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xlettex · 2 months ago

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Deception || tetsurou kuroo Yakuza AU - Chapter Seven

From the moment you looked into his eyes, you knew—he was nothing but trouble. Everyone warned you. Stay away from him. Don’t get involved. But you never listened. Tetsurou Kuroo, better known as Kurai, is the infamous yakuza boss of Japan. Just mentioning his name is enough to send shivers down spines and silence conversations in dimly lit alleyways. He is a force of nature—deceitful, ruthless, and dangerously unpredictable. A man who bends the world to his will, leaving chaos in his wake. And yet, to you… he is irresistible. You crave him — his touch, his warmth, the way he sets your skin on fire with just a glance. He makes you feel invincible like you can take on the world. But loving him is a double-edged sword. Because just as he lifts you up, he destroys you.

pairing - tetsurou kuroo x reader genre - action romance, crime romance, dark romance, erotica/smut rating - 18+ MINORS DNI chapter word count - 11.4k content warning - violence, drugs and alcohol, illegal activities, sexual content, angst. see each chapter for specific warnings.

Authors Note - This fanfic is inspired by the amazing fanart of the tetsurou kuroo mafia au (found image on pinterest, help me find the artist - I want to credit them). Disclaimer - This is a work of fiction, I do not condone the act of illegal activities, violence, or romanticization of the yakuza. Read at your own risk.

chapter six <- chapter seven -> chapter eight

✯ chapter-specific warnings - smoking, alcohol, mild physical coercion, violence, threats, burn injury, illegal activity, manipulation, surveillance ✯

"Then who the fuck was watching me?"

You barely have time to register the words leaving your mouth before his fingers wrap around your wrist—tight, unyielding.

"Tetsurou—"

No response. He’s already moving. His grip is firm, dragging you toward the elevator with no hesitation, no explanation. You pull back and try to resist, but he doesn’t let go. The ding of the elevator echoes too loud in the silence. He presses a button—not the penthouse, not the lobby.

Somewhere in between. Somewhere you haven’t been before. Your pulse pounds. "Tetsurou, where are we going?" You demand, twisting against his hold, but his fingers dig in.

No answer. His jaw is set, his golden eyes cold, unreadable. The calmness unsettles you. The elevator doors slide open—And suddenly—you realize you don’t belong here.

This floor is nothing like the rest of the building. The lighting is dimmer and functional. The space is open, but not empty. There are people. Men you don’t recognize are busy, moving with purpose. Your breath catches.

The first thing you notice is the rows of desks lining one side of the floor—high-tech monitors glowing in the dim light, flashing live security feeds, maps, and transaction logs. The air hums with the sound of low voices, rapid typing, and shifting movement.

But the rest of the room—that’s what makes your stomach drop.

To the left, two men stand over an open crate of guns, checking the magazines, the barrels, and the weight. One of them—tall, muscular, with a sharp grin—twirls a knife between his fingers like it’s second nature.

Behind them, another group of men are sorting stacks of cash, flipping through banded bundles as they talk in hushed voices. A third stands nearby, weighing something in a small plastic bag before sealing it shut.

Further back, a taller gray-haired man—Lev, you realize—leans against a desk, speaking quietly with someone.

You pause.

The other man is about Lev’s height, brown hair, serious expression—someone you don’t recognize. Their conversation is low and unreadable. Then—you see it.

A tattoo. Just barely visible. A thin, curling tail peeking out the edge of his t-shirt sleeve.

Your stomach tightens. Something about it feels off. You don’t know why, and you don’t have time to think about it. Because Tetsurou keeps walking, his grip still firm around your wrist.

As you move through the room, the weight of everything presses in. The quiet efficiency, the sheer number of people at work—the kind of power that doesn't need to be spoken aloud. And that’s when you realize—

This isn’t just influence. This is organized. Efficient. Untouchable. This wasn’t just a room full of criminals.This was a system. A machine.

And Tetsurou walks through it like he owns every breath in this room. Because he does. No one even looks up. No one stops to acknowledge him. No one stiffens or startles or acts like they need to pretend this isn’t happening. Because to them, this is normal.

You’re seeing another side of him. Another side of this place. And the more time you spend with him, the more you uncover. The realization sends a chill through you.

Tetsurou doesn’t slow down. Not until he reaches a heavy steel door and throws it open with his free hand. The room is large but crowded. A long black table sits at the center, occupied by several men.

You recognize three of them immediately. They were in the penthouse last night. Not just sitting with Tetsurou. Sitting at his table.

Your breath hitches. They were important enough to be there. Now they’re here. But there are two others you don’t recognize.

Two new faces. One of them—sharp-eyed, arms crossed, dark hair spiked upward—leans back like this is routine. The other, tan skin, buzzed hair, an easy smirk despite the tension in the air, drums his fingers against the table.

You don’t know who they are. You don’t know what they do. But you feel it—they belong here. You don’t.

The conversation in the room continues, low voices discussing something about distribution, new routes, shipments needing confirmation. It almost feels like a business meeting.

Almost.

"I still think the western blocks should be handled separately," the one with the shaved head says, tapping his fingers against the table. His expression is sharp, calculating.

"Yeah, but if we separate the supply, we risk slowing the movement," another argues, voice rough but certain.

The one with the shaved head scoffs. "It’s not about movement. It’s about control, Kai."

Kai. The name clicks instantly—he’s the one who pushed back.

"Tell that to the ones making the deliveries," someone else mutters, arms crossed.

"You think they give a shit about control? They care about getting paid."

A fourth voice joins in—calm, uninterested.

"Alright, alright, we get it. Yaku wants order, Kai wants speed, and Noya just wants to punch something—"

Yaku. Noya. Two names. Two men at this table.

The shorter one, with dark hair spiked upward, grins. "You’re not wrong."

Your mind clicks the pieces together. So that’s Noya. Another piece of the puzzle you don’t fully understand.

But it’s not the names that send a sharp, sinking weight into your stomach. It’s the product they’re talking about. Shipments. Routes. Distribution. Drugs. Not office supplies. Not stolen goods. Not something you could pretend was anything but what it was.

The words click together too fast, too sharp. You knew Tetsurou was powerful. You knew he had influence. But this? This is organized crime. This is a system designed to thrive in the dark, in the spaces the law can’t reach. Your fingers curl into fists. What the fuck has Tetsurou pulled you into? And then—

Tetsurou moves—not letting go. With a firm pull, he sinks into a seat, dragging you down beside him in one smooth motion. It isn’t rough, but it isn’t gentle either—a silent command, not a choice. Your pulse stutters.

By the time you register what’s happened, you’re already seated—his fingers still wrapped around your wrist, warm and unyielding. Then—his eyes flick toward two men at the end of the table.

"Tanaka. Noya." His voice is flat. Uninterested. Final.

They look up. You don’t need to guess who he’s talking to. You already know one of them—Noya. Which means—

Your eyes flick toward the shaved-headed man beside him. Tanaka.

"Out."

A beat of silence.

"The fuck, boss—?" Tanaka starts, brows knitting together, but the look Tetsurou gives him shuts him up before he can finish.

Tetsurou doesn’t explain. Doesn’t even look at them. Just—"Now."

The amusement from earlier is gone. They don’t argue. They just exchange a glance, push back from their seats, and leave. The door clicks shut. And the air shifts. The weight of the room settles. This isn’t just business. This is something else.

A pause.

And then—

Tetsurou doesn’t waste time. "Kenma I want security footage from every street near the hospital—and inside it—for the last twenty-four hours." His voice is sharp. Cold. Final. The entire room shifts.

At the center of the table, the man whose eyes haven’t left a screen since you walked in exhales through his nose, fingers already moving over the keyboard. Quick. Precise. Efficient.

You watch, pulse steady but alert. Another piece clicks into place.

"What are we looking for?" His voice is calm, almost bored.

Kenma. Another name, another thread in a web you still don’t fully understand.

Tetsurou’s gaze stays locked on the screens. "Her."

Your breath catches.

Kenma doesn’t hesitate. His fingers tap a final command, and the footage refocuses. The screen zooms in. And then – your own face stares back at you. Your mouth parts. You. Standing inside the hospital, near the nurse’s station. Talking to a man. But his face is never shown.

The camera tracks him walking through the hospital toward the exit, but his back is always to the lens. Kenma switches to the outside street cam. The man walks toward an alley. Then—a flicker of static. The footage cuts out for 0.2 seconds. When it returns—the alley is empty.

Kenma exhales slowly. "That’s not normal."

Tetsurou’s fingers flex at his side. Then—he turns to you. And suddenly, you realize you’re the only thing in this room that matters right now. His grip on your wrist tightens. Not painful. Not yet. Just a silent demand.

"What did he say to you?"

Your pulse skips. "I—" you start, but his stare pins you in place. Unwavering. Expectant.

His patience is thin. You can feel it. His fingers press against your wrist—deliberate, firm, coaxing. He says your name. But the way he says it isn't a request. It's a command. Your throat tightens. You try to piece it together. Try to remember. And then, it comes back.

"He was standing there, just watching me, like he was waiting for me to say something first."

His fingers flex slightly around your wrist. "And?"

You exhale. "I was pissed. I—" you swallow, shifting under the weight of his stare. "I told him to tell you to go fuck yourself."

Something dark flickers behind Tetsurou’s eyes. His fingers flex once. Then tighten. Just for a second.

And the room shifts. A low, unimpressed whistle from—Kai. Kenma doesn’t even turn from his screen, but his fingers pause mid-typing. The shorter, sharp-eyed man—Yaku—lets out a quiet huff, shaking his head like he’s impressed.

Tetsurou doesn’t blink. The others might be entertained, but he isn’t.

"And what did he say to that?"

You hesitate, "…nothing, at first. He just—tilted his head. Studied me."

Silence.

The reaction is immediate.

Yaku’s amusement dims. Kai folds his arms, expression hardening. Kenma finally looks up.

Tetsurou’s jaw locks.

"He wasn’t flustered. He wasn’t caught off guard. He just—looked at me. Like he was… interested." Your words feel wrong, even as you say them.

Tetsurou’s fingers flex against your wrist again.

"Then he said, ‘that’s a lot of anger. He must really want to keep an eye on you.’"

The room is too quiet. A muscle in Tetsurou’s jaw ticks.

"I told him you didn’t need to keep an eye on me." Your voice sounds distant like you’re replaying a movie in your head. "I told him to back off."

Tetsurou’s voice is low. Flat. Dangerous. "And?"

"He smirked. And then he just said— ‘Noted.’"

His grip tightens enough that you finally wince. His jaw locks. His fingers flex. And then—He lets go. Sharp. Abrupt. Like he’s the one forcing himself to step back. Like if he held on any longer, he wouldn’t let go at all. His fingers flex at his sides instead—like he’s physically stopping himself from reacting.

The other men are watching now. Their amusement has faded into silence. Waiting. For what?

You’re not sure.

"Did anything about him stand out to you?" His voice is controlled. Too controlled.

"He was wearing all black. Long sleeves. A hat covered his hair. He was a couple inches taller than me."

You hesitate.

"I don’t know." The words feel hollow, uncertain. "There were no defining features," you murmur. "No details to cling to. Nothing memorable."

And that’s what unsettles you the most.

Tetsurou’s voice is low. "And you thought he was one of mine?"

You nod. “He sure let me believe it.”

A beat.

Tetsurou exhales slowly. His fingers flex again at his sides. The air around him feels heavier. Like he’s barely holding something back. Something dangerous.

A long pause.

Then—

"Kenma."

Kenma’s fingers are already moving.

"Run deeper scans. Find me anyone who works this clean. Start with known fixers, contract men—anyone who could wipe themselves from surveillance this fast."

Kenma tilts his head slightly, considering. "And if they’re not in the system?"

"Then find the people who know them."

The room shifts.

Kai leans forward, arms crossed. "Could be an independent. A freelancer. Someone outside the network."

Yaku shakes his head. "Doubt it. He let her think he was one of ours. That’s not random."

"I don’t get it." The words slip out before you can stop them. "He didn’t touch me. Didn’t even threaten me. Why does he matter this much?"

The conversation stops—flatlines. Tetsurou’s fingers still against the table. The others don’t say anything. They just wait. His jaw tightens.

"Because whoever it was—" His voice is low, even. "They got too close to you."

You blink. Your throat feels tight, but you say nothing.

His golden eyes snap to yours. “I told you I’d keep you safe."

Something about the way he says it—low, final, like it’s a fact rather than a promise—makes your stomach twist.

"And I am safe." The words leave your mouth before you can fully think them through. A reflex. A truth you shouldn’t believe. But you do. You inhale, steadying yourself before continuing. Your voice isn’t defensive, but there’s an edge to it. "I would’ve known if he was dangerous."

Tetsurou’s stare doesn’t waver. "No, you wouldn’t have."

It’s not condescending. It’s not dismissive. It’s just the truth. And you don’t know why that makes you feel so much smaller.

He shifts. Straightens. Moves toward the door. Opens it.

"Lev."

The name is flat. Sharp. Seconds later, Lev appears—tall, blinking, confused but ready.

He doesn’t look at you. "Take her upstairs."

Your stomach drops. "Wait—"

Tetsurou eyes meet yours. Slowly. Deliberately. And the moment his golden eyes lock onto yours, something heavy settles in your chest.

