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.
The rumble of approaching motorcycles cut through their bickering. Six bikes pulled up alongside them, their engines growling like hungry beasts compared to Mikey's whimpering moped. The riders were older, their faces weathered by years the Toman members hadn't yet lived. Their leather jackets were adorned with patches that Ayame didn't recognize—faded symbols of battles they'd fought and won.
"Well, well," the leader—a hulking man with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow—drawled, removing his helmet to reveal a shaved head gleaming with sweat. "What do we have here? A kindergarten field trip?"
Draken's body tensed beneath Ayame's hands. She felt his muscles coil, readying for whatever might come next.
"Never seen you kids before," another rider said, his teeth yellow against his beard. "Don't you know this is Night Vipers territory?"
Ayame felt a chill despite the summer heat. She'd never heard of the Night Vipers, which meant they were either new or so established they operated beyond the radar of younger gangs like Toman.
"Night Vipers?" Mikey repeated, his voice flat. "Never heard of you."
The atmosphere shifted from tense to dangerous. The leader's face hardened as if Mikey had slapped him.
"Never heard—" He cut himself off with a bark of laughter that held no humor. "You riding around with those patches, claiming territory, and you've never heard of the Night Vipers? Are you stupid or just suicidal?"
Mikey shrugged; the gesture so casual it bordered on insulting. "Neither. Just unimpressed."
The leader's gaze flicked to Ayame, settling uncomfortably on her. She felt herself shrink against Draken's back, suddenly aware of her exposed legs in summer shorts.
"And what's a pretty thing like you doing with these children? You should find yourself some real men."
Draken shifted, subtly placing himself more completely between Ayame and the man. "Keep your eyes to yourself."
"Or what?"
The atmosphere shifted, tension crackling like electricity before a storm. Ayame felt Draken's muscles bunch, ready to spring into action. Baji and Mitsuya moved closer, forming a loose semicircle. Kazutora's hand went to his pocket, where Ayame knew he kept a small knife.
The Night Vipers leader dismounted his bike with deliberate slowness, his boots hitting the pavement with a thud that seemed to echo. He approached Mikey, towering over him and his moped.
"Unimpressed, huh?" He reached out, fingers hovering over the moped's handlebars. "Maybe I should give you something to be impressed about. Like how quickly I can turn this piece of shit into a modern art sculpture."
The air around them grew still. Ayame could hear her heart pounding in her ears, her fingers digging into Draken's jacket. This was how it always started—a casual threat, a moment of tension, and then the world exploding into violence.
But Mikey didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't raise his fists or signal the others to attack. Instead, he looked up at the Night Vipers leader with eyes that had gone from warm to arctic in the space between heartbeats.
"Touch my bike," Mikey said, his voice soft but carrying with perfect clarity, "and I'll kill you."
Seven simple words, delivered without emphasis or theatrics. And yet, they landed with the weight of absolute truth. It wasn't a threat—it was a statement of fact, as indisputable as gravity.
The Night Vipers leader's hand froze mid-reach. Something passed across his face—a flicker of uncertainty, perhaps even fear. He stared into Mikey's eyes and saw something there that made him take a step back.
"You got a death wish, kid?" he asked, but the bluster had drained from his voice.
"No," Mikey replied, his expression unchanged. "Do you?"
The standoff stretched, seconds elongating like taffy. Ayame realized she was holding her breath. Around them, both gangs waited for the spark that would ignite this powder keg.
It never came.
The Night Vipers leader spat on the ground near Mikey's wheel. "You got lucky today, playing at being gangsters. But if we see you on our turf again, we'll crush you so flat your own mothers won't recognize the remains."
He backed away, never taking his eyes off Mikey, then mounted his bike with forced casualness. The other Night Vipers followed suit, engines roaring to life in a cacophony that seemed designed to mask their retreat.
As they sped away, Ayame released the breath she'd been holding. Her fingers were cramped from gripping Draken's jacket so tightly.
"What the hell was that?" Baji demanded, turning to Mikey. "You could have gotten us all killed!"
"But I didn't," Mikey replied, as if that settled everything.
"That's not the point," Draken said, his voice tight with controlled anger.
"We could have taken them," Kazutora insisted, still fingering his knife. "Five against six? Those odds work for me."
"Six," Ayame corrected, earning a small smile from Draken.
"Six against six? Easy," Mitsuya agreed.
"Six against five and a half," Draken corrected, nodding at Mikey's moped. "That thing is a liability."
Ayame slapped his shoulder. "Be nice. Mikey just saved us from a fight."
"Maybe we wanted a fight," Baji countered, but there was no real heat in his words.
"They weren't worth it," Mikey said with a shrug. "We've got better things to do than waste time on has-beens."
"Has-beens who now want to kill us," Mitsuya pointed out.
"Everyone wants to kill us," Mikey replied cheerfully. "It's part of our charm. Now come on—we're burning daylight."
They resumed their journey, but now there was a different energy among them. Ayame felt it as she wrapped her arms around Draken again—a sense of belonging, of being part of something that mattered. Tokyo Manji wasn't just a gang; it was a family, bound by something stronger than blood.
