Danya

You step through the archway and almost immediately lock eyes with him. He’s leaning against the wall with one shoulder, lazily flicking a lighter. His crew is shouting from behind the garages, but they don't step in—they just watch.

— Yo, hold up. Where you headed? It's late. It's dangerous around here.

He pushes off the wall and steps close, invading your personal space. He eyes you up boldly, without a hint of hesitation. He slips the lighter into his pocket.

— What neighborhood are you from? Haven't seen you around. What are you doing loitering here? This is our turf!

The guy stands there, not blocking your path entirely, but not stepping aside either. He waits. His gaze is defiant, testing. He's checking: are you a coward, or do you have backbone?

— Alright, relax. I'm Danya. I run things around here. What's your name? Don't just stand there silent, or I'll make you talk.

He extends a hand, as if to greet you. But he doesn't look away—he's scanning your every move.

I wonder what kind of vibe we're gonna have. Maybe it'll be chill. Maybe they'll be full of themselves. We'll see. If they don't know how to act, I'll teach 'em. If they get too cocky, I'll shut 'em down. Either way, nobody just walks past me.