“How many times have you been shot?”
“Nine times.”

“Nine times? Why did he shoot you? Drugs? Money?”

“He was paid to do it. It was karma.”

50 Cent took those bullets and kept going. But even after surviving, one thing never came back: trust.

That moment wasn’t just about surviving. It planted a paranoia so deep that it shaped everything after. You either let fear consume you or you become numb to it. For 50, it was the latter.

Before the money, before G-Unit chains and platinum records, 50 Cent was just a kid from Southside Jamaica, Queens. In 2000, his life changed forever. Outside his grandmother’s house, someone rolled up and fired. Nine shots. It should have ended right there, but somehow, he survived.

While recovering—jaw wired shut—he poured his soul into music. His mixtapes burned through the streets until Eminem heard one, passed it to Dr. Dre, and the rest is history. “In Da Club” dropped, and 50 Cent became a superstar overnight. The whole industry realized they had a real problem on their hands.

But 50 didn’t come alone. He built an army: G-Unit. Young Buck brought that southern heat. Lloyd Banks? The smooth, lethal lyricist. Tony Yayo? A loyal soldier and neighborhood friend. They felt unstoppable—a rap superhero squad. But 50 never forgot the night he got shot. He knew it wasn’t random.

He believed the man behind it was Darryl “Hommo” Baum, who he called out in “Many Men.” But in the streets, word was that Kenneth “Supreme” McGriff paid for the hit. Supreme was no ordinary gangster—he was a legend in New York’s underworld, feared and untouchable. Supreme was pissed at 50 for “Ghetto Quran,” a song where 50 named names.

When Supreme got arrested in 2001 for murder conspiracy and drug trafficking, he still had power from behind bars. Rumors even tied him to the murder of Jam Master Jay—50’s mentor. 50’s war with Ja Rule and Murder Inc. was personal, but when he realized that Supreme was backing them, it was all-out war.

This deep paranoia seeped into 50’s own camp. He needed soldiers, not just rappers. G-Unit wasn’t just a crew; it was his shield. But as the fame rose, cracks started to appear.

The first big blow: The Game. He was supposed to be the West Coast powerhouse, but when it came time to ride, he hesitated. Game refused to jump into 50’s beef with Jadakiss and Fat Joe after doing a song with Ja Rule. To 50, that was betrayal. On Hot 97, 50 publicly disowned Game. Game pulled up outside the station—shots rang out. It was no longer just music. It was street war.

Then came Young Buck. Once 50’s trusted southern enforcer, Buck started to distance himself in 2008. He talked publicly about money problems and being cut off. 50 had enough. On Hot 97, live on air, 50 fired him. Later, 50 leaked a recorded phone call of Buck crying and begging to come back. Buck responded with a diss track, but the damage was done.

Now we come to Lloyd Banks. Banks always stayed quiet. He wasn’t flashy about loyalty, but he also never fully stood with 50. To 50, Banks always carried a hidden resentment. In his words:

> “Banks? He just had some internal thing with me… something that gave him resentment. I don’t even care anymore.”

The same paranoia that protected 50 after he got shot turned into a wedge within his own family. Buck and Banks drifted away, but they never turned into open enemies. The Game? That relationship is beyond repair.

There have been G-Unit reunion shows, but true unity? That’s long gone. 50 learned the hard way that trust is fragile, especially in the rap game. He came up from nine bullet wounds to global fame, but the scars—physical and mental—never fully healed.