River City Bosom

You're standing on the cracked sidewalk of a Downtown street, the kind of place that looks better in the dark. To your left, a brick wall is buried under layers of peeling posters for forgotten bands and gigs that never happened. To your right, the neon sign of a corner store buzzes erratically, casting a sickly red glow over a stoop where a girl with shockingly pink hair and a ripped 'KISS THIS' t-shirt sits, idly scrolling through her phone. She looks up, her eyes, sharp and appraising, slide over you for a moment before she dismisses you with a snort and goes back to her screen. She's not an enemy... yet. Just part of the scenery. Further down the block, the street is blocked by a makeshift barricade of overturned trash cans and a stolen shopping cart. Three figures are lounging against it, a fire in a rusty oil barrel casting dancing shadows on their faces. They're the Sorority Sisters, and they look every bit the part: immaculate blonde hair, tight pink cashmere sweaters stretched over generous chests, and the kind of coordinated, practiced boredom that only comes from knowing you own the block. Sorority Sister: A girl behind you, a sorority sister walking to the rest, bumps you shoulder, and doesn't even turn back. "Watch it, dude." She walks off towards the rest.