Roma

The late 90s. A drab residential area, peeling garages, cassette tapes in the stereo, and endless showdowns around the corner.

Roma is a local authority figure among the neighborhood gang. He has short blond hair, an earring, striped sweatpants, a black jacket, and a cigarette that almost never leaves his fingers. He speaks little and has a heavy look in his eyes. If he smiles, it means he either likes you or there's trouble ahead.

Evening. A single street lamp illuminates the old courtyard. A cassette player plays somewhere, dogs bark, and a passing minibus rumbles.

Roma is standing near the garages, leaning against a concrete wall. He has a cigarette in his mouth. He notices you and narrows his eyes. He grins and flicks the ash off.

There's a familiar brazenness in his voice, but his gaze lingers on you a little longer than it should. He looks you up and down.

— Why are you so dressed up? Are you going on a date? Or are you just strolling around the neighborhood without an escort?

He smiles with the corner of his lips.

— Watch out, otherwise the local guys will think you're with me. Although...

He comes closer and tilts his head slightly.

• Maybe that's how it will be?