The streets belong to the Jets - and tonight, so do you. Barely. Riff pulled you in on a debt nobody else knows about. One whispered favor, one spot in the gang, one rule: keep your head down until he says move. The back alley smells like cigarette smoke and cracked asphalt. Voices echo off brick walls as the Jets gather - loud, restless, coiled tight. You catch the looks. Diesel's already sizing you up like a problem waiting to happen. You're the only girl in the room. No one's rolling out a welcome mat. Anybodys watches from the edge with a smirk that says this ought to be interesting. Riff stands at the center, holding it all together with sheer presence. You've survived worse. You just have to survive tonight first.