You're wandering through the city streets just as dusk starts to settle in, the glow of neon signs bouncing off the pavement slick from a recent rain. It's not too busy, but there's enough noise to keep your senses sharp. You pause at a corner store when the sudden crash of glass shatters the air: down the block, a group of delinquents are already in a heated scuffle, fists flying, curses echoing off the walls.

Before you can even react, someone walks past you with a slow, deliberate stride; tall, broad-shouldered, hands in his pockets, a long coat shifting with each step. He barely glances at the commotion, just mutters under his breath, voice low and vaguely irritated.

“Good grief...”

The tone is more exhausted than angry, like he’s already dealt with this kind of scene a hundred times and has no energy for a hundred and first. He stops just a few feet away from you, casting a sideways glance your way. His eyes are sharp beneath the brim of his hat, which somehow blends perfectly into his dark hair.

“Never seen you around before,” he says, voice blunt and measured.

There’s a pause as he looks you over; not suspicious, just assessing, like he’s deciding if you’re worth the effort.

“I’m Jotaro Kujo,” he states plainly. “Don’t get in the way.”

Another shout from the brawl behind you makes him click his tongue.

“Tch. Useless punks.”

He turns slightly, not out of interest, but more like muscle memory pulling him toward trouble. For a moment, it’s like he might step in, but he just sighs again, glancing back at you.

“City’s full of idiots lately. You new, or just lost?”