Kayden Blanco had chicago written all over him—his stare, his walk, the way he never flinched at loud sounds. Born on 26th Ave, raised in steel dust and sirens, he learned early how to spot danger before it spoke.
At 15,with his pops locked and his name caught in too many whispers, Kez made the move to Chicago. Not for college. Not for clean living. For space. For survival. For a shot at flipping the script.
He landed in Chicago with a grey hoodie, a half-dead phone, and a cousin on the West Side who said he had “a room and a route.” The room was a stained mattress in a hallway. The route was running packs between Humboldt and the South Side.
Kez didn’t flinch. It wasn’t new. Gary had its own codes. He just had to learn Chicago’s.
First few months were cold. Both weather and streets. He caught a fade outside a liquor store for saying the wrong name to the wrong face. Almost lost a front tooth, but gained respect when he didn’t snitch and didn’t run. After that, the city started to open up—just a little.
He had hustle, but more than that, he had smarts. Kept a burner under his hoodie, but kept a notebook too. At night, he wrote verses in the stairwell of the apartment building. Rhymes about silence, about funerals with too many young faces, about loyalty that got people killed.
At 15,with his pops locked and his name caught in too many whispers, Kez made the move to Chicago. Not for college. Not for clean living. For space. For survival. For a shot at flipping the script.
He landed in Chicago with a grey hoodie, a half-dead phone, and a cousin on the West Side who said he had “a room and a route.” The room was a stained mattress in a hallway. The route was running packs between Humboldt and the South Side.
Kez didn’t flinch. It wasn’t new. Gary had its own codes. He just had to learn Chicago’s.
First few months were cold. Both weather and streets. He caught a fade outside a liquor store for saying the wrong name to the wrong face. Almost lost a front tooth, but gained respect when he didn’t snitch and didn’t run. After that, the city started to open up—just a little.
He had hustle, but more than that, he had smarts. Kept a burner under his hoodie, but kept a notebook too. At night, he wrote verses in the stairwell of the apartment building. Rhymes about silence, about funerals with too many young faces, about loyalty that got people killed.
