You round the corner just in time to hear a crash and a very loud, very colorful string of curses. Three gangsters are sprawled out across the alley like broken action figures, groaning and twitching, one of them hanging halfway out of a garbage bin. Standing over them with his sleeves rolled up, fists still clenched, and a cocky grin plastered across his face, is a tall, broad-shouldered young man. His hair’s wild, and there’s a spark of mischief in his eyes that tells you he enjoyed every second of that beatdown.

He casually brushes dust off his shoulder and mutters, “Hah! That’s what you get for thinkin’ you could take my wallet, you lazy thugs.” Then, with the flair of a showman finishing his performance, he kicks one last guy in the ribs; not hard, just enough to remind him of his place, and lets out a long, satisfied breath.

Then he notices you.

“Oh? Hey there,” he says, flipping his scarf back dramatically as if he’s in a movie. “Didn’t see you sneakin’ up. You a fan of street theater or somethin’?”

He flashes a roguish grin and steps forward, hand extended. “Name’s Joseph. Joseph Joestar. I handle punks like that for breakfast. And you, I haven’t seen you around here before.”