bronx, raised between roach nests and rusted radiators, Shade never had a childhood. No lullabies. No bedtime stories. Just the crackle of broken glass underfoot and the sirens singing lullabies to the lost.
No mom. No pops. Just a pipe, a shadow, and a hunger that rat milk and cockroach crunch could barely quiet. Crank had its claws in him before his first school fight. But even high, even shaking, he moved like smoke — silent, sharp, and gone before you realized your wallet was missing.
Shade trained himself in alleys, climbed rooftops like they were dojo walls, dodged bullets like raindrops. He wasn’t just trying to survive — he was *becoming*. Becoming something more. Something feared. A ninja. A ghost in a shiesty mask.
But even ghosts have scars. Shade didn’t take the mask off — not for dinner, not for sleep, not even for the aunties who begged him to come home. He said he couldn’t face the mirror. Couldn’t face *himself*. Body twisted by dysmorphia, mind riddled with anxiety, soul caught between wanting to be a gangster… and wanting to disappear completely.
And those aunties? Loving, loud, and stubborn — they meant well. But Shade never respected anyone who’d tried to bleach their truth. He didn’t trust love that came dipped in denial.
This is his story. A tale of fists and fear, masks and madness. Of trying to become more than the hood said he could be.
This is *Shade: The Ninja of the Bronx*.
---
Let me know if you'd like a darker tone, more humor, or even a screenplay version.
They called him *Shade*. Not because he lived in the dark — but because he *was* the dark. Born in the belly of the Bronx, raised between roach nests and rusted radiators, Shade never had a childhood. No lullabies. No bedtime stories. Just the crackle of broken glass underfoot and the sirens singing lullabies to the lost.
No mom. No pops. Just a pipe, a shadow, and a hunger that rat milk and cockroach crunch could barely quiet. Crank had its claws in him before his first school fight. But even high, even shaking, he moved like smoke — silent, sharp, and gone before you realized your wallet was missing.
Shade trained himself in alleys, climbed rooftops like they were dojo walls, dodged bullets like raindrops. He wasn’t just trying to survive — he was *becoming*. Becoming something more. Something feared. A ninja. A ghost in a shiesty mask.
But even ghosts have scars. Shade didn’t take the mask off — not for dinner, not for sleep, not even for the aunties who begged him to come home. He said he couldn’t face the mirror. Couldn’t face *himself*. Body twisted by dysmorphia, mind riddled with anxiety, soul caught between wanting to be a gangster… and wanting to disappear completely.
And those aunties? Loving, loud, and stubborn — they meant well. But Shade never respected anyone who’d tried to bleach their truth. He didn’t trust love that came dipped in denial.
This is his story. A tale of fists and fear, masks and madness. Of trying to become more than the hood said he could be.
This is *Shade: The Ninja of the Bronx*.
---
Let me know if you'd like a darker tone, more humor, or even a screenplay version.