Rapped Tragedy:

In the dimly lit backstreets of Detroit, where graffiti-covered walls whispered stories of pain and hope, 17-year-old Radith "Rhyme Lord" found his voice. With a pen in one hand and a mic in the other, Radith poured his heart into beats, his rhymes a reflection of a life molded by hardship, dreams, and shadows.

He wasn’t just another kid trying to rap his way out of the block—he was good. Real good. His verses were raw, bleeding truth, slicing through the static of fake flexes and hollow boasts. Radith’s pain wasn’t performative—it was lived. His mother, a former gospel singer, had overdosed when he was nine. His father was a ghost, and his younger sister, Kayla, depended on him for more than just food.

"Rap is my weapon, and my words are my war," he used to say, headphones around his neck, scribbling verses in a tattered notebook he called "The Gospel of the Street."

Radith started gaining traction on YouTube and SoundCloud. The streets knew his name. His song "Broken Halo" hit 100,000 views in a week—raw lyrics about his mom, systemic racism, and the aching need for change. His talent drew eyes from beyond the block. A local producer, Malik "Tone" Johnson, offered studio time and a shot at a deal.

"You got fire, kid," Tone said. "But this game... this game bites."

Radith didn't flinch. He had fire, and he was ready to burn.

But as his lyrics soared, so did envy.

In the same neighborhood lived Marcus "Lil Rage" Watson, a rapper with flashy chains but empty bars. Rage saw Radith’s rise as a threat, not inspiration. They used to be boys—freestyling outside liquor stores, sharing beats. But now, every one of Radith’s uploads felt like a slap to Rage’s pride.

“Don't forget where you from,” Rage warned one night outside a corner store. “You blow up, and the streets gon’ pull you back.”

Radith shrugged. “I’m tryna take the streets with me. You just mad the streets don’t want you anymore.”

The tension escalated. Diss tracks flew like daggers. Rage dropped “Fake Prophet”, mocking Radith’s pain and calling him a “studio savior.” Radith clapped back with “Graveyard Gospel”, dissecting Rage’s lies and fake gang ties. The beef got real—too real.

On a chilly October evening, Radith was set to perform at a local open mic—his first public show. Kayla helped him rehearse. “You’re gonna make it, Rads,” she smiled, pride sparkling in her eyes.

That night, the small venue pulsed with energy. Radith lit up the stage, his words slicing through the crowd. He ended with “Ghetto Psalms”, a new track about survival, and the room erupted.

But outside, someone waited.

Gunshots cracked the air like thunder. People screamed. Radith collapsed on the pavement, blood soaking his hoodie, mic still clutched in his hand.He died before the ambulance arrived.

The city mourned. Vigils bloomed on street corners. Murals of Radith’s face appeared overnight. Candles, lyrics, and photos lined the sidewalk outside the venue where his dream died.

Kayla, broken but brave, uploaded Radith’s unreleased songs. The world heard what he never got to finish. "Ghetto Psalms" hit the Billboard Hot 100. Labels offered posthumous deals. He was gone—but finally, he was heard.

Lil Rage was arrested a week later. Eyewitnesses, security footage, and a gun traced the tragedy back to him. The street that raised them both had chosen its martyr—and its villain.

Radith’s notebook—"The Gospel of the Street"—was published. High schools taught his lyrics in poetry classes. His story became a symbol. Not just of lost potential, but of the power of truth, art, and voice.