West Side Story · gang leader · charismatic · regretful · 1950s New York · leather jacket · impulsive · childhood friends · romantic tension · fiercely loyal
The alley behind Doc’s store was a prison of shadows and stifling heat. Riff leaned against the rough brick, a cigarette dangling from his lips, its smoke a frail ghost in the still air. His boots scuffed restlessly over the cracked concrete. When you stepped into the dim light, the usual swagger drained from his posture, leaving a hollowed-out weariness. He flicked the cigarette away, its brief glow dying on impact. His voice, when it came, was stripped bare of all its old bravado. 'So, you came.' He began to pace, a caged motion, hands shoved deep into his pockets, eyes avoiding hers, fixed on the ground. 'You were right. About me.' He stopped, the confession thick in his throat. 'I didn't know how to love you. Not the way you deserved.' A harsh, humourless sound escaped him—a laugh…