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Built from struggle. Bound by blood. Moved by music. was founded in early 2025, deep in the heart of East Los Santos, by two cousins - Lorenzo Graves, fresh out of Liberty City, and Martrel Greer, a local name who’d been grinding quietly in LS for years. __________________________________________________________________________________________ The whole concept behind is to uplift the Black Community, providing an outlet for raw talent, real stories, and a way off the streets - turning pain into purpose, and hustle into legacy.

Hey all, We've undertook some work to restructure the forums. Since we re-opened SA-MP back in May 2024 we had some splitting of the forums with the idea that SA-MP and RageMP sections were separate and could operate on their own. We didn't really succeed with this and it was a hot mess, some of the community forums such as player reports being in a RageMP labelled section, but the report was SA-MP only caused confusion. We've now completely separated SA-MP and RageMP on the forums without confusion. Each category has a list of different forums relating to that game server (SA-MP/RageMP) and those that are shared between the two game servers are now under the Community category, such as player reports, faction reports and so on. While I've done as much as I can to tidy this up, there may still be some forums that are incorrectly placed, or permissions aren't correct — so if you see any that needs changing, moving or permissions fixed then report it below, I'll be checking this periodically and making the required changes:

“You don’t survive where I come from. You become the storm.” Los Santos thinks it knows Taha Bolton. It doesn’t. Born into the state system, parents gone before he could remember their names, Taha was saved from orphanage anonymity by John Bolton, a man as brutal as his reputation. John wasn’t a father. He was a warlord in leather: president of the Death Angels MC, cartel courier, bar-fight architect. In their cramped bungalow, the twin anthems were the clang of wrenches and the crack of knuckles. Taha learned fast: in this world, family meant loyalty. And loyalty cost blood. By sixteen he was more than a kid with grease under his nails. He was the club’s shadow, watching deals, standing guard, carrying messages. At eighteen, during a birthday thrown in his honor at the MC’s crimson-lit bar, the FBI stormed in. They cuffed John for double homicide. They tore the club to shreds. And they left Taha with two choices: fold or lead. He chose to lead. In the chaos that followed, Taha claimed the gavel. He patched the wounds of distrust, rallied the brothers, and resumed business the only way he knew: fast, cold, unflinching. But power breeds envy. When Grizzly John’s oldest friend, stole the safe and fled, Taha tracked him to a desert ghost town, met betrayal with vengeance, and left nothing but a corpse and a warning for anyone who dared cross him. Cartels noticed. The whispers of his ruthlessness drew Ernesto, MS13’s West Coast envoy, into his orbit. Money-laundering, muscle work, shadow jobs under neon skies, Taha played the game, walking the knife’s edge between empire and extinction. The heat grew unbearable. Feds on one side, cartels circling tighter on the other. So with Mia the only soul who ever pierced his armor he vanished. No patches, no trace, just rumors of a ghost in the wind. Now… He’s back. No MC. No alliances. No mercy. Los Santos owes him blood, and he’s ready to collect. “I didn’t ask for this life. But I earned it.”

Heat at the Door Work had been steady. Nothing big just a security gig for a local venue. Routine stuff, in and out, no heat. Taha was posted near the entrance, keeping an eye on the crowd, when his phone buzzed. He didn’t recognize the number at first. But the voice on the other end? Unmistakable. Doom. Jamaican. Solid. One of the few that held it down when Taha first came back to the city. And now he had merchandise on deck They split up clean. No heat on them but the exchange wasn’t finished. A few hours later, they linked again. This time, somewhere off the grid. No interruptions. No surprises. Just business. Like it was always meant to be...

Exactly what this server’s been starving for

This the level of RP that brings the city back to life

You have to apperciate what these guys are doing

Roleplay looks good, keep it up!

Breaking Bread / 38St Plug VIII Breaking Bread / 38St Plug XI

bro wont stop crazy work pecula

Gaining trust In the context of online dating fraud schemes it refers to the process by witch a scammer builds emotional closeness and credibility with a victim, often by sharing fake personal stories, showing affection, and maintaining consistent communication in order to create a false sense of safety and intimacy that makes the victim more likely to comply with requests for money or personal information.

Crossed Paths Right after the gun deal, Taha stepped outside for some air. The block was quiet still, heavy. That’s when he noticed her. She was leaned up near the corner, watching the street like she’d been there a while. Confident. Calm. “You local?” she asked. “Just moving through,” he replied. The conversation was short, but sharp. She called herself Chika. Said she moved things. Mentioned knowing the right people, getting things done. Before leaving, she pulled out her phone. “Take my number. In case you ever got something to move.” Taha didn’t say much. Just saved it. They went their separate ways, no promises just a number in his phone and a thought in the back of his mind. Two days passed. Taha didn’t forget the conversation outside the trap and he didn’t forget the number. He sat on the edge of his bed, the city noise leaking through the cracked window, staring at his phone. Then he called. She picked up quick. “Didn’t think you’d actually call.” “Figured it was time,” he said. “You still around?” “Always. Where we meeting?” They picked a lowkey spot. Nothing loud. Just a neutral pull-up with no eyes. When Chika showed up, she didn’t waste time with small talk. Just business. Two people who move smart, feeling each other out. The real conversation was about to start.

Steel for Silence The box was stashed, apartment locked up tight. Taha didn’t waste time. He knew what came next. Product without protection is just bait. So he started circling Idlewood. Slow. Watching. Waiting. It didn’t take long, two locals posted up near a liquor store gave him a look, one he recognized from back in the day. Not friendly, not hostile. Just... business. “You looking for something, homie?” “Something small. Something loud.” They exchanged a glance. “Follow us.” A short walk. Backdoor. Dim lights, torn couch, the smell of burnt plastic. Taha didn’t ask questions. The deal was quick. No names. Just cash for cold steel.

Old Lines Still Ring Evening rolled in. Taha stood by his car near Marina, catching a breath after another quiet shift behind the bar. The city noise was distant. Familiar. Then the phone lit up. No Caller ID. He stared at it for a second. Then answered.

First Step Back Taha touched down in Los Santos without a word. No calls. No greetings. Just boots on the ground and a name no one had said in a while. He found a bar tucked in the edge of town quiet place, dim lights, older crowd. He asked the right questions, didn’t say too much. The owners didn’t care about the past, only if he could keep his head down and pour a clean drink. They gave him a shot cash under the table, night shifts, no paperwork. Exactly what he needed. Taha didn’t come back to make noise. Not yet. He came to watch, listen, and build

Reserved