"You don’t need to see this."

Your pulse kicks against your ribs, sharp and frantic. "Are you serious?" Your voice cuts through the room, sharp with disbelief as you push to your feet. "You think you can just pull me into this—show me all of this—and then shut me out when it suits you?"

A muscle in his jaw ticks. His voice is low. "Trust me when I say—this isn’t something you need to be part of."

Lev hesitates beside you, shifting his weight like he isn’t sure if he should intervene. Like he doesn’t want to. Because right now, the air between you and Tetsurou feels like a loaded gun.

The silence presses down, thick and suffocating.

Your pulse jumps. This isn’t just him—it’s them. The men at the table. Watching. Waiting. You knew what it meant to challenge someone like Tetsurou in front of an audience. The tension in the room was sharp, stretching tight like a wire about to snap.

Walk away. Don’t do this.

Your stomach twists. You could. You should. But then you meet his gaze—golden, unwavering, waiting—and something sharp claws up your spine. Your fingers curl into a fist at your side. No. No more being shut out. You take a step forward, lifting your chin, your body drawn tight with defiance.

"No."

Tetsurou stills.

"No?"

Your heart pounds, but you don’t back down. You don’t care that the room is watching. You don’t care that every inch of him radiates quiet authority, unshakable power. Because if you back down now, you’ll never have control of your own choices again.

"You heard me." Your voice is sharper now, more venomous, more unrelenting. Even though your pulse betrays you. "I’m either in or I’m out—you don’t get to decide for me."

A sharp inhale. The faintest twitch of his jaw. And then—he moves.

Fast. Decisive.

His hand wraps around your wrist, firm and unyielding.

Not rough. Not cruel. But final. He pulls you forward. Not hard. Just enough. Just close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath. Just close enough that your heartbeat stutters against your ribs. The weight of him is there, inches from you, curling like something inevitable. Your pulse spikes.

His fingers tighten, just slightly—just enough to remind you he’s stronger. Just enough to remind you he doesn’t have to hold on any harder.

"I told you, no more attitude." His voice is low—softer than you expect, but laced with warning.

The heat of his grip burns into your skin. Your breath catches—not from fear, but from the fact that he’s too close again, that you can feel the weight of his presence curling around you like smoke.

You try to yank your arm away, but his fingers tighten just slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make sure you understand. And then, after a beat—his voice drops even lower.

"I haven’t forgotten our unfinished conversation."

A sharp, twisting knot tightens in your gut—you already know exactly what he’s talking about. Because this—this moment, this battle of control—was always his to win.

The realization sinks into you like stone, heavy and immovable. Your pulse stutters—not just from his closeness, not just from the way his fingers tighten around your wrist—but from the slow, creeping realization that you never really had a chance.

Not here. Not with him. You swallow, but it does nothing to ease the dryness in your throat.

"We’ll talk more later."

His breath is warm against your skin. His presence is overwhelming. And for one infuriating second—

You think he might do something else. Might pull you even closer. Might say something final, something that would break whatever resolve you have left. But he doesn’t.

Instead—

He lets go. Abrupt. Sharp. Like he’s the one forcing himself to step back. Like touching you any longer would be a mistake. He turns away. And just like that—

Lev’s hand ghosts over your elbow. A signal to move. A silent dismissal.

And Tetsurou? He’s already turning back to his men, sinking into his seat. Like the conversation never happened. Like you were never even here.

The door clicks shut.

You're gone.

Finally.

And yet—

He can still feel you.

Like a phantom thread woven into his ribs, tightening with every breath. An absence that isn’t really an absence at all, because you linger. Beneath his skin. In the space you just occupied. In the fucking air.

He tells himself it’s good that you’re out of the room. That you don’t belong here. That he doesn’t want you here. And yet—

His fingers flex against the table. Harder. Then again. Like he’s trying to shake something off. Because he’s lying. To himself. To them. To everyone but you. Because you would’ve seen right through it.

“He didn’t touch me. Didn’t even threaten me. Why does he matter this much?"

His jaw clenches so tight it aches. You don’t fucking get it. You don’t understand the weight of what you’re saying. You don’t understand how fast people disappear in this world. How easy it is for a body to be there one second, and gone the next. You think you would’ve known. You think you would’ve seen it coming.

And that—

That’s what’s eating him alive. Because you wouldn’t have. Not until it was too late. Until you were already in someone else’s hands. Until he found your body, cold and empty, and fuck—

His pulse spikes at the thought, acid curling low in his stomach—sharp, bitter, fucking unbearable. That isn’t going to happen. Because he won’t let it. His grip tightens around the edge of the table, knuckles going white. He inhales, slow, measured—because if he doesn’t, he might break something.

You’re already making him reckless. Already making him think in ways he shouldn’t. You’re making him feel things he shouldn’t. He should’ve kept his distance. Should’ve let you slip out of his world the second you put his stitches in.

But he didn’t. Because he saw something in you. Something rare. Something dangerous. You’re not like the others. You’re not scared of him. Not careful enough around him. You’re sharp, but not sharp enough. And that should make you a liability. Should make him cut you loose before you become a weakness. But you’re not a weakness. You’re a fucking liability. Because you’re in his head. Because you’re in this world now. Because—

"You’re still staring." Kenma’s voice cuts through the silence.

Kuroo blinks. His jaw tightens. He hadn’t even realized—he’s still facing the door.

The door you walked out of.

"Shut up, Kenma."

Kenma leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head, his eyes too sharp despite his casual posture. And then, he says it. "For someone who wants her ‘out of this,’ you sure are pulling her in deeper."

A slow, knowing statement. Like he’s testing something. Like he already knows the answer.

Kuroo’s fingers tighten around the table. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

Kenma watches him, unimpressed. Then—another push. "Or should I send her an invitation to our next strategy meeting?"

Yaku lets out a low exhale, shifting slightly like he doesn’t want to be involved in whatever the fuck this is.

Kai doesn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s holding back a laugh.

Kuroo exhales through his nose, slow, sharp. Like he’s holding back something worse. His hand twitches, fingers flexing against the surface of the table, like he’s considering breaking something just to shut Kenma up.

Kenma just tilts his head, watching.

Waiting.

And that’s what makes it worse.

Kuroo drags a hand through his hair, his fingers briefly digging into his scalp before dropping. Like he’s trying to clear his head. Like he’s trying to erase the feeling of you still lingering on his skin.

"Just admit it, Kuro." Kenma’s voice is calm, and detached. Too fucking knowing. "You're holding on pretty tight for someone who is always so good at letting go."

The words land too easily, too deliberately, too fucking true. And the worst part? He wasn’t sure he ever wanted to let go.

Kuroo’s teeth clench. He doesn’t answer. Because Kenma’s right. And that pisses him off more than anything else.

His molars grind together, sharp and deliberate. Like he’s trying to shove the lingering weight of your presence out of his mind. It doesn’t work. Because even though you’re upstairs—out of sight, out of his business—he knows your mind is still running.

Knows you won’t just sit there quietly, waiting. You’re not like that. You’re not the kind of person who can let things go. And sure enough—

You’re pacing.

The realization sat uneasily in your chest, curling around your ribs, pressing into your thoughts no matter how hard you tried to shove it away. Somewhere out there, a man had stood in front of you, watched you, studied you, let you believe he belonged to Tetsurou’s world—and then disappeared. No name. No defining features. Just a blank space where a person should have been.

You had told yourself that it didn’t matter. That whoever he was, he hadn’t hurt you. That he had walked away, nothing more. But then why couldn’t you shake the feeling that it wasn’t over? That he was still out there? That this was only the beginning? You inhaled slowly, forcing the thought down, forcing yourself back into the present.

Maybe that was why you found yourself wandering now—pacing through the penthouse, fingers brushing over surfaces, searching for something you couldn’t name. A distraction. Something to anchor you. Anything to stop your mind from circling back to that man, to that smirk, to the way he had disappeared like he had never been there at all.

But the penthouse gave you nothing.

The silence was the first thing you noticed. Not the kind that came with peace, but the kind that felt unnatural—like a house meant to be lived in but wasn’t. Everything was precise, methodical, untouched. Like stepping into a model home, pristine but hollow. The furniture was arranged with surgical precision, the air crisp with the faintest trace of cologne and something sharper, something clean—sterile, even.

There was nothing out of place. No clutter. No forgotten glass left on the counter. No signs of exhaustion—of someone rushing out in the morning, returning late at night. No quiet traces of a life unfolding in real time.

Just control.

Cold. Unyielding. Absolute.

Walking through the space felt like moving through an exhibit—a carefully curated illusion, meant to be observed but never touched. Despite the grandeur, despite the wealth woven into every inch of the penthouse, it didn’t feel like a home. It felt like a holding cell.

You kept walking, but the feeling followed you.

Then, you saw his door.

You didn’t have to check to know which one it was. It stood apart—not physically, but in the way the air around it felt heavier, thicker. In the way your instincts warned you, loud and clear—do not cross that line. Not because it was locked. Not because you couldn’t. But because you shouldn’t. Even standing too close, even letting your eyes linger too long on that door felt like inviting something you weren’t ready for. So you didn’t. You forced yourself to keep moving.

And then—you saw it.

A door, slightly ajar, barely noticeable. You paused, fingers hovering just short of pushing it open. It didn’t have the same weight as Testurou’s. It didn’t warn you away. Instead, something about it felt…. forgotten. A space left untouched not out of discipline, but neglect. You hesitated.

Then—slowly—you pushed it open. And stepped inside.

This room was different. The air inside was heavier—not thick with smoke or the crisp scent of cologne like the rest of the penthouse, but stale, untouched—with the faintest trace of jasmine clinging to it.

It lacked the pristine upkeep that seemed to define the rest of Tetsurou’s world. The lighting was dimmer, dust gathered in places that shouldn’t have dust, the furniture settled in a way that didn’t match the sharp, controlled symmetry of the rooms before.

And for the first time since stepping foot into this place, you felt like you were somewhere you weren’t supposed to be.

Your gaze swept over the details, taking in the small, quiet signs of abandonment. A music stand in the corner, empty and unused. A bookshelf, filled with worn-down sheet music, edges curled from time and handling, so unlike the polished, untouched kind meant for decoration. And then—your eyes landed on a side table.

A single framed photo sat there, facedown.Like someone had once placed it there with purpose and then—forgotten it. Your fingers twitched at your side. You almost picked it up.

Almost.

But something about the way it rested there—deliberate, undisturbed, left alone for a reason—made you hesitate. Instead, your attention was drawn elsewhere.

To the center of the room. To the piano. A grand, polished black piano, sitting in quiet stillness, its surface catching the dim light in glossy streaks, the lid shut like a secret left unsaid.

It didn’t belong here. Or rather, it did—but not in a place like this. It should have been somewhere warm, somewhere lived-in, somewhere filled with music instead of silence.

And yet, it was here.

Waiting.

For someone to return. For someone to play. And suddenly, you weren’t thinking anymore. You were moving. Your fingers hovered over the keys. It had been a long time.

The hesitation sat heavy in your hands, like rust in the joints of an old machine. You flexed your fingers, pressing lightly against the cool ivory, but they still felt stiff—like a part of you had forgotten how to do this.

You pressed down, hesitant, testing.

One note.

Then another.

And then—muscle memory took over.

Your hands moved on instinct, filling in the spaces between hesitation, smoothing over the uncertainty. The first few notes were careful, as if the piano might reject you for your neglect. But it didn’t.

The melody bloomed under your fingertips, curling into the empty spaces of the room, wrapping itself around you like something familiar—something you had nearly forgotten but not quite lost.

For the first time since you arrived here, you felt like you could breathe. The walls of the penthouse, the weight of Kuroo’s world, the constant gnawing awareness that you didn’t belong here—all of it faded.

It was just you and the music. No danger. No threats. No golden eyes watching your every move. Just sound. It filled the space, soft and warm, threading through the still air like it had always belonged here.

You let yourself sink into it. Let it pull you somewhere else. You didn’t even realize you had closed your eyes. Which was why you didn’t notice you weren’t alone anymore. The shift was subtle—a quiet change in the air, a presence that hadn’t been there before. And then—the scent of smoke.

A slow curl of nicotine and something faintly sharper, threading its way into the space between the notes. Your fingers stilled.

The last note hung in the air, delicate and trembling, before melting into silence

Your breath caught. Slowly, you turned. Tetsurou stood in the doorway.

One shoulder leaned against the frame, cigarette resting loosely between his fingers, the ember pulsing softly as he inhaled. His expression was unreadable—no smirk, no teasing glint in his eye.

Just watching. The weight of his gaze pressed against you, heavier than the silence that had taken over the room.

"You play beautifully."

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug. It was quiet. Like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Like it had slipped before he could catch it. Your chest tightened. You weren’t sure how to respond.

A muscle in his jaw twitched slightly as he took a slow drag, the ember flaring, smoke curling in the dim light. His gaze flicked around the room—noticing the dust, the untouched sheet music, the stillness that clung to every surface.

"This room doesn’t get much use out of it anymore." His voice was casual, but something about it wasn’t.