She looked at Mikey, riding ahead of them now, his back straight and proud despite the ridiculous contrast between his dignified posture and his undignified mount. There was something about him, something that made people follow him, believe in him. Even as she thought it, he turned his head and caught her watching. He smiled, a real smile this time, one that reached his eyes and transformed his face.
Ayame felt her heart skip and quickly looked away.
Draken, feeling her sudden tension, glanced back at her. "You okay back there?"
"Fine," she said, too quickly. "Just thinking."
"About Mikey?" he teased.
She pinched him again, harder this time. "About how I'm going to push you off this bike if you don't shut up."
His laughter vibrated through his back and into her chest, and she couldn't help but join in. This was what happiness felt like, she thought. This moment, these people, this day stretching out before them like an endless promise.
"He's going to get us all killed someday," Draken muttered, just loud enough for her to hear over the engine.
Ayame watched Mikey's back as he hunched over his beloved moped. "Or make us legends," she replied, not sure which possibility frightened her more.
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The disappointment hung between them like cigarette smoke, visible only when they turned to look at it directly. Baji kicked at a loose stone, sending it skittering across the asphalt. "We could have taken them," he repeated, more to himself than anyone else. No one disagreed. There was something unsatisfying about the encounter, a buildup with no release, like a sneeze that wouldn't come.
"Maybe we'll run into them again," Mitsuya offered, though his tone suggested he didn't believe it. "The day's still young."
Kazutora rolled his shoulders. "I had my knife ready and everything."
"And that's exactly why we don't need to go looking for trouble," Draken said, Ayame still perched behind him. "Knives mean hospitals. Or worse."
"Still," Baji muttered.
They continued down the road, the earlier lightness now weighted with the might-have-beens of an unfought battle. Mikey led the way, his moped's pitiful whine somehow even more grating against their collective mood.
And then, without warning, the whine became a sputter, then a cough, then silence.
Mikey coasted to a stop, the momentum carrying him a few more feet before he had to put his feet down. He stared at his moped as if it had personally betrayed him.
"You've got to be kidding me," Draken muttered, circling back as Mikey dismounted, looking at his vehicle with the puzzled expression of a child whose ice cream had mysteriously vanished.
Kazutora pulled up beside them, removing his helmet to reveal a scowl that had become his default expression. "What now? Another Night Vipers ambush?"
"Worse," Draken replied, gesturing toward Mikey, who was now tapping the fuel gauge with his index finger as if gentle persuasion might coax hidden reserves of gasoline into existence. "Our fearless leader forgot the most basic rule of transportation."
Mikey looked up, his face a perfect blank. "It's out of gas."
Draken's laugh held no humor. "You've got to be kidding me. We told you to fill up before we left."
"I did fill up," Mikey protested. "Three weeks ago."
"And you haven't ridden it since?" Mitsuya asked.
"No, I ride it every day."
"Then how did you expect to make it all the way to Kanagawa and back?" Draken demanded.
Mikey shrugged; the gesture so nonchalant that it bordered on infuriating. "I figured it would work out."
"Like you figured those Night Vipers would just leave us alone?" Kazutora said.
"They did leave us alone," Mikey pointed out.
Ayame, still seated behind Draken, couldn't help but smile. There was something endearing about Mikey's complete lack of concern for practical matters. He lived entirely in the present, dealing with problems only as they arose, never before.
Ayame slid off Draken's bike, stretching her legs as she approached Mikey. She couldn't decide if she wanted to laugh at the absurdity or slap him for his carelessness.
"What's the big deal? One of us can just go get gas," Mikey said, as if he'd solved a complex mathematical theorem.
A silence fell over the group—the particular silence of friends collectively deciding who would point out the obvious flaw in a plan.
"And how exactly," Baji finally spoke, "is that person supposed to carry gas back here? In their pockets?"
Ayame bit back a smile at her brother's sarcasm. For all his tough exterior, Baji had always possessed a razor-sharp wit that few appreciated.
Mikey blinked, processing this logic gap. "Oh."
"Oh," Draken mimicked, not unkindly. "You know what? You and Ayame should go together." His eyes slid toward her with a mischievous glint that made her immediately wary.
She stiffened. "What? Why me?"
"Because you're the only one who wasn't complaining about his moped," Draken replied, his voice innocent but his expression anything but. "You two would make a cute couple, walking back to find a gas station."
Ayame felt heat flood her face. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Nothing," Draken replied, his innocence even less convincing than Mikey's. "Just thinking of the most efficient distribution of labor."
"Efficient my ass," Ayame muttered. "You're just being a jerk."
"Is the thought of spending time with me that repulsive?" Mikey asked, placing a hand over his heart in mock hurt.
"Yes," Ayame replied automatically, though her racing pulse suggested otherwise. "Besides, if anyone's going with you, it should be Draken. He's the one with all the bright ideas."
"I'm just saying what everyone's thinking," Draken shrugged. "You two would make a cute couple."
Ayame's embarrassment morphed into genuine anger. "Stop it," she said, her voice sharper than intended. "You all are always teasing me about this stuff. I've told you before, I—" She stopped, realizing too late what she was about to admit.
