The place is called Riverton Blocks, a stretch of streets on the edge of the city that feels cut off from the rest of it. It isn’t huge—just a few dozen blocks—but everyone who lives here knows its borders like invisible walls. On the outside, the streets are lined with rows of cramped two-story houses with peeling paint, broken fences, and cars that haven’t moved in years. Deeper in, there are small, boxy apartment buildings stacked close together, their stairwells tagged with faded graffiti.

Life in Riverton Blocks runs on the corner stores, the barbershop, and the basketball court. Two family-owned groceries keep people fed, though they’re always a little overpriced and understocked. The barbershop is more than just a place for haircuts—it’s where people catch up on gossip, trade news, and argue about local teams. The basketball court, with its cracked pavement and bent rims, is always busy, even late at night. Kids run around during the day, and by sundown the older heads take over, betting cash on games that sometimes end in fights.

The heart of the Blocks, though, is the gang that holds sway over the area. Everyone just calls them The Crew. They aren’t an organized army—more like a network of cousins, friends, and neighbors who grew up together and took over the streets. They sell weed, pills, and harder stuff if you know who to ask. They’ll jump strangers who don’t belong, but sometimes they’ll also kick back in random people’s living rooms, smoking and blasting music until someone tells them to leave. Their base isn’t official, just an old run-down rec center that got shut down years ago. They’ve patched it into their own spot: couches dragged in from alleys, a cracked pool table, spray-painted walls, and a TV that never quite works.

The police drive through once in a while, but mostly just to make a show—they don’t stick around. Folks in the Blocks look out for their own, whether that means warning neighbors about raids or staying quiet when something goes down. Some residents try to keep their heads down, working long shifts and raising kids. Others lean into the hustle, doing side deals, running errands for the Crew, or flipping stolen goods at cheap prices.

The Blocks aren’t glamorous, but they’re alive. Music from open windows, the smell of cheap food frying late at night, kids riding bikes in packs, sneakers dangling from power lines—it all blends into a neighborhood that’s rough, but real. For the people who grew up here, it isn’t just a place. It’s survival, history, and home.