You followed his gaze as it landed on the piano—noticing the way his eyes lingered like he wasn’t just looking at it but remembering something. Like he was seeing something that wasn’t there anymore. Like this wasn’t just an observation. Like it was a memory.

You didn’t push. Didn’t ask. But you understood. This wasn’t his room. It belonged to someone else. And whoever it was, they weren’t here anymore. You weren’t going to ask who it belonged to. You knew he wouldn’t answer.

So instead, you leaned back slightly, fingers brushing against the keys, and said, "You know, for someone who goes through all this trouble keeping his life under control, you seem pretty content shaving years off it."

His eyes snapped to yours, and for the first time since he walked in, something flickered—a small shift, the faintest glint of amusement breaking through the quiet. "That your way of saying you care?"

You scoffed. "Not even remotely."

His lips curved—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. But whatever amusement had flickered there was gone as fast as it had come, swallowed by something quieter.

For a while, there was nothing but silence between you. The space between you thickened, charged with something you couldn’t name, something that felt like the weight of too many things unsaid.

"I was wrong last night."

Your fingers tensed over the keys. Slowly, you lifted your head, meeting his gaze. He didn’t have to say it outright. You both knew what he meant.

The hoodie. The girl. The way he had pulled you out of the hospital without hesitation, without an explanation—like your decisions weren’t your own.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t react. But you were listening.

He exhaled, flicking his cigarette, letting the ash scatter onto the floor near the door. “Acted harshly when there was no need to."

The words were simple, even. Not dismissive, but not apologetic either. Just a fact, laid bare between you. You studied him, searching his face for something—some flicker of insincerity, some sign that this was just another game.

Nothing.

Just his steady, unreadable gaze. A breath pressed against your ribs, tight, waiting to be released. Your fingers hovered over the keys, barely grazing the cool ivory.

Then, softer—more to yourself than to him—

"His name is Koushi."

A pause.

He barely blinked.

"Koushi." The way he repeated it—slow, deliberate—sent something uneasy curling in your stomach. Like he wasn’t just hearing the name for the first time, but placing it. Like he already knew.

"You two are close, I take it."

It wasn’t really a question. More like a quiet confirmation.

You hesitated for only a second. "Something like that."

His smirk was lazy, but this time—it felt different. Not teasing. Not testing. Just acknowledging. He leaned against the doorframe, cigarette between his fingers, golden eyes still locked onto you. "You’re free to go visit him. No restrictions."

Your eyes narrowed. That was too easy.

"What’s the catch?"

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"No catch."

Your breath hitched, just slightly. He was giving you permission. No conditions. No warnings. No strings woven so tight you wouldn’t see them until it was too late. Just this.

Something about the way he said it—the way he let you have this, just this—settled deep in your stomach, heavy, like gravity shifting beneath you. Your pulse pounded against your ribs, but you kept your expression neutral.

And then—just to test him, to see if there really was no catch—

"Why?"

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze drifts—to the photo lying facedown on the table. The shift is barely noticeable. A split-second pause. But it’s enough. He exhales, fingers tightening slightly against the cigarette before flicking the ash away.

Then, finally—

"Because he matters to you."

The answer landed heavier than you expected. Something about it felt too precise like he had plucked the words from your mind before you could shove them down.

You should’ve questioned it more. Should’ve pushed for something deeper. But something in his voice—not dismissive, not mocking, just matter-of-fact—made you pause. Like there was more to his answer than what he was willing to say. Your breath hitched—just barely. Your fingers curled slightly against your lap, pressing into your palms.

He shifted, pushing off the doorframe, moving like the conversation was already over—like whatever understanding had just passed between you didn’t need to be explained.

But before he could step away, before the moment could slip between your fingers, you spoke again.

"Tetsurou."

He paused.

You searched his face, looking for something—anything—that might make this make sense.

"That’s it?"

His gaze flickered, a slight shift in the shadows of his expression. A muscle in his jaw tensed, so slight you almost missed it.

A beat passed.

Then—

"That’s it."

The words sat heavy in your chest, pressing against something you weren’t sure how to name. Your breath came slow, steady, but your thoughts weren’t. You swallowed. Then, without looking at him, you said—

"My mother taught me how to play."

It slipped out too easily. Like something that had been waiting—aching—to be spoken.

A pause.

"She wasn’t always okay."

Another.

The air between you thickened, stretching with the weight of something unspoken.

"She spent most of her life consumed by darkness."

Your fingers hovered just above the keys, barely grazing them, but you didn’t press down. Didn’t fill the silence. Didn’t try to smooth over the truth of it. Because this wasn’t a story that could be softened.

"She spent the end of her life trying to keep the darkness from entering mine."

Your throat tightened. The memory of her hands—warm, gentle, always smoothing your hair back, always wiping away tears you didn’t understand—rose unbidden.

How many times had she whispered to you at night, her voice barely audible over the weight of something you couldn’t name back then?

"I love you, sweetheart. You know that, right?"

You had nodded. Always nodded. Always believed her. Until you woke up one morning, and she was gone. A deep, hollow ache pulled through your core, slow and relentless.

"Part of me wonders if she’d be disappointed in how I turned out."

A sharp exhale—almost a laugh, but there was nothing funny about it.

"If she’d see the way I ended up—the way I keep getting pulled toward things I shouldn’t want—"

A pause.

A small, breathless shake of your head.

"—the way I’m always drawn to the darkness she tried so hard to protect me from."

The words sat between you, raw and open, waiting to be dismissed, ignored, or forgotten.

But Tetsurou didn’t do any of those things. He just stood there. Watching. Listening. Letting the weight of what you had just said settle.

And that’s when you felt it—the familiar ache in your ribs, the weight of grief curling around your lungs, the same emptiness you had tried to outrun for years.

Because you had been here before.

At eight years old, staring at your mother’s empty chair, realizing she wasn’t coming back.

At ten, watching your father swallow his grief like poison, his body breaking down under the weight of it.

At thirteen, standing in the hospital room, gripping his cold fingers, feeling the last person in your world slip away from you.

And you had learned, from then on, not to get attached.

Because everyone leaves. Everyone breaks. So what was the point? What was the point in hoping for anything else? Your hands curled into fists against your lap.

Tetsurou still didn’t speak. Didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t try to tell you that you were wrong, or that you were being dramatic, or that the past didn’t define you. He just stood there.

Like he understood. Like he had his own ghosts, his own regrets, his own things left unsaid. And for the first time since meeting him, his silence didn’t feel like control. It felt like recognition. And somehow, that made it worse.

He didn’t rush to fill the silence. Didn’t try to smooth over the edges of your confession, like so many had before. He just exhaled slowly, smoke curling in the dim light, his golden eyes never leaving you.

Then, finally—

"She wouldn’t be disappointed."

He didn’t say it as an attempt to comfort you. Didn’t soften it, didn’t lace it with meaningless reassurances, didn’t try to offer you the kind of empty words people always did when they didn’t know what else to say.

Just a statement. A fact. And somehow—that made it hit harder.

Your throat tightened. You let the words settle, let them sink into the places you didn’t know were still raw. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe them.

He didn’t ask for more. Didn’t push. Didn’t pry open wounds that weren’t his to touch. And you appreciated that. So, after a moment, you stood.

The bench scraped softly against the floor as you stepped away from the piano, the melody you had played still lingering faintly in the air—like something unfinished.

The moment was over. But just as you passed him, just before stepping out of the room—

He stopped you. Not with a touch. Not with a word. Just a slow drag of his cigarette, the ember pulsing faintly before he exhaled. And then—a glance your way.

"Next time, play something longer."

His voice was even, casual—but something about it wasn’t. Something about it felt like an acknowledgment. Like he had seen something in you tonight. Like he had understood. And just like that—you stepped past him, slipping into the quiet of the penthouse.

But Kuroo didn’t leave right away.

He lingered in the doorway, gaze still fixed on the piano—the space where you had been just moments ago. The room felt different now—heavier in some ways, emptier in others. Like something had shifted in the air, something he couldn’t quite place but wasn’t ready to shake off.

His eyes flicked toward the facedown photo on the table. His fingers twitched. He almost reached for it.

Almost.

But instead, his hand curled into a fist before it could betray him.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. The weight pressing into his chest wasn’t unfamiliar, but it was unwelcome. It had been years since he’d stepped foot in this room, longer since he’d let himself think about what it meant. And now, here he was.

Because of you.

Because you had wandered in like you belonged here. Because you had sat at that piano like it hadn’t been abandoned, like the dust didn’t settle too thick across the keys, like it wasn’t a ghost of something lost.

Like you hadn’t just peeled back something raw inside him without even realizing it.

Kuroo clicked his tongue, rolling his shoulders, forcing himself to shake it off. He turned, stepping out of the room—but before he did, he crushed out his cigarette against the nearest surface.

Not because he needed to. But because the weight of something else was pressing into his chest, and it was the only thing he could control.

The Next Morning

Kuroo woke up later than usual. That wasn’t normal.

His body was wired for early mornings, for structure, for the sharp precision of waking up before the world could catch up to him. But today, his body felt heavier, like something had settled deep in his chest overnight, anchoring him to the sheets.

For a moment, he stayed there, staring at the ceiling, his mind caught between sleep and something quieter—something he didn’t want to name. Then, with a sharp exhale, he ran a hand over his face and rolled out of bed.

That’s when he noticed it.

It wasn’t immediate—not some glaring change, not some obvious disruption. But it was there, in the way the air felt just a little different. Warmer.

Lived in.

By the time he stepped into the kitchen, the feeling had a name. It wasn’t a mess. Not really. But it wasn’t untouched, either.

The counter was cluttered in a way that didn’t belong to him. A pan left drying on the stove. A half-empty coffee mug near the sink, the rim faintly smudged like someone had lingered over it, not in a rush. A dish towel crumpled, abandoned mid-fold.

It wasn’t chaos. But it was evidence. Signs of life.

The scent of food still clung to the air—faint, but there. Eggs. Toast. Coffee. Simple, efficient. Something made quickly, eaten without much thought. Something that didn’t belong to him.

His gaze flicked toward the fridge. A note scrawled in handwriting that didn’t belong to him, pinned under a magnet.

Went to work. Didn’t want to wake you.

He stared at the note, tapping it lightly against the fridge. His lips twitched, but the amusement barely had time to settle before his eyes caught on the next line.

Met your new watchdog—Inuoka. What, were you afraid Lev might try to talk to me?

See you later.

His jaw ticked. You really had him read like a fucking book, didn’t you? Of course, you picked up on that. Of course, you knew exactly why Lev wasn’t the one keeping an eye on you this time.

The worst part?

You weren’t wrong.

His fingers curled around the note, exhaling sharply through his nose. He shook his head once, pushing off the counter like the weight in his chest wasn’t there. His eyes swept the space again—the clutter, the lingering scent of food, the evidence that you had been here and left your mark without meaning to.

It felt different. It felt… unfamiliar. Not in a bad way. Just in a way that made something settle too deep in his chest.

He grabbed the half-warm coffee mug you’d left behind, his gaze lingering on the note for a moment longer. Then, instead of setting it aside, he took it with him— the cup sat warm in one hand, the note crumpling slightly in the other as he stepped onto the balcony.

The city stretched out before him, distant and indifferent. A skyline that never changed, no matter how much everything else did.

Then, behind him—the soft click of the front door. He didn’t turn immediately. Just exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair before finally stepping back inside.

Kenma arrived without an announcement. Not that he needed one.

Kuroo barely acknowledged him at first, still caught in the remnants of the morning—the note you left, the cluttered kitchen, the faint scent of you still hanging in the air. He hadn’t moved the dishes yet. Hadn’t thrown away the empty coffee packet you must’ve used.

Kenma noticed. He always did.

His gaze flicked once over the scene—the mess, the half-crumpled note Kuroo had just set down on the counter, Lev’s name scrawled in quick ink. But he didn’t comment. Not yet. Instead, he dropped into a chair, pulled out his phone, and scrolled idly. Then, casually—

"Ran into Alisa this morning."

Kuroo’s fingers stilled against the counter.

Kenma didn’t look up. Just kept scrolling. Then—"She seemed... curious."

“Alisa’s always curious," Kuroo muttered, flicking nonexistent dust off the counter. He already knew what had caught her attention.

"Mm." Kenma tapped his thumb idly against his phone. "But this time, it wasn’t about me."

Kuroo rolled his shoulders back, keeping his expression neutral. "Did she say something?"

Kenma smirked, finally glancing up. "Didn’t have to. She saw me, saw where I was headed, and asked if I was on babysitting duty.”

Kuroo clicked his tongue. "Subtle."

Kenma didn’t press further. Just leaned back, tapping his fingers against the table. Then, as if remembering—he tossed his phone onto the table.

"Hinata responded."

Kuroo barely glances at the screen. Then—he sees the message.

Hinata: First of all, I don’t owe Kuroo shit. But I’ll help. Only because I’m curious.

A slow exhale. The message sat there, glowing on the screen, and Kuroo let it linger. Let it settle. Of course, that little shit was curious. He always was. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. A short, humorless huff left his lips. "Curiosity’s gonna get him killed one day."

Kenma barely reacted. He just rested his chin in his palm, eyes steady. Then, after a moment— "Told you he wasn’t gonna see it as a favor."

Kuroo snorted. “Yeah, well. He still said yes.”