Mikey's eyebrows rose. "You what?"
"Nothing," she mumbled, staring fixedly at the ground.
"She has eyes for someone else," Draken supplied, unhelpfully.
"Why don't you stop trying to marry me off to every guy in Toman?"
"Not every guy," Draken countered with a grin. "Just our fearless, gas-less leader here."
Ayame could have strangled him right there on the side of the road, wrapped her hands around his thick neck and squeezed until his eyes popped. Instead, she just glared at him with enough heat to melt steel.
"Someone else?" Mikey's voice had changed, something flickering across his face too quickly to interpret. "Who?"
"None of your business," Ayame said, but her voice lacked conviction.
The rest of Toman exchanged glances, their smirks fading into awkward silence. Ayame wanted to dissolve into the pavement beneath her feet. She hadn't meant to create drama—it had been a defensive reaction to Draken's teasing.
"It's Shinichiro," Draken said, naming Mikey's older brother with obvious delight. "She's had a crush on him for months."
Ayame's head shot up, her jaw dropping in horror. Draken met her outraged stare with unrepentant amusement. She wondered if fratricide was still punishable by death these days, because she was seriously considering murdering her honorary brother.
"Draken!" she finally managed, her voice a strangled whisper. "I trusted you!"
Draken at least had the decency to look somewhat abashed. "It was bound to come out eventually."
She could feel everyone looking at her now, especially Mikey. His gaze was like a physical touch, uncomfortable in its intensity.
"Shinichiro?" Mikey repeated, as if testing the name. "My brother?"
"Drop it," Ayame warned, still not looking at him.
"Mikey's brother?" Kazutora asked, eyebrows raised. "The cop?"
"Can we please talk about something else? Like how we're going to get to the beach before sunset?" She shouted.
"He's not a cop," Mitsuya corrected. "He just works security at that department store."
"Same difference," Kazutora shrugged. "He wears a uniform and acts all high and mighty."
Ayame couldn't bring herself to look at Mikey. She could feel his eyes on her, assessing, processing. Her crush on Shinichiro had been her most closely guarded secret—or so she'd thought. Apparently, she was about as subtle as a neon sign.
When she finally gathered the courage to glance at Mikey again, his expression had settled back into careful neutrality, though something in his eyes had changed. He looked older suddenly, the boyishness momentarily eclipsed.
"He's nineteen," Mikey continued, as if she hadn't spoken. "Five years older than you. Practically an adult."
"I said drop it," Ayame repeated, finally turning to face him fully. To her surprise, Mikey looked almost... hurt? But that made no sense.
"Don't get your hopes up about him," Mikey continued, and though his tone was gentle, his words stung. "He's got his eyes on that girl who works at the konbini near our house."
The revelation settled like a stone in her stomach. Of course Shinichiro wouldn't see her as anything but his little brother's friend. Of course there would be someone else—someone older, someone who didn't spend her weekends getting into fights and riding on the backs of motorcycles.
"Whatever," she said, aiming for indifferent but landing somewhere closer to wounded. "I never said I was going to do anything about it," she replied, hating how defensive she sounded. "It was just a stupid crush anyway. Everyone has them."
"Everyone?" Mikey asked, and there was a challenge in the question.
Before Ayame could respond, Draken cut in. "As fascinating as Ayame's love life is, we need to figure out what we're doing. The beach is only a mile or so ahead. We can leave Mikey to deal with his gas problem and meet him there later."
"We'll wait for you at the beach," he continued, gesturing toward the coast visible in the distance. "You can join us after you've fixed your gas situation."
Mikey's expression suggested he found this plan personally offensive. "Hang on. Why is this my problem? It's a Toman problem."
"A Toman problem caused by its leader," Baji pointed out.
"Fair enough," Mikey conceded. "But that doesn't mean I should have to solve it alone. Let's settle this properly." He held out his fist. "Rock-paper-scissors. Loser gets the gas."
The absurdity of deciding gang responsibilities through a children's game should have been ridiculous, but somehow, coming from Mikey, it seemed entirely reasonable.
"One round, winner takes all?" Draken confirmed.
Mikey nodded solemnly. "On the count of three."
They formed a circle, fists extended toward the center like some strange ritual. Ayame's tension dissolved into reluctant amusement. Only Toman would approach a crisis this way.
"One... two... three!"
Hands flashed in the center of their circle. Ayame threw scissors, as did Draken and Mitsuya. Mikey and Kazutora both chose rock, while Baji—alone among them—extended his flat palm in the universal symbol for paper.
"Shit," Baji muttered, staring at his hand as if it had betrayed him.
"The gods have spoken," Mikey announced with the gravity of a high priest. "Baji gets the gas."
Ayame couldn't help the snort of laughter that escaped her. "Serves you right, brother. That's karma for betting against me in the arm-wrestling match last week."
"Remember this moment," Baji warned her, pointing a finger, "The next time some guy is hitting on you, and you need me to step in."
Ayame rolled her eyes. "As if that would ever happen."
"It's already happening," Mikey said quietly, his eyes lingering on her in a way that made her skin prickle with awareness. "You just don't notice."
