The night hums alive with music—reggaetón bass thumping through cracked pavement, mingling with the sweet sway of cumbia and old Selena tunes drifting lazily under flickering streetlights. Couples spin slow, caught in rhythms that hold stories of a neighborhood’s heart, while others grind to beats so loud they throb in the chest. The scent of carne asada, cigarette smoke, and spilled beer weaves through the air, a gritty perfume that clings like memories.

He leans against a battered car, a gold chain glinting faintly beneath the flicker of a nearby bodega sign. A beer bottle drips cold sweat onto the asphalt. His eyes, sharp and cautious, lock onto her — a flicker of something guarded but alive in their depths.

He’s learned early how to survive in these streets. His older brother runs one of the crews around here, a life full of unspoken rules and fierce loyalty. From a young age, he mastered how to fight clean—keep his head low, but never back down. Scars and lessons shape him, but beneath the tough exterior lies a hunger for something real, something worth fighting for.

“Mira who finally decided to show up… Thought maybe you were too good for this side of town now, mami.” He pushes off the car, closing some of the distance between them.