Kenma hummed, spinning his phone between his fingers. “For now.”

A pause.

Then Kenma leaned back, gaze flicking over Kuroo again—too observant, too knowing.

"So, this is domestic bliss, huh? What’s next? Sunday brunch? Or is she going to start redecorating?"

Kuroo exhales, flicking nonexistent dust off the counter. "You done?"

Kenma just shrugs, "Not even close."

Kuroo didn’t bite. Didn’t roll his eyes, didn’t react—just reached for his coffee, letting the comment pass. Evenly— "When’s he landing?"

Kenma smirked. "Day after tomorrow. Give or take, depending on how dramatic he’s feeling." He drummed his fingers against the table. "What’s the plan for his stay?"

Kuroo didn’t look up. "Here."

Kenma blinked. "Here, as in—?"

"Give him his own suite. There should be an open one a few floors down."

Kenma let out a quiet hum, tipping his head slightly. "So, close enough that you can keep an eye on him, but not too close."

Kuroo exhaled, stretching his arms behind his head. "You know how he is. If I don’t give him a space of his own, he’ll end up treating my place like a hostel."

Kenma snorted. "And we both know you don’t have the patience for that."

A beat.

Then, too casual—"Or maybe you just don’t want him here with her around"

Kuroo’s fingers stilled against the counter. His gaze flicked toward Kenma, but Kenma didn’t look up. Just kept scrolling.

Kuroo clicked his tongue. "I don’t want him in my penthouse because he’s a pain in the ass. That’s why."

Kenma hummed, unimpressed. "Sure."

Silence.

Then, tapping lazily at his phone, he added, "I’ll let him know where he’s staying. Should I remind him to bring his best behavior?"

Kuroo scoffed. "You can try. Won’t make a difference."

Kenma smirked. "Figured."

He sent the message, setting his phone aside.

A beat.

Then—without looking up, he asked, "You think he actually has information or is this just another one of his games?"

Kuroo exhaled, rubbing his jaw. "If he wastes my time, he’ll regret it"

Kenma hummed, tapping his fingers idly against the table. "Then let’s hope, for his sake, he makes himself useful.” He stood, slipping his phone into his pocket. "I’ve got work to do—still need to dig into the hospital footage."

Kuroo barely nodded, reaching for the cigarette in his pocket. Then, just as Kenma stepped toward the door—"Check in on her while you’re at it."

Kenma stopped. Not a full stop, not dramatic—just a small pause. His head tilted slightly, a flicker of something in his expression. Not mockery. Not amusement. Just interest.

"Anything specific you want me to look for?"

Kuroo flicked the lighter open. Then shut it. "Just make sure nothing’s off."

Kenma didn’t push. Didn’t smirk. Just gave a small nod.

The door clicked shut.

Silence

Kuroo exhaled, stepping onto the balcony. Flicked the lighter open again. The flame caught. Then—he hesitated.

Your voice. That passing remark about his health. About bad habits.

"For someone who goes through all this trouble keeping his life under control, you seem pretty content shaving years off it."

His thumb hovered over the wheel. It wasn’t serious. You hadn’t meant anything by it. But it stuck.

One second. Then another.

With an irritated scoff, he snapped the lighter shut and shoved the cigarette back into his pocket.

"Fucking ridiculous."

He stepped inside.

But the hesitation lingered.

—

The hospital buzzed around you—beeping monitors, hurried footsteps, the distant hum of conversation. But you barely heard it.

"Okay, spill." You blinked, turning toward Mika, who was watching you with a knowing smirk.

"What?"

"That was your ‘I’m overthinking my entire life face."

"You’re imagining things."

Mika snorted. "I’m not." She nudged you, leaning in. "Come on. Tell your favorite coworker what’s eating you."

You huffed. "I’m just… figuring some things out."

Mika’s smirk widened. "Sounds like you need a drink."

The invitation was simple enough, but unease twisted low in your stomach—tight and intrusive. Would Tetsurou let you? Did you need to text him? The thought felt foreign, unsettling—like a question you shouldn’t have to ask.

Before you could answer, Inuoka caught your attention. He stood a few feet away, ever-present, watchful. Mika’s eyes followed yours immediately. "Wait. Who’s that?"

You sighed. "My shadow, apparently."

Mika raised a brow. "Huh. He cute?"

You shot her a flat look. "Seriously?"

Mika smirked, completely unfazed. Before she could keep going, you exhaled and muttered, “Give me a sec.”

You set the clipboard down and took a few steps away from the nurses’ station, just enough to get some distance from prying eyes. Inouka followed the movement easily, his posture as still and unreadable as ever.

"So, do you talk, or is this part of the whole ‘silent bodyguard’ thing?"

Inuoka, without missing a beat—"I talk when necessary."

He wasn’t Lev—he didn’t make small talk or hover awkwardly. He was collected. Professional. Too professional. You rolled your eyes. "Of course you do."

Then—your gaze flickered to his arm. "Saw your tattoo yesterday.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “And?”

You tilted your head. “What’s it of?”

A beat.

His expression didn’t change. His body language barely shifted. But there was something about the pause—just a little too deliberate. Then—he answered. Smooth. Casual. Practiced.

"Just some old folklore. Nothing interesting."

Something in your stomach tightened. It wasn’t his words. It was the way he said them. Still, you nodded, keeping your expression neutral. "Looked cool."

Then, before the silence could stretch, you turned back toward the nurses’ station, grabbing a stack of patient files.

You moved through your rounds, forcing the interaction with Inouka out of your head. It was nothing. Probably. Still, that slight pause—that too-easy answer—lingered somewhere in the back of your mind. But you pushed it away. Focused. Worked.

Until—

You reached for a patient’s chart, scanning his discharge notes. Nothing out of the ordinary. Stable vitals, expected recovery time. A routine check-up. Easy.

You offered a standard greeting, voice steady, professional, the motions automatic. The patient grunted in response, shifting slightly against the hospital bed. And then—

The bandage on his arm slipped. A faint, acrid scent hit you first. Burned skin. Your breath caught. Beneath it—a scar. Jagged. Rough. Raised. Burned into an unmistakable shape. A dragon. Not inked—seared. Your fingers froze mid-reach. A slow, sick churn coiled in your stomach, pressing sharp against your ribs. It wasn’t just a burn—it was deliberate. Intentional.

A brand.

You forced yourself to move, to adjust the bandage like it hadn’t just sent ice crawling down your spine. Like your hands weren’t suddenly too cold. Your mind scrambled, but your body kept working on autopilot. Checking vitals. Asking routine questions. Going through the necessary steps like you weren’t staring at something that shouldn’t exist.

You didn’t ask. Didn’t comment. But your heart pounded harder with every second. Because you’d seen this before. On patients dragged in after gunfights, beatings, torture—faces unrecognizable, bodies barely holding on. And you knew what came next.

They vanished. No discharge papers. No transfer records. Just gone. Your throat tightened. How many times had you looked at a patient, knowing—knowing—they wouldn’t be there in the morning? And yet, you never questioned it. Never let yourself think too hard about what it meant. Because if you did—if you really put the pieces together—you might not like what you found.

That thought settled deep in your chest, heavy and unshakable. You should let it go. You always had before. But this time…

This time, something felt different. Something felt wrong. A flicker of memory surfaced before you could stop it. Just yesterday. Inuoka’s tattoo. The tail of something. Twisting.

But no. No, that had been different. Ink. Not a scar. A folklore. Not a dragon. And you hadn’t even seen the whole thing. You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself. It wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be the same. Right?

You shook it off. You finished your rounds. But your mind didn’t. Even as you signed off on patient reports, even as you moved to the next task, that image clung to the edges of your thoughts.

Burned skin. Raised scars. A dragon. A mark that didn’t just linger—it meant something. Something you weren’t supposed to understand. Something you weren’t supposed to see. You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself back into the rhythm of work, pushing through the last stretch of your shift.

And then—

“Alright,” Mika’s voice cut in, light and expectant. “Are you coming out or not?”

You blinked, momentarily thrown.

She arched a brow.

You hesitated. You opened your mouth, half-ready with some excuse—

Then—

Your phone chimed.

Tetsurou: You can go. Inuoka is staying with you. He’s there to keep you safe, not to ruin your night.

Your grip on your phone tightened. He already knew. You hadn’t even told him. How? Did Inuoka tell him? Or had he just… known? The thought unsettled you, winding tight in your chest.

Mika was still talking, oblivious to the way your mood shifted.

You forced your expression to stay neutral, pocketing your phone before she could notice. A slow inhale. A steady exhale. Then—

“Yeah, okay.” You pushed a smile onto your face, light, easy—like nothing was wrong. “Let’s go.”

—

The bar was packed, music pulsing low through the air. Mika was already two drinks in, laughing as she flirted with some guy at the counter. You, on the other hand—

Your gaze flicked toward the edge of the room, where you knew he was. Inuoka wasn’t sitting at the bar, wasn’t trying to blend in. He was stationed near the exit, keeping a casual but undeniable over you, just like he had been instructed. Your jaw clenched. With Mika momentarily distracted, you pushed off your seat, weaving through the crowd until you reached him.

"You don’t have to babysit me, you know," you muttered, arms crossing over your chest.

Inuoka barely reacted, just shifted his gaze toward you. "Not my call."

Your lips pressed into a thin line. "Seriously. You can relax. Go get a drink or something. I don’t need a shadow."

For the first time, he almost looked amused. "That’s not how this works."

You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair. "Right. Of course it isn’t."

Inuoka didn't say anything else. Just tilted his head slightly, as if studying you, before returning his focus to the room.

You turned, heading back toward Mika—when your phone buzzed.

Tetsurou: You don’t have to like it. Just don’t make his job harder than it has to be.

Your fingers curled around your phone. You had just walked away from Inuoka. Barely a minute had passed. There was no way he had time to report back—not unless Tetsurou had been watching the entire time.

A slow realization crept in, tightening around your chest.

Your gaze flicked around the bar, scanning the dimly lit space, the clusters of people, the hum of conversation. Nothing seemed out of place. Until—your eyes landed on a small, unassuming camera mounted near the ceiling. Another by the entrance. And a third tucked in the corner near the bar.

The cameras. That’s how.

You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral as Mika laughed beside you, oblivious. But your mind raced.

He was always there, wasn’t he? Whether you saw him or not. Whether you looked or not. Watching. Knowing. A presence you could feel, even when you weren’t supposed to.

The thought coiled around you, slow, suffocating. You swallowed down the irritation, forcing yourself to ease back into conversation with Mika, to nod and smile in the right places.

But it wasn’t just irritation that burned in your chest.

Just last night, it felt like an understanding had been reached. The weight of his presence in that dimly lit room, the way he spoke about your mother like it meant something, the quiet admission that she wouldn’t be disappointed in you—it settled something in you, something you hadn’t even realized was restless.

But this? This made you question if anything had changed at all. Had you actually gained any ground with him, or had he just let you think you had? Had that moment meant something, or had it just been another way for him to keep you exactly where he wanted?

The thought curled deep in your stomach, sharp and intrusive. The text still sat on your screen, glowing at you like a silent reminder.

You took a slow sip of your drink, rolling the ice against your teeth. Your fingers tapped against the glass. You weren’t planning on drinking much. At first.

But the more you thought about it, the more the realization gnawed at you. Nothing had changed. Maybe nothing would ever change. If he was watching, then fine—let him watch. So when Mika handed you another drink, you didn’t hesitate. Then another. And another.

The warmth spread under your skin, dulling the sharp edge of your thoughts. It wasn’t enough to drown them out completely, but enough to blur them, to make them feel distant. Like something you could deal with later. The music pulsed around you, bass thrumming through your ribs. Mika laughed beside you, tipping her head back as she clinked her glass against yours.

"See? Now you’re having fun," she teased.

You hummed, barely registering her words. Because no matter how many drinks you had, no matter how much you tried to melt into the haze of alcohol and distraction—

You still felt watched. Not by the guys stealing glances from across the bar. Not by Mika, who was already three drinks ahead and too busy flirting with the bartender.

By him.

Because even with Inuoka stationed near the exit, it wasn’t his presence you felt. It was Tetsurou’s. The weight of his gaze. The certainty that he was out there, watching. Knowing exactly where you were. Exactly what you were doing.

You exhaled slowly, but it did nothing to cool the frustration burning in your chest. You tossed back the last of your drink, savoring the burn.

It didn’t help.

The bass of the music still throbbed under your skin, but the haze in your head was starting to shift—no longer warm, no longer soft. You needed air.

Pushing off the bar, you wove through the crowd, stepping outside. The cold hit immediately, a sharp contrast to the warmth buzzing beneath your skin. You exhaled slowly, letting the crisp air settle deep in your lungs. But then–

A slow prickle at the back of your neck. Faint at first. Barely Noticeble. Then heavier. More certain. The kind of weight that made the hairs on your arms rise. Like you weren’t alone. You glanced around, searching for cameras, for anything that might explain the weight pressing against your skin—but there was nothing. Yet, the feeling didn’t fade. It clung to you. Cold. Unshakable. Your shoulders tensed, instinct flaring, but—

Nothing. Just the street. The sidewalk. A couple laughing near the curb. You exhaled sharply, shaking it off. Tetsurou’s world is making you paranoid. You were imagining things. That’s all this was. You squared your shoulders, forcing the tension from your muscles.