Baji continued. "The next time some guy is getting handsy with you, don't call me then."
Ayame scoffed turning to Baji, "You'd beat a guy senseless if he even looked at me wrong."
"Not if he's Shinichiro," Baji teased, dodging the kick she aimed at his shin.
"Who said anything about getting handsy?" Mikey interjected, his brow furrowed. "Has someone been bothering you?"
"Relax, fearless leader," Baji said, grabbing the handlebars of Mikey's moped. "No one's touching your future wife."
"Baji!" Ayame shrieked, mortification returning tenfold.
Mikey just snorted, but something in his eyes sharpened. "You have grown up a lot in the past year," he observed, his gaze sweeping over her in a way that made her stomach flip. "Guess I shouldn't be surprised guys are noticing."
Ayame didn't know whether to be flattered or offended. "Can we please stop talking about my body and my love life? Both are off-limits for discussion."
"Fine by me," Baji said, already starting to push the moped down the road. "I'll meet you all at the beach. Try not to have too much fun without me."
The rest of them watched him go, then mounted their bikes. The remainder of the journey passed without incident, the embarrassing conversation fading beneath the pleasure of the ride and the anticipation of reaching their destination.
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The beach was relatively empty when they arrived, just a few families scattered across the sand and a couple of surfers bobbing in the waves. They parked their bikes and unloaded their minimal belongings—towels, a cooler with sodas, and swim gear.
"Changing rooms are over there," Mitsuya pointed out, slinging his towel over his shoulder. "Meet back here in five?"
Ayame grabbed her bag and headed for the women's side, grateful for a moment alone to collect herself. The changing room was empty, just a simple wooden structure with hooks on the walls and benches. She changed quickly, swapping her uniform jacket and clothes for the red bikini she'd bought specifically for this outing.
Looking in the small, cloudy mirror, she hardly recognized herself. When had her body changed so much? Her curves had appeared seemingly overnight, transforming her from the scrawny tomboy she'd been into... this. No wonder the boys had been acting weird around her lately.
She pulled on a thin cover-up, more out of sudden self-consciousness than modesty, and stepped back outside. The boys were already waiting, all in swim trunks of various colors. All except Mikey, she noted.
"Where's our illustrious leader?" she asked, trying to sound casual.
Draken shrugged. "Probably still changing."
But as Ayame dropped her bag onto the sand and removed her cover-up, she noticed that the boys' attention had shifted entirely to her. Draken, Kazutora, and Mitsuya stared with undisguised awe, as if seeing her for the first time.
"When did you... How did you..." Kazutora gestured vaguely at her body, apparently unable to form a complete sentence.
Mitsuya just swallowed hard, looking away quickly.
"Stop staring, you pervs," Ayame snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. "It's called puberty. Look it up."
"You look... different," Draken managed, his usual composure fractured.
Ayame rolled her eyes, but felt a blush creeping up her neck. "You guys need to get your minds out of the gutter. It's just a swimsuit."
"It's not just anything," Kazutora muttered, earning an elbow in the ribs from Mitsuya.
"Right," Draken said, visibly pulling himself together. "Sorry." He turned to the others. "Race you to the water? First one to swim out to that buoy and back wins?"
"What's the prize?" Mitsuya asked, seemingly relieved by the change of subject.
"Pride," Draken replied. "And the others have to buy the winner ice cream later."
"I'm in," Kazutora said immediately.
"Me too," Mitsuya nodded.
"What about you?" Draken asked Ayame.
She shook her head. "Think I'll just work on my tan for a bit." She glanced around again. "Has anyone seen Mikey?"
The boys shook their heads, already focused on their impending race.
"Maybe he's still in the changing room," Kazutora suggested. "Or looking for Baji."
"You guys go ahead," Ayame said, suddenly concerned. It wasn't like Mikey to miss anything fun. "I'll look for him."
"Want me to come?" Kazutora offered.
"No, I've got it. You go join the race."
As the boys ran toward the water, shouting and shoving each other, Ayame pulled her shorts back on over her bikini bottom but left her top as it was. She grabbed her bag and headed back toward the parking area, scanning the beach for any sign of Mikey's distinctive blond hair.
"Where are you, trouble?" she muttered, shielding her eyes against the sun. "And what are you up to now?"
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Baji pushed the moped along the shoulder of the road, sweat carving paths down his face and back. The sun sat high and merciless above him, turning the world into a shimmering mirage of heat. Two miles, Mikey had said. Two miles to the gas station. But Baji had walked at least that far already, and there was no gas station in sight—just stretches of rural road bordered by fields and the occasional weathered house.
"When I get my hands on that lying piece of—" Baji muttered, adjusting his grip on the handlebars. His shirt clung to him, damp and uncomfortable. Every muscle in his body ached from the exertion of pushing the dead weight of Mikey's prized possession.
He stopped to catch his breath, leaning against the moped and squinting down the empty road ahead. Not a sign of civilization, let alone somewhere to buy gas. Had he taken a wrong turn? No, there hadn't been any turns to take. Just this endless ribbon of asphalt stretching toward the horizon.
