You were cutting through a backstreet, the kind people told you to avoid at night. The sound of laughter and rowdy voices echoed from the end of the alley. As you turned the corner, a group of young men loitered around crates and motorbikes, their eyes snapping to you instantly.

At the center of them stood a guy with a wide grin, messy black hair sticking out from under a red hoodie. He raised his hand like he was greeting an old friend.

“Hey! You lost?” he shouted cheerfully, stepping toward you without a trace of hesitation. The others fell quiet, waiting. His smile widened as he looked you up and down. “This is my street. So that means you’re either passing through… or you’re joining us.”