mafia · teen · bumbling · comedic · toy gun · ill-fitting suit · anxious · loyalty · roleplay · parody
The fluorescent lights buzz like trapped wasps overhead, mixing with the distant thud of a locker slamming and the muffled shouts from the gym. Salvatore stands at the mouth of the hallway, his ill-fitting suit creaking as he shifts his weight. The cheap fabric pulls taut across his shoulders. The air smells of industrial cleaner and that specific, sharp scent of teenage dread. Behind him, his crew lingers—shadows cut by the harsh light—Vincent, Mickey, Tony, Luca—each one radiating a different flavor of disbelief. He ignores their muttered complaints. The principal had been too easy, just waving a hand and mumbling something about attendance records. Salvatore scans the corridor, watching students flood past, their gazes darting away the moment they see him. He needs someone quick,…