The rumble of approaching motorcycles made him straighten. Relief flooded him—perhaps it was Draken or one of the others coming to check on him. But as the sound grew louder, his relief curdled into something colder.
Five bikes appeared around the bend, and Baji recognized them immediately. The older gang from earlier, their faces set in expressions of cruel anticipation. They'd been looking for him, or for any of them. Hunting.
Baji's hand tightened on the moped's handlebar, his mind racing. He could leave it, run for the trees that lined one side of the road. But then what? Mikey would never forgive him for abandoning his precious moped. And more importantly, Baji would never forgive himself for running.
The lead biker—the one who had threatened them before—pulled up alongside him, the others forming a loose semicircle that cut off any escape route.
"Well, well," the man said, removing his sunglasses. "Look what we found. One little stray separated from his pack."
"Where are your little friends?" one of them asked, dismounting. "Especially the blonde one with the dead eyes. He your boss or something?"
Baji didn't answer. The situation was deteriorating rapidly, and he calculated his odds of fighting his way out. Not good. Five grown men against one fourteen-year-old boy. But he'd never been one to shy away from bad odds.
"I think we owe you kids something from earlier," the leader said, approaching slowly. "Made us look bad, backing down like that. Time to restore our reputation."
"By beating up a kid?" Baji asked, unable to help himself. "Very impressive. Your mothers must be proud."
The first blow caught him in the stomach, driving the air from his lungs in a painful whoosh. Baji doubled over, gasping.
"Mouth on this one," another gang member commented, circling around to Mikey's moped. "Let's see how tough he is when we burn this piece of junk."
Despite the pain in his abdomen, Baji straightened. "Don't touch the bike," he warned, his voice ragged but firm.
They laughed, the sound harsh in the summer air. "Or what?"
What followed was a blur of pain and determination. Baji fought with everything he had, landing a few solid hits that earned him surprised looks before the numbers overwhelmed him. A fist connected with his jaw, sending him stumbling backward. Another blow to his ribs dropped him to one knee.
"Stop fighting, kid," one of them advised as Baji struggled to his feet. "Stay down and we'll just rough you up a little, teach you a lesson."
"The bike," Baji gasped, spotting the leader approaching the moped with a lighter in hand. With a surge of desperate energy, he threw himself forward, positioning his body between the gang and Mikey's prized possession.
"What the hell?" the leader exclaimed. "You that worried about a piece of junk moped?"
Blood trickled from a cut above Baji's eye, but his gaze remained steady. "Touch Mikey's bike," he said, each word precise despite his split lip, "and I will kill you."
Something in his tone made them hesitate—the same absolute certainty they'd heard in Mikey's voice earlier. Before they could decide whether to test his threat, a voice cut through the tension.
"I forgot my swim trunks."
They all turned to see Mikey standing a few meters away, hands in his pockets, expression mild as if he'd stumbled upon nothing more interesting than a roadside weed. Behind him, slightly out of breath, stood Ayame, her eyes widening as she took in the scene.
"Keisuke!" she exclaimed, taking a step forward before Mikey's arm shot out, stopping her.
The Night Vipers recovered from their surprise quickly. The leader laughed, though the sound held less confidence than before. "Look who's back. The little boss and—" his eyes fixed on Ayame, or more specifically, on her bikini top "—well, hello there again. Why's a hot piece like you hanging out with these losers still?"
Baji saw Mikey's expression shift, so subtly most wouldn't notice. Just a slight tightening around the eyes, a minute hardening of his jaw. Danger signals.
"Let's go," Baji said to Mikey, trying to defuse the situation. "The beach is waiting."
"What happened to your face?" Mikey asked, his tone conversational despite the tension crackling in the air.
Before Baji could answer, the leader stepped towards Ayame, his intentions clear in his leering grin. "You should come ride with real men, sweetheart. We could show you a much better time than these kids."
He reached out, grabbing Ayame's wrist. She jerked back, her face contorting with disgust. "Let go of me," she snapped, trying to twist free.
The leader tightened his hold, yanking her closer. "Playing hard to get? I like that."
What happened next occurred so quickly that later, when they tried to piece it together, none of them could agree on the exact sequence of events.
Mikey looked up, and the expression on his face made the leader take an involuntary step backward. It wasn't anger, exactly. It was something worse—a complete absence of emotion, as if the person they'd been speaking to had been replaced by something hollow and hungry.
Everyone froze. Baji's mouth fell open in shock. The Night Vipers exchanged confused glances.
Ayame stared at Mikey as if he'd lost his mind.
"What are you—" The leader began, still gripping Ayame's wrist.
"How dare you," Mikey interrupted, his voice soft but carrying an edge that sliced through the air like a blade. "How dare you hurt what's important to me."
The biker holding Ayame looked down at the damaged moped, then back at Mikey. "You kicked it yourself, you crazy—"
The kick connected with the man's temple before he could finish the sentence, a fluid motion so fast it seemed to defy physics. The leader crumpled, releasing Ayame as he fell. Mikey landed lightly on his feet; his expression unchanged.