And just as you did. The bar door swung open, and Mika stepped outside, stretching her arms over her head with a dramatic sigh. "Alright, lightweight, let me call us an Uber."

You hummed in agreement, head tilting back slightly, eyes slipping shut. Then—

A car pulled up. Sleek. Dark. Deliberate. The passenger window rolled down.

"Get in."

Your stomach dropped.

Inuoka.

Mika perked up, eyes flicking between you and the car. "Ohhh, so the shadow is your boyfriend."

You groaned, pressing your fingers to your temple. "No, he’s just—" You sighed. "He’s just a friend."

Mika smirked. "Uh-huh. A friend who shows up with a car the second we need a ride?"

"Shut up and get in the car," you muttered, shoving her lightly toward the door.

She giggled but complied, sliding into the backseat. The whole ride, she chatted. Laughing, teasing, completely unfazed, blissfully unaware of the tension stretching thick between you and Inuoka. You, on the other hand—

Your stomach churned. The alcohol sat heavier now, no longer a pleasant buzz but a slow, creeping weight in your veins. You tried not to focus on the way Inouka’s hands gripped the wheel, steady and controlled. Or the fact that he hadn’t said a single word since the moment you stepped into the car.

Until–

Mika was dropped off. She waved as she stepped out, shooting you one last teasing look before shutting the door behind her. And just like that—

The silence inside the car grew heavier. The absence of Mika’s chatter left a void, pressing in on you. The streetlights flickered past in a slow blur, but the quiet stretched longer, tighter.

Inuoka shifted into drive, finally speaking. "Feel better?"

You blinked, head tilting slightly. "What?"

A beat.

"You’re mad at my boss," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You’re not subtle."

Your fingers curled against your knee. "I don’t know what you’re talking about," you muttered.

Inuoka didn’t react right away. Just let the silence hang between you for a second longer than necessary. Then, finally—he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly.

"Lie to yourself all you want."

That made your jaw clench. You turned, gaze snapping toward him. "Does he always have to do this?"

The car rolled to a smooth stop at a red light. Inuoka didn’t even blink. "It’s what he does."His voice wasn’t mocking, wasn’t even sharp—just matter-of-fact. Unapologetic.

You exhaled sharply, pressing your fingers against your temple. You hated that answer almost as much as you hated how unsurprised you were to hear it.

The rest of the drive was silent.

When the car finally pulled up to the building, you stepped out, the cool night air biting at your skin. The shift in temperature should have sobered you up.

It didn’t.

By the time you stumbled into the penthouse, the buzz had settled into something heavier. Your movements weren’t entirely uncoordinated, but you weren’t exactly graceful either.

You knew he would be awake. Still, you didn’t expect him to be right there. Which was why you nearly ran into him.

Tetsurou.

Standing near the living room, whiskey in hand, golden eyes sharp and unreadable as they raked over you—your rumpled clothes, slightly unsteady stance. the haze in your eyes. His jaw clenched. "You’re drunk."

You scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "No shit, genius." The movement threw off your balance slightly, and you swayed.

A firm grip caught your elbow before you could fully register it. Steady. Certain. Your breath hitched. But just as quickly as he had grabbed you, he let go. His lips pressed into a thin line. Then, after a slow sip of his drink, he muttered—

"This is why you need someone watching you."

That—

That pissed you off. Your irritation from earlier slammed back into you, hot and sharp. "You mean like how you were watching me tonight?"

Something in his expression flickered. Subtle. Quick. But you caught it.

The way he was looking at you—sharp, unreadable—sent something uneasy curling in your gut. Maybe you had pushed too far. Maybe—

No.

Your voice was accusatory, edged with something sharp. "You knew I was going out before I even told you.” You narrowed your eyes. “How?"

A beat of silence.

Then—his gaze flickered, but his expression remained unreadable. "Inouka had eyes on you."

You let out a sharp, incredulous laugh as you stepped closer, arms crossing tightly over your chest. "Bullshit, there’s no way Inouka had time to tell you.” Your voice was steadier than it should have been, considering the alcohol humming in your veins. "You hacked the cameras."

His jaw ticked, the only sign that your words had landed.

"I was there, remember?" You pressed on, stepping closer, fueled by frustration. "When you had Kenma hack into the hospital footage. So tell me—how long have you been watching me? Or do I even want to know?"

He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, a slow, measured movement. "I watch when I need to. Like tonight."

Your breath hitched. Your pulse thudded in your ears. "That’s not normal."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Neither is patching up criminals in the middle of the night, but here we are."

"I've been on my own for years." Your voice came out lower now, rougher. "I don’t need you monitoring me like some fucking science experiment."

"That’s not what this is"

Your jaw clenched. "Then what is it?" You stepped forward, eyes locked onto his—too fast. The room tilted slightly, just enough to make you regret the movement. "Because I am safe. I’m out of my shitty neighborhood. I don’t have to watch my back every second—that’s part of why I agreed to your deal. That’s what I thought this was."

His grip tightened around his glass. His jaw flexed, like he was warring with something. 'You don’t get it.'”

Your stomach twisted. "Then explain it," you snapped. "What am I missing here? I thought I was done looking over my shoulder. But you—you’ve just changed the direction I’m looking."

Silence.

His golden eyes flicked to yours. For a split second, something shifted—too fast to name, too deep to ignore.

That did something. His jaw tightened. His fingers flexed slightly at his sides. The air between you shifted. For a second, you thought he might actually say it. Might actually tell you whatever it was that made his grip on your life so unshakable. But then—

His exhale was sharp. Measured. The moment slipped. His expression smoothed over, closing you out. And then he stepped back. Like he's choosing restraint.

"Go to bed."

A beat.

"Before you cross a line neither of us can walk back from."

Your breath caught. Your pulse pounded at your temples, a dozen thoughts pressing against the inside of your skull. He was the one stepping back? After everything? You swallowed But instead of answering, you turned on your heel—too fast. The movement threw you off balance for half a second, your foot catching awkwardly.

Tetsurou’s hand twitched—like he was ready to steady you again. He could’ve caught you. He should’ve. But he didn’t.

You caught yourself before you could fall, breath uneven, heat curling behind your ribs. Not from the alcohol. From something worse. You stormed toward your room, the click of your door behind you louder than it should have been.

It wasn’t just that you were angry. It wasn’t even just that he had been watching you. As you sank onto your bed, the silence settling around you—

His words pressed at the edges of your thoughts.

And the worst part? A line was crossed tonight. Because when he didn’t steady you—

It hurt more than it should have.

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hoeneymilktea · 3 months ago

Text

deciphered ✧ tooru oikawa chapter 10 | daikokufuto race

Your cousin, Hajime Iwaizumi—whom you haven't seen in a long time, invited you to support him at the largest street racing event in Tokyo. He told you he was a part of the Seijoh Brawlers, one of the notorious top five gangs affiliated with the underground street racing scene. Once he introduced you to his leader, Tooru Oikawa, a.k.a. Cypher—your interest piqued, curiously wanting to understand the true meaning behind his alleged nickname.

✧ pairing — tooru oikawa / afab reader ✧ genre — erotica/smut, action romance, crime romance, dark romance (absolutely no dv/sa), psychological thriller, crime/detective mystery ✧ rating — very explicit, 18+ mdni ✧ chapter word count — 17.5k ✧ content warnings — violence, street racing, references to drugs, explicit sexual content, heavy angst. see below break for chapter specific warnings ↴

author's note — This fanfic is inspired by the beautiful and amazing fanart of Street Racer AU Tooru Oikawa. Artist is @aikk00. disclaimer — I do not condone the romanticization of the yakuza or the reality of gang life as I intended not to portray that kind of interpretation, nor promote the activity of illegal street racing. Do not seek out these types of experiences as this work is just a piece of fiction. Please remember to read at your own risk.

backseat lovers ⇠ daikokufuto race ⇢ my letters to you

✧ chapter specific content warnings: smoking, unfortunate events, blood, violence

You watched the sunset go down along the Tokyo skyline, the orange hue penetrating behind Oikawa’s side profile. His eyes shifted towards yours, the ends of his mouth curling up while he placed his left hand on your thigh.

“Are you excited?”

Smiling back, you gave him a quick chuckle and turned your head back onto the road. The tall bridge suspensions flashed forward as Oikawa pressed on the accelerator, taking his hand off your thigh to switch gears. Immediately, he placed his fingers back on your leg, tracing his index finger up and down the inseam of your pants.

You looked up into the rearview mirror and saw Iwaizumi’s white Subaru WRX STI following closely behind; Kuroo and Leia to your left in another lane. Once the engine of his red Nissan 350Z caught up next to Oikawa’s vehicle, their tinted windows rolled down. Kuroo exposed the same dragon tattoo on his right arm while the contradicting black sunglasses worn only at night rested on the bridge of his nose.

He gave a salute with two fingers towards Oikawa, revving his engine as he sped up in front of him. You heard a lighthearted chuckle to your left before feeling the transmission shift, the car pulling forward to catch up.

Oikawa was wearing his infamous Seijoh Brawlers bomber jacket again, white and shiny from the reflection of the sun. With his hand placed firmly on your thigh, you looked down at his long fingers—a dagger on his index, a cross on his middle, and the words “with God” written above his knuckles in kanji.

It was the beginning of April, where the start of Spring and the night of the Daikoku Futo car meet and underground street race took place. The one a few months ago where you met Oikawa was in the heart of Downtown Tokyo, a long trip away from the small wharf island you both were headed to. A couple of weeks ago, Oikawa had taken you out there to drift—and to do other things as well.

The trip down was familiar, recognizing all the landmarks and bridges along the way. This time, Oikawa was the one driving as you relaxed back into the seat, fixating your eyes on the bright sunset dropping down into the water. With the windows rolled down, you felt the cold and crisp Spring night air against your cheeks as the roar of Oikawa’s RX-7 echoed in your ears.

When you arrived at Daikoku Futo, the parking lot reeked of gasoline and loud music—the place packed to the brim filled with all kinds of cars, racing gangs, and people, all there to catch a glimpse of the races happening later. You recognized the same gangs as before from the Downtown Tokyo race; the sleek colored bomber jackets resting on the shoulders of the Fukurodani Squad, Karasuno Killers, and Nekoma Crew members.

The parking lot was crowded with regular car enthusiasts, all of whom were just there to show off their creative expression—large body decals and neon LED rim lights attached underneath their side skirts and bumpers. Most cars were just domestics, until you saw a crowd of people around a dark blue 1967 Ford Mustang with two white stripes down the middle—something you’d only ever find in older western movies. Old American imports were rare to find, so it was no surprise people were taking interest just to get a glimpse of it.

“Admiring Rambo’s ride?”

You looked back at Oikawa smiling to himself, his attention focused on finding a parking space large enough for all of the Seijoh Brawlers to settle down in—The Brawlers’ Pit, as they like to call it. He turned his head for a second, the smile remaining on his face.

“Who?”

“Wakatoshi Ushijima. It’s his first race back after a while.”

“Huh.” You placed your hand on the car window, leaning your head inward as you spotted a group of men in dark purple bomber jackets around the Ford Mustang. “First race back? What happened?”

“He went AWOL a couple years back when the Shiratorizawa Saints were actually considered in the top five before the Karasuno Killers picked up their feet.” He looked straight at an empty parking space, large enough for the Seijoh Brawlers to reside in as they followed closely behind him.

“His nickname’s Rambo?” You questioned, placing your left hand on the car door armrest as you reclined back into your seat. The Inarizaki Bois were only a few cars away, staring intently at Oikawa and the rest of the Seijoh Brawlers back-in to a few parking spaces, rear side facing inward. “That’s kinda funny-sounding.”

“Well, no one actually calls him Rambo except for the Red Devil himself.” Oikawa explained, placing his foot on the clutch as he shifted into first gear, pulling up the emergency brake. “It’s because he’s built like Sylvester Stallone in the Rambo Movies. Though, in my opinion, Stallone would have been a better nickname. Fits in with the Mustang he drives.”

He turned off the engine and leaned over to your side, grabbing your chin with his left hand to face him. Within a second, he pressed his lips against yours, giving you a soft and sensual kiss. Before pulling away, he gave you his infamous smirk—his eyes hooded down, and the left side of his mouth curled up. Yet, this time, you noticed there wasn’t a mischievous intention behind it.

“My love.”

You smiled, looking up into his eyes before grabbing the door handle to open it slightly—just for Oikawa to pull you in for another kiss. He placed his left hand on your face as his lips smashed into yours, swaying his mouth open while his right hand grasped your forearm, yanking the door back in. When he pulled away and opened his eyes again, he exhaled softly against your lips; his hot breath trickling against your chin before tilting your head and placing two kisses against your jaw, whispering in your ear.

“You know how I feel about you opening the door by yourself. Let me.”

Even after a couple months of dating, you’ve never once opened the door for yourself. You kept wondering if it was because he didn’t want you to touch his car handles, but Oikawa laughed and reassured that it wasn’t the case. He genuinely believed it was a basic gesture for treating his girlfriend with respect.

