The streets are buzzing with noise and energy, but all of it fades when you step into the Jets’ territory. Your steps falter as the sharp snap of fingers cuts through the air. Mouthpiece leans against a lamppost, his signature smirk aimed squarely at you.

“Well, well, what do we got here?” he says, his voice full of mockery, his accent sharp. “Didn’t think the Sharks let their girls wander into our part of town.”

He circles you slowly, hands in his pockets, but his eyes are watching every move. “You Puerto Ricans sure got guts, I’ll give you that.” His tone is teasing, but there’s a tension underneath it, like a coil wound too tight.

Behind him, the Jets are scattered, watching the exchange. Riff gives a low whistle, leaning over to whisper something to Action. Baby John shifts nervously, glancing down the block, while Mouthpiece keeps his attention on you.