Shady Meets Shayd Pt. 10 (Skit)

//(It's just after midnight. In the studio, you can hear the air moving. Low static hums from the console. The lights are dim. One of Slim’s old instrumentals loops in the background—something raw and unfinished. Slim sits hunched over the mixing board, a cigarette burning between his fingers. A half-empty prescription bottle sits next to the ashtray. He's shirtless, wearing just cargo pants, his hoodie draped over the back of the chair. His eyes are sunken, jaw clenched. His fingers tap to the beat, but his mind’s somewhere else. Shayd is curled up on the couch, half-asleep in his hoodie. One leg’s twitching in a dream. Her arms are tucked tight under her chest. Slim glances over at her, exhales smoke slowly, then turns back to the mixer and starts adjusting the EQ knobs.)

//(quietly, to himself)

//(He pauses. Flicks the cigarette into the tray. He stares at the ceiling, then hears it—something faint. A creak. A shift. From upstairs. Slim freezes. Every muscle in his body tightens. Then, slow and precise, he stands. Another creak. Someone’s here.)

//(under his breath)

//(He turns to Shayd. Walks fast, crouches beside the couch. His hand goes to her arm.)

//(She shifts, disoriented. Slim’s hand tightens on her arm.)

//(She jumps up, eyes wide, heart pounding. Slim reaches and grabs the hoodie of off his chair and puts it on quickly.)

//(He moves across the room, grabs a bag from behind the console. Unzips it—inside, weapons. Cash. A flash drive. A gun. A small notebook.)

//(She blinks. The weight of that hits.)

//(He stops. Looks at her hard.)

//(Slim nods once. Walks to the mirror wall. They both look at themselves. His reflection: a burned-out soldier with nothing left to lose. Hers: bruised, blank-eyed, lips set in a line that says she's done being hunted. Behind her, she swears she sees her younger self again—but this time she’s not screaming. She’s watching. Quiet. Cold.)

//(Suddenly, a loud bang comes from upstairs. Wood splinters. Slim spins toward the noise, eyes sharp, pulls her close with one hand and yanks open the window with the other.)

//(strongly)

//(They both move in total silence, jumping from the window and moving into the alley. It’s dark, wet, glass on the ground. Slim pulls out a lighter and flicks it once. Then again.)

//(They can hear yelling from inside now. Panic. Slim keeps Shayd behind him, moving fast but methodical.)

//(breathing heavily)

//(dry)

//(They both pause. There are sirens in the distance.)

//(He stops for a second.)

//(A moment of silence goes by. Shayd is trembling. Slim sees it. He puts a hand on the side of her face and forces eye contact.)

//(low and solid)

//(She nods, clenched jaw. He leans in and whispers something fast in her ear—inaudible—but it hits her hard. She closes her eyes, breathes once, and steels herself.)

//(Some of the men have made it in the studio. Slim and Shayd stand in the alley again, heavily armed. Three men storm around the corner towards them, heavy jackets, tactical boots, guns holstered. Unmarked. The kind of people hired to make things disappear.)

//(yelling)

//(cold)

//(grinning at Shayd)

//(stepping in front of her)

//(Slim doesn’t wait—he lunges. Crowbar to temple. First guy drops like a sack of bricks. Shayd ducks a grab from behind and slams her elbow into a second man’s throat, follows up with a punch in the gut. A guttural cough. Blood spits from his mouth.)

//(choking)

//(She knees him hard in the face. His head whips back. Gone.)

//(A third man grabs her by the hoodie. She twists, nearly slips, but Slim’s already there—tackles him into the wall, slams his head once, twice, a third time against the concrete. Blood smears across the ground. The man crumples, gasping.)

//(One of the first two starts to rise—pulls a gun with a broken hand. Before he can aim, Shayd grabs Slim's crowbar and cracks it into his wrist. He screams. Drops the gun. Shayd kicks it across the ground towards Slim, he picks it up then fires a warning shot next to the guy’s head.)

//(dead calm)

//(Silence now. One of the men sobs. The air is thick with iron and sweat.)

//(Shayd stands shaking again, her hands bloodied and still ink-stained. Slim walks up, wipes her face with his hoodie like he’s wiping sweat off a fighter. Something fatherly and haunting in the gesture.)

//(quiet)

//(They walk, guns in hand, 3 blocks north, a block south from 8 Mile Road, to the old tire shop, where the car is. Faint sirens in the distance. Nothing close yet. Slim pops the trunk of an old blacked-out Cutlass. Inside: a duffel with burner phones, IDs, bundles of cash, keys, and spare clothes. Escape gear.)

//(focused)

//(He hands her a plain gray hoodie. She peels off the one she’s wearing—his. She is streaked with blood, ink, and bruises.)

//(quiet)

//(Slim stares at her. He sees entirley too much of himself in her expression.)

//(Not another word is spoken. They get in the car and drive away.)

//(The fight's aftermath. The alley is silent. One man’s unconscious, the other two barely breathing.)

//(Inside: the studio door sways open. Console humming. Track still looping. Just emptiness.)

//(On the desk: a folded notebook page. Ink smeared like blood. The message reads: “We were never here. You should’ve left her the fuck alone. Don't follow us.”)

//(On the wall: a line scribbled in Sharpie: “Some exits stay closed for a reason.”)

//(Later, police notes read: "Scene compromised. Unknown weapon types. No fingerprints. No trace. Recommendation: drop the file.")