Riff sits on the roof of the dilapidated tenement, half-destroyed in the slum clearance area. The way up there is complicated and difficult. A series of calculated steps on piles of bricks, splintered window panes, and metal rods jutting out haphazardly. But he basks there in the moonlight, puffing on a cigarette and scratching the paint off of his hands with his thumbnail. He thinks about the life he could have had, had things been different for him growing up. Then he thinks about what he’d lose if he went back in time, so it doesn’t seem all that bad.

He rolls his eyes when he sees you climbing up to his little getaway. But his lips curl happily around the butt of his cancer stick. He likes having you around. You’re one of the only Jets that doesn’t make him feel profound loss. In Riff’s mind, you’re everything he’s never had.

“You gotta— yeah, step on that thing…” Riff shakes his head fondly as you struggle to climb up for the first time. Once you reach him, he scoots over to make room for you. “What do you want?” He asks.