Like always, Oikawa turned off the ignition before stepping out of the RX-7, shutting the driver’s side door closed before walking over to your side and swinging yours open. His tall figure stood over; taking off his white Seijoh Brawlers Bomber jacket and handing it over for you to wear.

Underneath, he wore his Off-White open button up shirt; the fit slightly oversized atop a teal short sleeve, showing off his lean and toned body. He extended his arm out, offering his hand to help you up from your seat.

Leia helped you pick out an outfit to dress according to the car meet standards—nothing too complex or intricate where it made you stand out like a sore thumb, but also nothing too basic or comfy compared to her specified taste. In the end, you had nothing similar to what she wanted, so she forced you to go shopping and wear the exact same outfit just with different jackets—hers, DK’s red Nekoma Crew bomber while yours, Oikawa’s white Seijoh Brawlers bomber.

She always stuck to her basics, skin tight black cargo pants with a black mock neck long-sleeved sheer top, almost exposing a lacy black bralette underneath, the same one from when you first met her. DK’s Nekoma Crew bomber jacket rested over her shoulders eloquently while you had on the exact same outfit—matching down the same black boots she lent you. She loved the idea of “twinning with her bestie” and “showing these other basic bitches at the meet what you two were made of”.

Although it was something out of your comfort zone, both Leia and Oikawa reassured you looked “absolutely smoking hot” in the outfit, raising your confidence to an appropriate level. Oikawa kept touching you more than usual, grazing his hands along your waist and up and down your thigh—not a single moment passed where at least one of his fingers wasn’t on your body.

You stepped out of the car dusting off your tight black cargo pants, the boots on your feet reaching the ground. The street lights surrounding the Daikoku Futo parking lot shined bright against all the cars, the night sky already up in the air. In the distance, you saw Leia and Kuroo walking towards you, waving their hands from side to side.

Leia yelled out your name as she started running towards you, her work boots clicking against the asphalt. Her and Kuroo had on their black sunglasses, always confusing you as to why they wore them strictly at night. “My bitch!”

You smiled and waved your hands up in the air as Oikawa shut the car door behind you, pressing the lock button twice on his car keys. Kuroo followed closely behind Leia, both of his hands placed firmly into the pockets of his red cargo pants. He nodded his head up at Oikawa, shooting him a smirk before placing a hand on Leia’s shoulder.

“You look so hot, I know a bad bitch when I see one.” Leia winked, lightly slapping your ass with her left hand. You jolted forward, surprised by her actions as you rubbed the back of your thigh.

“I agree.” Oikawa chimed in behind you, placing another slap on your ass right after Leia.

“Okay, okay. Tetsurou’s still here, calm yourselves.” You exhaled, slightly embarrassed but still nervously chuckling along with the both of them. They gave you a cheeky smile before Leia linked her arm under yours, bringing you closer to her body.

Kuroo cleared his throat as he looked away, visibly disturbed. He noticed Kita hopping off the hood of his Nissan Silvia, a cigarette placed firmly in between his lips with his hands shoved into his pockets. He had on a brand new Inarizaki Bois hoodie, probably replacing the one that got slashed and tarnished a couple weeks earlier.

Kita really did live up to his nickname because the second you saw him hop off his car, he instantly popped up next to Kuroo without a trace from in between. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaled a cloud of smoke, placing it in between his fingers as he flicked away the ash on the tip.

“Evening, fellas.” Kita piped in, focusing the attention on himself as he brought up the cigarette to his lips again, inhaling another drag of smoke.

“Sly.” Oikawa nodded his head, placing both of his hands in the pockets of his black jeans as Kita offered the cigarette in his direction. He raised his hand up, shaking his head in rejection before pulling out his own e-cigarette and inhaling vapor off the little bar.

“No thanks, I’ve switched to this instead.” Oikawa exhaled the opaque clouds through his teeth, wisps of vapor ascending up and dissipating into the night sky.

“Damn. What happened to the three of us smoking Sakanoshita’s cigars like the good ol’ days?” Kita cocked an eyebrow as he itched at the bandaid on his cheek. His eyelids remained hooded down as he dragged his clipped fingernails along the right side of his neck, where his infamous Inarizaki Bois snake tattoo remained. He turned to Kuroo, offering the lit cigarette in his direction.

“Sure. I’ll take a hit, why not?” Kuroo extended his arm out as Kita placed the cigarette between his fingers, handing it off to him. He shoved the filter in the middle of his lips, inhaling the smoke before his eyes shot wide open, coughing profusely as he dropped the cigarette on the ground. Placing his fist against his mouth, he hacked up a dry heave while crouching over.

Kita laughed, placing his hands in his pockets to pull out his box of cigarettes and a zippo-style lighter coated in a black-colored gunmetal. “I need a goddamn blunt, I can’t keep relying on these little fuckers anymore.”

As the three of them conversed within themselves, you caught up with Leia. You looked over your shoulder and noticed Iwaizumi and the rest of the Seijoh Brawlers propping open the hood of their cars, inspecting each and every part—making sure they were all ready to race. You then turned your head into the opposite direction, looking over at the brand new gang you haven’t seen before. You leaned towards Leia, pointing your finger at the man you saw earlier with the 1967 dark blue Ford Mustang.

“Who’s that guy?” You recalled, not bothering to remember what his name was despite Oikawa already explaining earlier.

“Oh, Wakatoshi Ushijima, my ex?” Leia cocked her eyebrow at you, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Ex?” Your eyes widened, your head slightly tilting towards her. Leia shifted her body forward, leaning off Oikawa’s RX-7.

“Yeah, ex-boyfriend. I used to date him when my brother was still alive. I met him through Keishin, actually—back when he used to go by Ukai and race for the Karasuno Killers.” Leia pouted her lips as she looked directly at Ushijima talking to a man in a dark purple bomber jacket with the moniker “Red Devil” on the back.

The nickname clicked familiar in your head, recognizing when Oikawa mentioned Ushijima's status from a couple years ago. “Tooru said he goes by Rambo.”

“Yeah, no one really calls him that though. Personally, I always called him Stallone. It’s actually what everyone calls him anyways.” Leia smiled and placed her hands inside her cargo pants. Oikawa mentioned that before; saying he thought it was a better fitting nickname for him.

“The Shiratorizawa Saints were known for never racing dirty because Ushiwaka’s father was a cop, that’s why he has that old American beauty—it used to be his dad’s. They actually were the top street racing gang even before the Nekoma Crew or the Seijoh Brawlers were ever formed.”

You looked back at Ushijima, a stoic expression plastered on his face as he talked to another man with grey hair and his eyebrows tilted down, a look similar to Iwaizumi’s aloof gesture. “Tooru also mentioned he went AWOL. Is that true?”

“Yeah, he went missing a few years ago, no one knew where he went. After his disappearance, they fell from the top five. Behind their backs, everyone started calling them the Shiratorizawa Sinners because they lost their best racer, diminishing their gang down to the bottom.”

You turned your head back at Ushijima, his big and tall figure towering over the men he was talking with. The dark purple bomber jacket on his shoulders looked small compared to his torso, just barely fitting past his long arms. It seemed Leia had a type—first Ushijima and now Kuroo, only going after men with large muscular builds.

“Some people said it was because of him, the Red Devil.” Leia pointed at the man with spiky red hair and a long, ominous grin on his mouth—the ends of his thin lips reaching from ear to ear. “But Tetsurou and I found out that wasn’t the case.”

“Really?” You lifted both of your eyebrows, not taking your eyes off the crowd surrounding the Shiratorizawa Saints.

“Yeah, it’s a long story though. I’ll tell you later about it.”

None of the racers in their gang had matching car colors like the Seijoh Brawlers, Nekoma Crew or Inarizaki Bois. All of their members had their own unique car color and model; noticing the guy with grey hair previously talking to Ushijima leaning against a black 1999 Acura NSX-T. He crossed his arms over his chest, the back of his dark purple bomber jacket labeled “Shadow”.

“Is this (y/n)?” Kita chimed in, pointing his index finger nonchalantly at you. He gave you a reassuring smirk, one that was different to Oikawa’s or Kuroo’s.

“Yeah, that’s her!” Leia grabbed your arm, pulling you up from RX-7. She leaned in close to your face, whispering into your ear. “Introduce yourself.”

You grabbed Kita’s cold and bony hands, shaking his palm delicately. He had his hood over his white hair, dark eyebags forming underneath his bottom lashes. A bandaid rested against his left cheek, a few scars up above on his right eyebrow and underneath his chin. He stood just a little shorter than both Kuroo and Oikawa, but nonetheless just as intimidating.

“Shinsuke Kita of the Inarizaki Bois, but you can call me Sly Fox. I work with Cypher and DK sometimes.” A few cigarette ashes stained the tips of his fingers as he released his grip on your hand, placing it back into his front pocket. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, Sly Fox.”

He gave you a smile before looking down at his feet, leaning over his body. In an instant, he turned around, looking back at the Inarizaki Bois vaping e-cigarettes and smoking joints. The smell of marijuana clouded your nose, infiltrating all throughout the parking lot. Kita whipped his head back, the same sly smile remaining on his lips. “Say, are you hungry?”

Leia chimed in, grabbing your shoulders and digging her fingers into your skin as you both jolted forward.

“Yeah, she’s hungry. I am too.” Her voice sounded rushed and impulsive, begging for food.

Kita chuckled, pointing his thumb back at the Inarizaki Bois. “One of my boys, Ghost, owns a shop called Onigiri Miya. You can go over and get some for free if you’d like. Just tell them Sly Fox sent ya.”

Leia excitedly chuckled against your ear, patting your shoulders roughly three times. “Go on, go get some for me.”

“What? Why don’t you come with me?” You asked as she took Oikawa’s bomber jacket off your shoulders, exposing your sheer top. Leia rolled her eyes and placed her hands right underneath your shoulder blades, pushing you forward in the direction of the Inarizaki Bois.

“Look, Atsumu Miya is over there. I fucking hate that prick because he fucked up my car a while ago. I can’t be near that fucker, he’s just gonna piss me off.” She pushed you forward again, Oikawa’s bomber jacket slipping entirely off your arms. “Don’t be shy, you’re a bad bitch, remember?”

Your boots dragged along the asphalt as she pushed you further towards the Inarizaki Bois before stopping in place. Looking back, you saw Leia cover her head with Oikawa’s bomber jacket, trying to hide herself behind Kuroo from Atsumu Miya. Oikawa leaned forward and yanked his jacket from atop her head, to which she swung a fist in the air, punching the side of his arm in return.

You turned back around, fixing the top of your cargo pants before placing your hands into the two main pockets. While looking around, you spotted the small shop stand in the corner, a few racers lining up and paying for the small rice balls on top of a long table. The man handing out the food and taking orders wore a black cap and a fitted black shirt, the exact same snake tattoos Kita had on his body imprinted on the side of his neck.

What was left of his short hair peeked out under the cap, a few strands of dyed gray locks resting against his ears. The line was long, and you were quite keen for food—in addition, Leia was waiting for her portion as well. You didn’t want to take too long, and wondered if it was appropriate to just go up to him instead, cutting the line. Sly Fox said it was okay, right?

The end of the table had premade onigiri, all wrapped in plastic with the pull tabs and everything. As you passed the section containing the Inarizaki Bois and their cars, smoke infiltrated through your nose, instantly slicing through the opaque clouds of marijuana and cigarettes. A few eyes laid on you—one of them you recognized as Atsumu Miya, leaning against the front of his car.

His arms crossed over his black Inarizaki Bois hoodie, dressed exactly the same as Kita from head to toe. On the back of his hoodie in a slanted font with all capital letters, the moniker “Thrasher” was plastered across from one side to the other. In the corner of your eyes, you saw him give you a sly smirk, similar to Kita’s. It must have been an Inarizaki Bois quirk because when you turned your head back to the onigiri stand, Osamu was giving the exact same one as well.

You looked back in the distance—watching Oikawa, Kuroo and Kita have a deep conversation together as Leia placed DK’s bomber jacket over her head while leaning over the RX-7, patiently waiting for you to grab food. Shoving both of your hands into the front pockets of your cargo pants, you exhaled through your nose and walked up to the front of the line.

You approached the edge of the table, raising your right hand up to speak to Osamu. The same snake tattoo rested on the left side of his neck, just like the rest of the Inarizaki Bois. An intricate black and white fox tattoo rested on his right arm, trailing all the way up his bicep. He fixed all of his attention on his long line of customers, not even noticing you cutting the line.

“Uh, hello?” You cleared your throat, waving your hand to get his attention. He continued to pack the premade onigiri into plastic bags, handing them out to car enthusiasts and street racers. Not trying to be rude, you raised your hand again and reiterated your greeting. “Uh, hello, excuse me. Sly Fox sent me here.”

Osamu didn’t notice your attempt to communicate and continued to pack the onigiri into bags. Irritated, you grabbed a few plastic wrapped rice balls into your hands without saying a word. The onigiri felt warm against your palm, the inside of the plastic forming droplets of condensation from the freshly cooked rice and seaweed. You looked up at Osamu again, his attention everywhere else except on you.

“I’ll just take these if that’s okay,” you raised your voice, backing up from the stand, waving a rice ball in the air.

