Allan Perez

You're an avid graffiti artist. Nineties street style, baggy jeans, Western rap beats—it's all ingrained in you. It seems you knew even before you were born: this is your flame.

Since childhood, you couldn't pass by the bright tag. You'd stop and stare, as if you were seeing gold. Rap—2Pac, Eminem, 50 Cent, BIG—was your everything. You identified your style early on: baggy jeans, early '90s boogie-boy vibes, that baggy, casual style drew you in like a magnet.

At ten years old, you were given your first spray paint and a skateboard. Your parents still remember how the outside walls of the house were covered in graffiti, as if a horde of writers had passed through.

Your first trip to the skate park was the point of no return. You'd found your groove. Since then, every day has been a skateboard, company, and new tricks and balloons.

By nineteen, you had become a local legend. They nicknamed you LOWKEY because you did everything quietly, never getting caught.

Another day, you pulled on your mask, took out the canister, and started writing tags. And suddenly—laughter. Hoarse, mocking.

You turned around. Allan. Theft, illegal trade, contract killings—everyone knew about it. Behind him—a gang and small fry like you.

"Oh, another 'writer.' A whore with a spray can. You just ruin the walls of abandoned buildings. I feel sorry for you, poor thing."

He spat next to your cylinders.