"Not the bike," he clarified, stepping over the leaders prone form to stand beside Ayame. "Him." He nodded at Baji. "And her." His eyes flicked briefly to Ayame. "They're what's important."
"Ayame, you okay?" Mikey asked, not taking his eyes off the other bikers.
"I'm fine," she replied, moving to help Baji to his feet. Her brother leaned heavily against her, but his eyes were alert, watching the situation unfold.
"Good," Mikey said. Then, to Baji: "Did they hurt you badly?"
Baji touched his split lip and winced. "Nothing permanent. Was more worried about your precious ride."
"Like I said, it's just a moped." Mikey stepped forward, placing himself between his friends and the older gang. "These guys, though... they need to learn some manners."
The leader had regained his composure, signaling to his remaining companions to spread out. "Five against three, kid. And one of yours can barely stand. You really want to do this?"
Mikey's answering smile contained nothing of humor. "I really do."
What followed was less a fight than a demonstration. Mikey moved with a precision and speed that belied his usual languid demeanor. Each strike found its mark, each dodge seemed effortless. Baji, despite his injuries, managed to take down one of the men with a series of brutal punches. And Ayame, to the older gang's surprise, fought with a ferocity that matched her friends', landing a spectacular kick to one man's groin that left him curled on the ground, retching.
In less than two minutes, it was over. Four of the five bikers lay on the ground in various states of pain. Only the leader remained standing, blood streaming from his nose, eyes wide with a new understanding of who—and what—he'd challenged.
The leader, sporting what would soon be an impressive black eye, struggled to his feet.
"You're dead," he spat, blood flecking his chin. "All of you. We'll find you and—"
"No," Mikey interrupted, his voice quiet but carrying. "You won't. Because if you come near my friends again, I won't stop next time." The implication of what he wouldn't stop doing hung in the air, unspoken but understood.
Something in Mikey's eyes must have convinced them, because they retreated, helping their semi-conscious companions onto their motorcycles before speeding away, their threats fading with the sound of their engines.
Silence settled over the three of them, broken only by their heavy breathing and the distant cry of a seagull. Baji leaned against the now-dented moped, wincing as the adrenaline faded and his injuries made themselves known again.
"That was..." Ayame began, then trailed off, apparently unable to find words adequate to describe what had just happened.
"You're bleeding," Mikey said to Baji, his tone matter-of-fact.
"Worth it," Baji replied with a grin that reopened his split lip.
"How did you find me?" Baji asked, accepting a tissue that Ayame pulled from her pocket and pressing it to his lip.
"Figured you'd take this road," Mikey shrugged. "When we didn't see any sign of a gas station, I got worried."
"We?" Baji's eyebrows rose, his gaze sliding to Ayame.
"I noticed he was missing," she explained, avoiding Mikey's eyes. "Thought something might be wrong."
"So, you both came looking for me?" Baji's lips curved into a knowing smile despite his split lip. "How sweet."
Mikey straightened; his attention suddenly fixed on Ayame's state of undress. His eyes narrowed, a frown forming.
"What are you wearing?" he demanded, his voice sharp.
Ayame glanced down at herself, then back at him defiantly. "A swimsuit top. We were at the beach, remember?"
"That's not a swimsuit," Mikey replied. "That's... that's barely anything at all."
Crossing her arms over her chest, " I had my cover-up on until I had to run all over creation looking for you."
It's..." Mikey frowned, searching for the right word. "Inappropriate."
Baji snorted, then winced as the movement jarred his ribs. "Says the guy who just kicked a man unconscious."
Ayame crossed her arms over her chest, her expression cycling through surprise, embarrassment, and indignation. "It's perfectly appropriate beach attire, Mikey. Don't be such a—" She stopped, a realization dawning on her face. "Wait, are you jealous?"
Mikey's face remained impassive, but a faint flush crept up his neck. "No."
"You are!" A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You're acting like a jealous boyfriend."
"I'm acting like someone who doesn't want his friend displaying herself to strangers," Mikey countered, though the flush deepened.
"No wonder that guy grabbed you," Mikey muttered, shrugging off his uniform jacket and holding it out to her. "Here."
Ayame stared at the offered jacket, a mixture of anger and confusion on her face. "Are you seriously blaming me for that creep's behavior?"
"No," Mikey said quickly, looking slightly abashed. "But... just take the jacket, okay? Please?"
The "please" seemed to soften her, and she accepted the jacket with a sigh, slipping it on. It was too big for her, hanging off her shoulders and reaching mid-thigh, but Mikey visibly relaxed once she was covered.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For coming when you did. For helping Baji."
"For kicking your own moped," Baji added with a laugh that turned into a groan. "Never seen anything like that in my life."
Mikey shrugged, looking at the damaged vehicle with an expression that almost approached regret. "It needed character anyway."
"So did those guys' faces," Baji said, gingerly touching his bruised jaw. "Never seen you fight like that, Mikey. Remind me never to grab Ayame."
"Don't grab anyone without permission," Mikey replied, but his eyes lingered on Ayame in a way that made the air between them seem charged.
"Still," she insisted. "Thank you." She reached out, touching his arm briefly before letting her hand fall away.
