Wiry Man Descriptive Writing

I inhaled the night time city smells of street food, sweat, cigarettes, and garbage, as I stepped toward the bus. I hadn’t taken two steps before someone shoved me to the side and dashed down the street weaving through people like a true professional. I tottered and nearly fell, but I kept my balance. Annoyed, I swept my gaze throughout the crowd and saw the rude stranger- a young man, maybe in his late teens, with thick black hair, dressed in a dark gray t-shirt and jeans. For a moment, he looked back towards the bus stop and at me; I was surprised when I saw what was written all over his face- terror. My anger forgotten, I looked at him curiously, but he turned and started running at a remarkable speed. Intrigued as to why
“Give it to me.”
“What?” I asked, looking up from the envelope in surprise A huge, wiry man dressed in a tan leather jacket, a white shirt with some strange dark splattering on it, and jeans, who had definitely not been there a few seconds ago, stared down at me. His large eyes were green and bloodshot; they had a crazy look about them. I recognized him as the man who had entered after the other boy into the alley.
“The letter. Give it to me,” he rasped. His rank breath hit me as he spoke the words, “You have no idea what that is.”
“Uh, yes I do,” I snapped, not the least bit scared of the figure. I was never one to be afraid of anything. Except for clowns. And chihuahuas. Nasty little creatures. “This letter,” I began and waved it back and forth in front of his face, his eyes following it as if it was a cheque for a million dollars, “is addressed to me.”
“That’s not possible,” the man said breathlessly in astonishment.
“And why would that
I observed with an air of boredom about me that they were quite bushy. “Why should I tell you? Listen, just give me the letter and you can go.”
“I don’t need your permission to go anywhere,” I said with a roll of my eyes.
The man reached for the pocket of his jacket and drew out a shiny black object. A pistol. “Give me that letter. Now.”
Okay, now I was scared; I realized that the dark blotches on his shirt were probably blood stains from his latest victim. The teenager? I started backing up until I hit the brick wall that lined the alley. My hand trembled as it clutched the letter. I was frozen with fear, not able to do anything even if I wanted to. He has to be bluffing, I thought.
“N-no,” I finally whispered. My voice grew stronger. “No way. It’s mine.”
The man pulled the trigger. Click. He cursed angrily, but before he could reload I was already running. He gave a shout and started running after me. Heart pounding faster than the steady thrum of footsteps behind me, I screamed at the top of my