Just as you were about to turn around, two rough hands grabbed onto each of your arms behind you, digging their rings into your skin. Instantaneously, you whipped your head back, only to be greeted by another tall man in an Inarizaki Bois hoodie—a bandaid resting on the side of his jaw and the same snake tattoo on the left side of his neck.

You looked up, noticing his thin, foxlike green irises—the whites of his eyes strained and red in color. He furrowed his eyebrows, half of his middle part slicked back against his dark brown hair and the other part wisped over his forehead. In the corner of your eye, you looked at your left shoulder, noticing a joint rested in between his index and middle finger—the crutch digging down into your skin while the tip emitted a trail of smoke next to your ear.

“You know you have to pay for those, babygirl.”

His croaked voice was dark yet soft-sounding, his breath smelling like marijuana. You winced at the nickname he called you, scrunching your nose and curling down the ends of your mouth. Placing the bundle of onigiri closer to your chest, the man leaned in, tightening his grip on your shoulders as his silver rings grazed against your sheer top.

“We have a policy here to punish thieves.” He smirked slyly, the same one you saw on Kita, Atsumu and Osamu.

“Uh, I was sent here by Sly Fox,” you jolted your head back when his face got a little close for your comfort. “He said I could get some food for free.”

You pointed over at Kita behind the man, his legs spreading slightly in the straight-fit black jeans he was wearing. Sly Fox was displayed on the back of his hoodie in a slanted and sliced font as he stood firmly on his feet. The man in front of you looked over his shoulder straight at Kita, exposing his own racer nickname on the back of his hoodie.

Enigma, it read. A name with a similar meaning to Oikawa’s own Cypher.

He released his grip on your shoulder, bringing his right hand up to his face as he brought the joint right up in between his lips. The man inhaled a large hit, the tip of the blunt burning red from his long drag. He tilted his head back and opened his mouth, letting all of the smoke escape past the front of his teeth. After exhaling the rest into the air, a whiff of his marijuana breath infiltrated your nose.

He cocked an eyebrow and handed you the joint. “How important are you to know who Sly Fox is?”

Although you weren’t against the idea of smoking marijuana, you turned down his offer because you didn’t accept any kind of drugs from strange men, especially ones that you’ve never met before. “Uh, who are you, first of all?”

“Rintarou Suna. People here call me Enigma.”

The infamous Inarizaki Bois smirk grew across his face as he brought his left hand up to his forehead, running his fingers through his left middle part while pushing his bangs back. “And who’re you, babygirl?”

“Please don’t call me that, I have a boyfriend.” You snapped back as your eyelids thinned, still wincing at him. Suna chuckled, placing his hand inside his pocket.

“Relax, I just wanted to know your name.” Nonchalantly, he nodded his head up while peering down at you. The redness in his eyes made him a lot more intimidating than he should have been, the blood vessels in his sclera almost ready to burst right next to his irises.

Your eyes thinned just like his, hesitant to give him your name. Nonetheless, you mumbled out your first name, watching his expression lighten up.

Suna’s eyes widened as the right side of his mouth curled up into a smirk. He placed the joint from his fingers in between his lips, extending his right hand out to greet you. Mumbling through his teeth, he sucked in a breath of air through the crutch of the joint, letting out another exhale. “Oh, thee (y/n). Indigo’s cousin.”

You brought the onigiri closer to your chest, the warmth of the rice feeling hot against your black sheer top. Shaking his hand, you felt the grip of his multiple silver rings digging into your fingers. Confused about his statement, you raised your eyebrows and titled your head down. Indigo sounded familiar, but you ultimately forgot which racer that nickname belonged to.

“Who?”

“You don’t know your own cousin’s nickname? Interesting.” Suna dragged his fingernail against the inside of your palm, slightly tickling your skin as he let go of your hand. Pursing your lips, you gave him an uncomfortable expression before he placed the joint in between his fingers again. “Kinda figured; you look nothing like him. Are you sure you’re his cousin, or are you lying to me?”

“Watch your fucking mouth.” You instantly retracted your hand back, wiping your palm on your cargo pants. A scowl formed on your face, the corners of your lips turned down while your eyebrows cinched in. Irritated as you were, Suna chuckled—a slight cough erupting from his lips.

“Ooh, feisty. Playing hard to get, I see. I like that about you.”

You winced, a visible expression of discomfort resting on your face. Clutching the onigiri closer to your body, you tried your best to move him out of the way—shoving his right shoulder to the left. “Um, okay? Bye.”

Suna grabbed your forearm, restricting you from moving any further. He smiled straight at you again, despite the uncomfortable expression on your face. “Relax, I was just teasing.”

The silver rings on his fingers pressed cold against your sheer top, your skin able to feel the touch of the metal as he tightened his grip around your wrist. Just before letting go, Suna placed his fingers up to his lips again, inhaling another hit off the joint. He released a cloud of smoke through his nose, elucidating that he wasn’t done speaking.

“Anyways, you seem pretty cool—I wanna smoke you out.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard what I said, I wanna smoke you out. We can sit in my car, light another joint and listen to Biggie. Maybe even Tupac or Ice Cube, if you’re into that.”

It seemed almost too peculiar; his attitude and behavior almost mimicked Oikawa’s when he first met you up to a certain point. Immediately, you could tell Suna was a cassanova—he had a cool, calm and collected demeanor while simultaneously still being an asshole. Why were all the street racers flirtatious? Was that a common thing for people, specifically women to experience in a car meet? Who did this guy think he was?

You slowly shook your head, declining his offer. “Listen, I’m sure that seems fun and all, but like I said, I have a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, and that boyfriend is me.” A familiar voice popped behind Suna, belonging to no other than the leader of the Seijoh Brawlers himself.

Suna turned around with the joint in between his lips, only to be met with Oikawa glaring straight into his eyes. He jolted back a bit as Oikawa lowered his eyelids, the bags underneath his lashes growing darker. A deep guttural sound emitted from the bottom of his throat as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Enigma, stop flirting with my girl.”

He scoffed before sucking his cheeks, inhaling a long drag from the filter. As he exhaled, he placed his left hand on Oikawa’s shoulder, patting his fingers against the bomber jacket fabric. “So she’s your girlfriend? You scored a pretty one, Cypher. You’re lucky you got to her first before I could.”

“Get lost, Enigma.”

“You’re on Inarizaki Bois territory, Cypher.”

Suna chuckled as he flicked the ash off the tip of his joint, placing his left hand inside his pants pocket before turning around in the direction of the Inarizaki Bois, walking away. He whipped his head to the side, the same smirk growing across his face. “Maybe I’ll see ya again sometime soon, (y/n). Don’t bring your boyfriend next time.”

Without looking back, Suna placed the filter in between his lips again, taking a long drag. Oikawa grabbed your forearm and kept your body close to his, guiding you back to the Brawlers’ Pit. You still carried the onigiri in your arms as he dragged you away, quickening his pace as he took long strides against the asphalt.

“Tooru, slow down, I still have a bunch of onigiri in my hands,” you requested, digging the bottom of your boots against the asphalt. Oikawa quickly turned around and gripped your shoulder, leaning his head close to yours. He kissed your cheek before sliding his lips towards your ear, loudly whispering against your helix.

“Don’t ever talk to him again, he’s dangerous.” He leaned back, dragging his hand down your arm while intertwining your fingers together, pulling you forward. You let go of your hand to hold up the rest of the onigiri against your chest, the food now feeling cold.

“What?! So are you though?” You raised an eyebrow, confused on how he could think Suna was dangerous. You wondered what he could have done, or what his reputation was amongst the underground street racing scene. “Who is that guy anyway?”

Oikawa shifted his eyes to the right, looking into the direction of the Inarizaki Bois. He made eye contact with Suna again, watching him place the joint back between his lips. While grabbing your arm, he pulled your body forward, forcing you to follow him back to his car.

Once you both were far from Osamu’s onigiri shop and the rest of the Inarizaki Bois, Oikawa leaned in close to your face, staring straight into your eyes. You could tell he was upset; the same eyes filled with rage and fury back when he rescued Kita that one night.

“That’s Rintarou Suna. He’s the best marijuana dealer in all of Tokyo.” Oikawa brought you closer to your chest as he looked over throughout his surroundings, checking to see if anyone could hear him.

“That’s it? You do the exact same thing.” You mumbled against his chest, squishing the onigiri in your arms.

“He threatens my business.” Oikawa removed his bomber jacket, placing it over your shoulders. “He’s too good at it. I can never get a single fucking clue about him or who he’s dealing to. He reminds me too much of myself.”

“Is that why you’re jealous of him?”

“Not jealous—afraid.”

The ends of his mouth shifted to the left, his eyebrows pinching close together. He released a guttural sound in the back of his throat, obviously irritated just by talking about Suna.

“Look, you need to stay away from him—or any of the Inarizaki Bois, for that matter. Including Sly Fox, even though he’s my business partner. They cause nothing but trouble.”

He slid his hand down to your waist—gliding his fingertips across your back against the sheer fabric of your top. In an instant, you felt his hand slip into the back pocket of your cargo pants, bringing you closer under his arm as you bumped into his side. “Also, he was flirting with you. Nobody fucks with my baby.”

Oikawa mentioned that before the Inarizaki Bois were formed, Suna used to be a frequent customer of his, coming almost weekly—one time, daily—for his regular dosages of a few grams. Once Kita initiated him in, Suna immediately dropped Oikawa as his plug. Within a few weeks, Oikawa saw him dealing his own corner—with nonetheless Kita himself.

Suna was the absolute best marijuana dealer out of all the Inarizaki Bois. He raked in big money for them; and drugs was his specialty, specifically the infamous green plant. It pissed off Oikawa; his business slowly diminishing until he only relied on the one source that never failed to make him the most money—cocaine.

Suna reminded Oikawa of himself—rising up to the top so fast, straight out of nowhere, just like when he was still in the Kitagawa clan back in Osaka. He especially became concerned when Kita would mention how well Suna was doing on his own when dealing with snitches, thieves and rival gang members. He remembered when he was still a quiet and observant guy—not knowing he was becoming more ruthless by the day.

It even scared him when he found out Suna was being called Enigma by the Inarizaki Bois—the nickname rooting off of his own, Cypher. He kept that same cool, calm, and collected yet mysterious, hard-to-crack demeanor—the exact same reason why Oikawa was nicknamed Cypher in the first place.

Kita and the rest of the Inarizaki Bois always had that aura to them. Kita created the Inarizaki Bois after he met Kuroo, suggesting he should form his own car club. At first, it really was only that—consisting of Aran Ojiro, a buddy of his growing up and a pair of twins that he introduced to Kita; Atsumu and Osamu Miya.

Just like Suna, the two of them were absolute beasts on the road, both almost just as good as Kita himself. While Suna followed a more tight knit regimen closer to Kita’s style of racing, Atsumu and Osamu had their own special technique—a completely unique form of driving compared to anyone else’s. It could only be performed with two people, and the Miya twins pulled it off extremely well.

Somehow, the underground racing scene didn’t like how Atsumu and Osamu had the exact same car—color, model, year, modifications—anything. It was almost impossible to distinguish one from the other. To restrict their privileges, they either allowed them to each get their own unique car, or only be counted as one racer all together—meaning if they win a race, only one of them gets counted, no prize money doubled either.

This led to a loophole formed by Atsumu himself—their special racing technique called the Twins’ Quick Attack. While racing, they both come up to their designated target; Osamu on the left and Atsumu on the right. They both would keep a constant speed, leveling up with the driver until Atsumu is able to catch them in a vulnerable spot. That’s when he would yank the wheel, ultimately thrashing into the side of their target’s car. He would do it a couple of times until it caught them off-guard, letting Osamu quickly maneuver through like a ghost, winning the race for the both of them.

Although being business partners with Kita led to them settling their differences, Oikawa always felt threatened by the Inarizaki Bois. They were always a hassle to deal with when racing, especially Suna. Back at the Downtown Tokyo race a few months ago, Iwaizumi explained that Suna would have almost won if he hadn’t pushed himself hard enough—it was the first time he saw you in a decade and he didn’t want to disappoint, nor make a fool out of himself.

Suna was in the lead until Iwaizumi remembered he still had a little bit of nitrous oxide left in his car’s system, ultimately pushing the WRX to the fullest extent towards the end of the race. He might have wrecked the engine and burned out his exhaust, but it was all worth it—he won the million yen and saw a smile on your face.

When Oikawa knew that Suna was giving Iwaizumi and the rest of the Seijoh Brawlers a hard time, that was when he knew he’d always be a threat, no matter what. Suna crossed the line when he started flirting with you—knowing exactly how he persuaded women to sleep with him. It was similar to the way Oikawa would get women to sleep with him too in the past—playing the “bad boy” façade, manipulating their perception of him just so it would be easier to get into their pants.

Unfortunately, he used that exact same tactic to get with you as well—playing the bad boy façade; using his past to manipulate your perception of him; making you feel sorry for his trauma and thinking he was someone different than he actually was. Little did he know, you truly cared for him; showing complete empathy to the false version he created of himself. It made him rethink his decisions and contemplate on his true intentions, completely regretting ever lying to you in the first place.

You both walked back over to Leia, Kuroo, and Kita, who were conveniently talking with three more people. You recognized them all, the one with spiky grey hair was Kotarou Bokuto; the one whose Mitsubishi Eclipse got wrecked in the Downtown Tokyo race.

