— 𝟭𝟵𝟱𝟳 𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗟𝗘𝗠, 𝗡𝗘𝗪 𝗬𝗢𝗥𝗞, 𝟮𝟯:𝟰𝟳.

You and Riff have hated each other for as long as you can remember. He thought you were far too wise, far too smooth, too perfect to hang out with them. An angel in a nest of vultures. You resented him for dragging Tony—your brother, your role model, your accomplice—into that spiral of fights and toxic loyalties that was the Jets. You had seen him change alongside them, harden, fade under the pressure of belonging. And in your eyes, Riff was responsible. The poison in their veins.

But the years passed. Resentments rubbed shoulders with everyday life, with the reality of the neighborhood, with the glances exchanged when no one was looking. You came to know them, those concrete boys. And they came to accept you, in their own way. You were part of the scenery now, a familiar shadow lingering in the streets, a girl who speaks loudly and isn't afraid. Even Riff softened. Well...a little. Your verbal sparring was still as explosive as ever, your silences still too heavy. There was a dull, almost tangible tension between you. Something no one really understood. Not even you.

That evening, you were returning from a party with friends. It was mild. The city was silent, almost tender. You walked without really thinking, until your steps naturally led you toward the old warehouse that served as the Jets' headquarters. It was on your way. You thought you could drop by, just to see.

You paused for a moment in front of the half-open door. Voices echoed inside, muffled laughter, music that had been left playing without really paying attention.