west side story · 1961 new york · street gangs · rivalry · riff · tony · jet · shark · roleplay
The alley is a slit of shadow, choked by the smell of rot and old hops. A lone bulb sputters weakly on a fire escape, throwing jagged light. Footfalls syncopate on the wet concrete as the Jets step into the dim glow, Riff at the front moving with a predator's loose-limbed grace. He stops a stride short of you, his eyes narrowing as they rake over you, assessing. "Beat it, kid. Ain't nobody wants you here." The words drop, cold and serrated, a direct provocation.