Mikey shrugged, suddenly interested in the ground. "We're Toman. We look out for each other."
Baji, watching this exchange with undisguised amusement, shook his head. "Your crush on each other is painful to watch," he said. "Just make it official already."
Ayame's face flamed. "Shut up, Baji," she hissed. "Or I'll give you another split lip to match the one you've got."
Mikey, however, didn't seem bothered by the comment. He looked at Ayame for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression.
"Maybe one day," he said softly, then turned to examine his moped again before she could respond.
"You're both idiots," Baji muttered, but there was fondness in his voice.
Ayame laughed, a slightly hysterical edge to the sound. "Come on. Let's figure out how to get this thing back to the beach. The others are probably wondering what happened to us."
As they began the task of righting the moped and assessing whether it could be pushed back to the beach, Ayame found herself acutely aware of Mikey's presence beside her, of the weight of his jacket on her shoulders, and of the words that hung in the air between them—"Maybe one day."
••✾••━ ━━━━━ ••✾•• ━━━━━ •••• ━━━━━ ••✾••
Footsteps crunched on gravel behind her, pulling Ayame from the depths of her memories. She didn't need to turn; she knew those footsteps as intimately as her own heartbeat. Some things never changed, even when everything else did. The steady, measured pace that belonged to someone who never rushed because he never needed to—the world would wait for him, not the other way around.
She remained still, letting the present slowly reassert itself around her. The air was cooler now than in her memory, the sky streaked with the fading purples of approaching evening. The weight of years had settled onto her shoulders since that day at the beach—some of it sweet, much of it bitter.
Mikey lowered himself beside her on the wooden bench, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. He still moved with that economical grace, every motion precise and deliberate. His hair was longer now, his frame filled out, but his eyes remained the same—dark windows into something unfathomable.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice lower than it had been at fourteen but carrying the same quiet authority.
Ayame nodded, not yet trusting herself to speak. The memories felt too close to the surface, raw and tender as a fresh bruise.
Ayame turned to look at him. Time had chiseled away the softness of his youth, leaving behind sharper angles and deeper shadows. His eyes, though, remained the same containing that peculiar duality, capable of both childlike warmth and terrifying emptiness. Today, they held only concern.
"I'm fine," she replied, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Just thinking."
"Dangerous pastime," Mikey quipped, nudging her gently with his elbow.
"Someone in this gang has to do it," she shot back, falling easily into their familiar rhythm of affectionate banter.
Mikey leaned back, face tilted toward the sky. "What were you thinking about that had you looking so far away?"
Ayame hesitated, then decided on honesty. "I was remembering when Toman was first formed. When it was just the seven of us."
"The good old days," Mikey nodded, understanding softening his features.
"We were so young," she continued, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite the melancholy. "Remember when you all got your uniforms?" Ayame continued, the memories washing over her anew. "Mitsuya stayed up three nights straight to finish them in time for our first official meeting."
"He's always been a perfectionist," Mikey agreed. "Wouldn't let anyone help, not even you. And Draken couldn't stop admiring himself. Kept finding excuses to walk past shop windows."
"And you refused to take yours off for three days straight," Ayame added, her smile widening with the memory. "Said it needed to become one with you."
"It did."
"And that trip to Kanagawa," Ayame said, her voice taking on a wistful quality. "Your ridiculous moped running out of gas, the fight with those older bikers..."
"My heroic rescue," Mikey added with a self-satisfied smirk.
Ayame rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress her smile. "Yes, your very dramatic entrance. Kicking your own moped to make a point."
"It worked, didn't it?"
"It did," she admitted, her smile fading slightly.
"The rock-paper-scissors game that Baji lost," Mikey added.
"The fight with those bikers when they grabbed me."
"You in that bikini."
Ayame laughed, the sound startling a nearby bird into flight. "Is that really what you remember most about that day?"
Mikey didn't answer directly, but his eyes held a glint of something almost playful. Instead, he shifted closer and placed his arm around her shoulders, drawing her against his side. The gesture was casual but protective, and Ayame found herself relaxing into it, her head finding the familiar spot against his shoulder.
"Everything worked back then. We were unstoppable. Unbreakable." She looked down at her hands, at the small scars that mapped the years of fighting and surviving. "How did things go so wrong, Mikey? How did we lose so much?"
"Things were simpler then," she murmured, closing her eyes briefly. "I miss it sometimes. Miss them. Miss who we were."
"I do too," Mikey admitted, his voice resonating through his chest and into her ear. "But we can't go back, Ayame. We can only go forward."
"I know," she sighed. "I just wish—"
"That things could be simple again?" Mikey finished for her. "That the biggest problem we faced was my moped breaking down or getting into scraps with other gangs?"
She nodded, unable to articulate the depth of her longing for that simpler time, when their gang had been just a family they'd chosen, not the massive organization it had become. Not the target it had become.
"We've been through hell," Mikey said, his hand absently stroking her arm. "Lost people we thought we couldn't live without." A shadow passed over his face, the ghosts of absent friends flickering in his eyes. "But we're still here, Ayame. Still fighting. Still Toman, at our core."
