Footsteps In The Dark

Ayame sat in Mikey's backyard, her face cradled in her palm, watching the summer light filter through the leaves. Three years had passed since those carefree days, yet the memories remained sharp as glass, cutting into her present with their sweetness. She closed her eyes, letting the humid air wrap around her like a blanket, and suddenly she was fourteen again, the wind in her hair and Draken's back solid against her chest as they tore down the coastal road.

Summer, 2003. The air hung thick with possibility and the particular brand of immortality that belongs exclusively to the young.

The newly formed Tokyo Manji Gang—Toman, as they'd christened themselves with adolescent gravitas—tore through the streets of Tokyo with the reckless abandon of kids who believed the world existed purely for their entertainment. Wind whipped through Ayame's hair as she clung to Draken's back, her laughter scattered behind them like breadcrumbs marking their path. Ahead of them, Mitsuya and Kazutora leaned into their turns with practiced precision, while Baji—her brother—performed an unnecessary wheelie that made her roll her eyes behind her helmet.

And then there was Mikey.

Mikey, their self-proclaimed leader, puttered along on his ancient moped—a sad, wheezing contraption that belonged in a junkyard rather than on the streets of Tokyo. The comparison between his vehicle and their motorcycles was almost comical: a toy boat among speedboats.

"For fuck's sake, Mikey!" Draken called out, slowing down yet again as the gap between them and their leader widened. "That thing is a disgrace!"

Ayame felt Draken's frustration vibrate through his back as he downshifted. The moped coughed ahead of them, spewing a thin trail of smoke that smelled faintly of burning oil and dashed expectations.

Mitsuya circled back, his face a study in impatience. "At this rate, we'll reach the beach by sunset."

"Speed isn't everything," Mikey replied, patting his moped like it might take offense. The machine responded with a pathetic sputter that seemed to contradict his point.

Kazutora pulled up beside Draken and Ayame. "I swear he loves that piece of junk more than he loves any of us."

"It's embarrassing is what it is," Draken replied, but there was affection in his voice. "Toman's leader on a moped that a child could outrun."

Ayame rested her chin on Draken's shoulder. "I think it's cute. It suits him."

"You'd think anything Mikey does is cute," Draken teased, and she pinched his side in retaliation.

They pulled up alongside Mikey, who grinned at them with the unshakeable confidence of someone who didn't realize they were the punchline of a joke. His bleached hair peeked out from beneath his helmet, and his eyes sparkled with the brand of delusion that made people follow him despite his eccentricities.

"What's the hold-up?" Baji circled back, his impatience a living thing. "My grandmother moves faster than this, and she's been dead for three years."

"Don't disrespect the Hawk," Mikey patted his moped's rusted handlebar with genuine affection. "She's sensitive."

Mitsuya pulled up on Mikey's other side. "The Hawk? You named your depression machine after a CB250T Street Hawk? That's like naming a slug after a cheetah."

Mikey's mouth twitched in a half-smile. "It's not about what you ride. It's about how you ride it."

"Yeah, well, 'how' is currently 'slowly,'" Ayame said, leaning around Draken's shoulder. The setting sun cast Mikey's profile in gold, and for a moment, she understood why they all followed him despite his questionable decisions. There was something in the way he carried himself—a certainty that bordered on madness.