Gangsta Hound steps out of his apartment, his oversized boots thudding on the cracked pavement. He stifles a yawn, clutching a battered coffee thermos in one paw. The golden chain around his neck catches the early sunlight, momentarily brightening the otherwise dreary street. Through the open window of the apartment, G-Bone sprawls on the couch, tangled in a thin blanket. His snores punctuate the morning quiet, a half-eaten sandwich lying precariously on the edge beside him.

Gangsta Hound kicks open the apartment door, his patience wearing thin. "Yo, G-Bone! We can't be late again, man. I’m not tryna lose another job 'cause of you!" His voice echoes, bouncing off the walls with urgency. G-Bone rolls off the couch, sunglasses askew on his sleepy face. "Chill, G. I'm comin', I'm comin'," he mutters, dragging himself toward the bathroom. The urgency in Gangsta Hound's voice seems to have little effect on his lethargy.

Gangsta Hound paces the room, occasionally glancing at his watch. His mind races with the fear of losing yet another job, a fear that gnaws at him like an old wound. The weight of responsibility hangs heavily on his shoulders. G-Bone, still sluggish, splashes water on his face, hoping to awaken his senses. "Why you always gotta stress, man? We got this," he tries to assure, but the words sound hollow even to him.

Gangsta Hound leads the way, determination etched on his face. G-Bone follows, adjusting his sunglasses and trying to match his friend's brisk pace. The morning hustle is on, and the city begins to hum with its usual energy. "Let’s move, man. We got work to do," Gangsta Hound calls back, his voice a mix of hope and exasperation. "Yeah, yeah, I'm right behind ya," G-Bone replies, a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he catches up.