"Is that enough?" she asked, the question weighted with all her doubts and fears.
Mikey turned to face her directly, his eyes suddenly intense. "It has to be," he said, with the quiet certainty that had drawn people to him from the beginning. "Because the alternative is giving up, and that's something neither of us knows how to do."
Despite everything, Ayame found herself smiling. "True enough."
"There's a big Toman meeting tonight," Mikey said after a moment, his tone shifting to something more practical. "As first division captain, you need to be there."
Ayame nodded against his shoulder. Her appointment to that position had raised eyebrows among some of the newer Toman members who didn't know their history, who saw only a woman in a position of power within the gang and questioned it. None questioned it twice after seeing her in action.
"Why did you choose me for first division?" she asked, a question that had lingered in her mind since he'd made the announcement. "There were others with more experience leading groups."
Mikey looked surprised by the question. "You're asking me this now? After you've been leading First Division for months?"
"I've just been thinking about our beginnings," she explained. "About how we all fell into our roles in Toman. And I realized I never asked you why you put me in this position."
Mikey's smile was soft, almost tender. "You're a founder of Toman too, Ayame. One of the original seven. There's no one else I would want by my side as we continue to build what we started." He paused, his gaze intensifying. "I trust you completely. You've always seen me—the real me, all of me—and stayed anyway.
"You make it sound like staying was a difficult choice," Ayame said.
"Wasn't it?" Mikey challenged gently. "After everything that's happened? After all the darkness you've seen in me?"
Ayame didn't answer immediately, considering the question with the seriousness it deserved. "Staying with you has never been the difficult part," she finally said. "It's watching you struggle, watching you hurt, and not always being able to help—that's the hard part."
Mikey stood abruptly, moving a few steps away, his back to her as he stared out across the yard. The late afternoon sun caught in his hair, turning it to molten gold.
"I've always loved you, you know," he said, the words falling into the quiet evening with the casual weight of absolute truth. "Since we were kids. Even when I knew you had that secret mini crush on Shinichiro."
Ayame's breath caught in her throat, despite the fact that their relationship had long since evolved beyond friendship. Hearing him say it so plainly, connecting it back to those early days, sent a flutter through her chest that reminded her of being fourteen again.
"How did you know about that?" she asked, heat rising to her cheeks as if the revelation were new and not a memory from years ago. "About Shinichiro, I mean. Before Draken told everyone."
"Know?" Mikey turned, a crooked smile playing on his lips. "I used to watch you all the time, Ayame. "Saw how you would blush around him, how your voice would get higher when he spoke to you directly. How you'd find excuses to be at our house when you knew he'd be there."
The thought of Mikey observing her so carefully, noticing details she'd thought were her secret, made her heartbeat faster. "You were jealous," she said, remembering his reaction that day on the road.
"I was," he agreed without embarrassment. "Especially when you started developing and other guys began to notice you too. Those days at the beach, when you came out in bikini's and all the guys were staring—even Draken and Mitsuya—I wanted to throw my jacket over you and tell them all to look away."
Ayame laughed, rising to stand beside him. "You practically did, with all your comments about 'inappropriate' clothing."
"I didn't have the right to say anything then," Mikey said, turning to face her fully. "Not yet."
"My own brother, getting your attention when I wanted it for myself." He moved closer, his expression growing more serious. And then... I realized what I was feeling wasn't just friendship."
"I always knew I'd win your heart eventually," Mikey continued, a hint of his old cockiness returning. "Knew that one day, you'd be mine. And here we are." He gestured between them, at the invisible threads that had bound them together through years of chaos and change.
"Here we are," Ayame echoed softly.
Mikey's gaze turned distant, looking not at the past but at some future only he could see. "One day, you'll be my wife," he said, as if stating an undeniable fact. "We might have little kids running around this yard. Little troublemakers with your smile and my attitude."
"God help us all," Ayame murmured, but her heart contracted painfully at the image he painted.
Mikey's eyes refocused on her, suddenly, startlingly present. "You're mine for life, Ayame. And I'm yours. I'll protect you and Toman for as long as I breathe." The words were a vow, spoken with the weight of absolute conviction. "That's a promise."
Ayame remained silent, unable to speak around the knot of emotion in her throat. Tears pricked at her eyes, not of sadness but of something more complex grief for what they'd lost, fear for what might still be taken, hope for what they might yet build together. Her mind formed only two words, a simple acknowledgment of the impossible, contradictory, wonderful person standing before her: Oh, Mikey.
As if hearing her unspoken thought, Mikey smiled—that rare, genuine smile that transformed his face and reminded her of the boy he'd once been. He extended his hand to her, palm up, an invitation.
"Let's get ready for the meeting," he said, the mundane words somehow containing all the weight of his earlier declaration.
Ayame placed her hand in his, feeling the calluses that matched her own, the strength that had protected her and sometimes frightened her, the warmth that had been a constant in her life for as long as she could remember.
Together, they walked back toward the house, leaving behind the bench where memories lived and moving toward whatever future awaited them—uncertain, perhaps dangerous, but theirs to face together.