The man standing right next to him in a grey bomber jacket with black hair was Keiji Akaashi, his expressionless yet intense stare reminding you of Iwaizumi. Finally, you recognized the same guy with his hair tied back into a small bun standing next to Kuroo—Kenma Kozume, the one who handed Oikawa the two million yen.

“Cypher, my dude!” Bokuto exclaimed enthusiastically with a large smile on his face, reaching out to do a basic handshake with two hand slaps and a fist bump. “Whaddup?! Been a long time, no see!”

“Nice to see you too, Blackjack.” Oikawa turned his head to greet Akaashi and Kenma with one head nod each—both of them returning the favor without saying a word. He pushed you in the direction of Leia before grabbing onto Kita’s forearm, pulling him away from the group.

As you were left to socialize, Oikawa dug his fingers into the fabric of Kita’s hoodie, his nails sinking deep into his skin. When they walked far enough; with all of his force, Oikawa pushed Kita back against a random car before grabbing onto the front of his Inarizaki Bois hoodie, grasping all of the thick fabric into his hand. Shoving his face close to his ear, Oikawa whispered an ominous threat—one that made Kita’s pupils constrict and slightly widen, an eyebrow cocked up to the side.

“Watch your fucking boys, Sly. Especially Enigma.”

His voice sliced through like a knife, animosity brooding behind his words. That was the first time Kita experienced Oikawa becoming aggressive with him. Usually he kept his cool, calm, and collected attitude—but in it of itself, that was just as frightening. You never knew when, where or with whom he would unhinge the treacherous and violent side of his personality. It all depended on what pissed him off and Kita knew exactly what—or who made that happen.

“Cypher, relax.”

Oikawa’s eyebrows furrowed before letting go of his grip, belligerence seeping out of his pupils. Kita swallowed hard, a stinging sensation forming in the back of his throat. He smelled like cigarette smoke and marijuana, the putrid scent of his clothes infiltrating through Oikawa’s nose. He glared back down at Kita before immediately turning around and walking back towards the group, his hands placed firmly into the pockets of his bomber jacket.

In the distance, he heard Bokuto’s boom of laughter erupt from his throat, loudly laughing in the middle of everybody. He had an energy drink in his right hand, sloshing the black and yellow container as he explained a story.

“…Yeah it fucking sucked dude, we had to bust out the shop loan to fix everything!” Bokuto maneuvered his hands all over the place, using his movements to speak more than his words.

“If only he knew how to drift.” Kuroo turned his head to Akaashi, who only shrugged in response.

“Hey! I do know how to drift, Spades has been teaching me!” Bokuto refuted, placing his left hand on his hip. His bomber jacket moved back a little bit, almost too small of a fit for his large figure. He turned to Akaashi for reassurance, for which all he responded with was an expressionless stare.

“Anyways,” Kuroo turned towards you, placing a large slap on Kenma’s back. He jolted forward, the tool belt around his waist sliding down his slim figure. “(y/n), this is Kenma Kozume, or formally known as Snake Eyes. Pretty sure you guys have heard of one another.”

Kenma softly smiled at you with his eyes hooded down. A bandaid rested across the bottom of his chin, a similar dragon tattoo situated on the right side of his neck, just like Kuroo and Oikawa. He extended his arm out, his slim and nimble fingers caressing against your palm as you shook his hand.

“Nice to finally meet you.”

“Same to you, Snake Eyes.”

You noticed Kenma’s right arm was decorated with intricate snake tattoos with their eyes wide open, similar to the design on Kita’s neck and the rest of the Inarizaki Bois. In his left hand, he carried a small half-eaten bag of chips, a few crumbs left over on the side of his cheek. He pulled his arm back before opening the bag and popping a few in his mouth, snacking on the chips while he faced Kuroo.

“Anyways, Snake Eyes here is going to be racing in for the Nekoma Crew this time.” Kuroo placed his arm around Leia, leaning back on Oikawa’s RX-7. She unwrapped the onigiri in her hands, taking a large bite out of the rice ball.

“Oh? I remember you guys mentioning he doesn’t race, though.” You crossed your arms, giving him a smile.

“I only race when it’s necessary,” Kenma pointed in the far distance towards the bundle of red and maroon cars in the opposite corner of the parking lot, a shiny red 2015 Toyota GT86 parked in the middle with a large black modified wing attached to the rear. “I also brought my eighty-six today, wanted to give her a spin tonight—you know, show her off and whatnot.”

You nodded as you looked at his car, admiring how the paint shined underneath the street lamps and how the drifting tires were thin with sleek black rims, dark as night. Kenma popped another chip into his mouth, a muffled crunch erupting from the back of his teeth as he chewed quickly on his snack.

Kenma fixed his eyesight on the figure behind you, nodding his head up to Oikawa as he continued to munch on his chips. “Cypher.”

“Snake Eyes,” Oikawa responded as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you in close. You continued to eat the onigiri in your hand as he reached down and grabbed one from your arm, unwrapping it in front of your face.

“Excited to race you.” Kenma wiggled his eyebrows up, popping another chip into his mouth.

Oikawa shoved the rice ball through his teeth before he could respond, shaking his head as he chewed. You heard him rush a swallow, covering back the half-eaten onigiri in his right hand. “Oh, no. I’m not participating in the second race. I only go with the thirds.”

You remembered Iwaizumi mentioning a couple months back how the third race was always reserved for the best and only the best—Oikawa, Kuroo and Kita always being the main participants in them. It was also the one that held the largest cash prize, the money coming from the underground street racing community pitching into the pot. Oikawa never bet larger than half of what he could, always gaining and never losing.

“I’m making Indy race instead,” Oikawa brought his right arm up again, placing another large bite into the onigiri. You scratched your head as you questioned to yourself who Indy was again, forgetting if he was referring to Iwaizumi. You recalled him always watching the American Indy 500 races on television with your father whenever they were on, sitting a little too close in front of the TV, cheering on for his favorite racers. “I’m sure you can handle him.”

Kenma crunched on another chip, intensely staring back at Oikawa. They locked eyes for a moment, an underlying tension between the both of them every time they had an interaction.

Nodding his head, Kenma copied the same cocky smirk Oikawa gave him. “Oh, we’ll see.”

“…But I wasn’t planning on racing tonight.” Iwaizumi rested his hands on the edge of Kyotani’s 1995 white Toyota MR2, the hood propped up while he scanned his eyes throughout the interior.

“Just do it, okay? I already told Snake Eyes you were racing.” Oikawa slipped his right hand through the back pocket of his black jeans, reaching in and grabbing the e-cigarette out of his pocket. Iwaizumi turned around and furrowed his eyebrows, glaring back at Oikawa with his gloved hands placed firmly on either side of his hips.

“Now, why would you do that?” Iwaizumi sneered, crossing his arms in the process.

“Because you’re the second best.” Kyotani peeked his head out from the driver’s side, his car door already wide open—hearing every bit of their conversation. “Hate to admit it, but you’re the best fit to race on their level.”

“Why don’t you race instead, Mad Dog?” Iwaizumi cocked an eyebrow, shutting the hood of his MR2. Kyotani chuckled as he revved the engine, hearing the cyclic gears grind as they tested the RPM speed.

“Fuck no,” Kyotani popped his head out again, looking directly between Iwaizumi and Oikawa. “I heard Thrasher and Ghost are participating too. Ya think I’m gonna fucking win against them?”

Iwaizumi scoffed, rolling his eyes to the side as he watched Oikawa take in a large hit off his e-cigarette, letting the thick, opaque cloud of vapor trickle out through his lips. He exhaled all at once, the smell of caramel and smoke exhaust penetrating through the air. Iwaizumi looked back across the parking lot over at you, Kenma, and Leia conversing with one another against the side of Kenma’s GT86, eating chips and onigiri while laughing.

“…So when I first started drifting, Kenma was trying to teach me instead of Tetsurou. When I tell you, the LOOK on his face when we were spinning, this bitch seemed like he was going to shit his pants!” Leia clutched her stomach and threw her head back, laughing up into the air.

“You’re almost as reckless as DK.” Kenma rolled his eyes, popping another chip into his mouth. Leia placed her right hand on his shoulder and leaned back against the car alongside him, both of them facing you. She forcefully placed her hand into his chip bag before Kenma pulled away, an annoyed expression forming on his face as Leia quickly popped the chip into her mouth.

“Get your own shit, Princess.” Kenma growled, crossing one foot over the other.

“Princess?” You smiled, crossing your arms and tapping your foot along the asphalt. “Is that your nickname here?”

“Yeah, Princess Leia, once the daughter of the Underground Tokyo King himself.” She placed her hands into the pocket of Kuroo’s bomber jacket, closing her eyes. “Tetsurou nicknamed me that.”

“That’s really cute,” You chuckled, turning your head towards Kenma. “How’d you get the nickname ‘Snake Eyes’, Kenma?”

“DK also gave me that nickname.” Kenma looked up into the street light underneath his car, rolling the empty bag of chips up into a tight fold, slipping it into one of the pockets of his red cargo pants. “I don’t usually race, I spectate. I’m usually the one behind the scenes and observing the race.”

“He was also the brains behind the operations DK, Cypher and Sly Fox would go on. The logistic mastermind, per say.” Leia closed her eyes for a while, leaning her head back against the GT86.

“I guess you can refer to it that way.” Kenma moved his left hand from his pocket in order to tuck the front strand of his dyed blond hair back against his ear, letting the other still dangle in front of his eyes, framing the edge of his cheek. He chuckled softly while staring at the ground before looking back up at you, his golden irises constricting into a tight oval—realizing to yourself his pupils really did look like snake eyes.

“If you��re usually the spectator, why’d you plan on racing tonight?” You nonchalantly asked as Kenma straightened his posture, his arms crossed over his chest while he flexed the dragon tattoo on his bicep.

“Leia was originally supposed to participate, but she asked me to take her place instead. Like I mentioned, I only race when I have to. She made it seem like it was urgent for me to replace her in the second race.” He tapped his right foot on the concrete, nodding his head along to the beat of the song playing in the distance—all on the speakers of the Nekoma Crew Pit. You recognized it as “rockstar” by Post Malone, with 21 Savage’s verse just finishing up.

Leia opened her eyes and shot you an expressionless look, wiggling her eyebrows up and down. You kept your mouth shut; not sure of whom she’s told already about her pregnancy. To your knowledge, only you and Oikawa were the only ones who knew, not even sure if Kuroo knew himself.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, a text message appearing across your lock screen. As you adjusted the brightness of the backlight, you noticed it was from Iwaizumi asking for you to come over and meet him at the Brawlers’ Pit. Quickly texting with one hand, you acknowledged his message and placed your phone back into your pocket.

“I gotta go, Hajime calls,” you exclaimed, looking up to scan the parking lot, searching the familiar white and teal colors. Leia and Kenma gave you a nod without saying a word, waving goodbye as you began to walk.

You took in a deep breath, letting out an exhausted sigh. Placing your hands into the pockets of Oikawa’s bomber jacket, you walked throughout the busy parking lot—the car meet packed with enthusiasts, car clubs and gang members. Music blasted throughout the air, a song sampled from the 80’s mixed with Memphis rap vocals and a heavy bass drop booming in your ears.

You passed through the Shiratorizawa Saints again—watching the man with spiky red hair talk to Ushijima. The man with grey hair and “Shadow” written across the back of his bomber jacket came up to the both of them, handing a wrench to the man who you assumed was “Red Devil”. He had his hands placed on his hips, a white bandage wrapped around his fingers as he accepted the tool.

Turning your head back into the direction of the Seijoh Brawlers, you raised your eyebrows the minute you saw Iwaizumi lean back against his car, scrolling away on his phone. You couldn’t help but notice the faint dragon tattoo on his right arm—the exact same one Oikawa had, except the head of the dragon was not on his neck. Never noticing it at first, you pinched your eyebrows together and sucked in your cheeks.

“Nice tattoo you got there,” you interrupted, walking up Iwaizumi with a smirk on your face. “Fresh ink?”

“Stop teasing. You already know it.” Iwaizumi chuckled, nudging your left shoulder as you both laughed with each other. You poked the ink on his bicep, gliding your finger down his arm as he flinched.

“Hey! Stop that!” Iwaizumi exclaimed, obviously irritated by the tip of your nail tickling his skin. “You know I’m ticklish.”

“Always have been, huh?” You shot him a reassuring smile, heavily missing the fun times you had with him back in the day.

When Iwaizumi was younger, he had a hard time at school—never able to focus clearly on his studies, reading books or solving arithmetic problems. Some may say he wasn’t intelligent; that was, until one day while visiting your house, he sneaked into the garage watching your father fix up his car. He peeked out the door, intently observing him sit on a stool as he placed a jack underneath the front side skirt.

It was like primitive Anthropocene humans discovering fire for the first time—a bright light igniting within his soul. At such a young age, Iwaizumi already knew what he wanted to be when he was older—someone who loved to fix and race cars, nonetheless a street racer. Your father noticed him at the door, a reassuring smile on his face while he called Iwaizumi over to come watch.

“Here, son. I’ll teach you something.” He gave Iwaizumi a small pail to sit on, plopping himself down as your father went through the steps to change a tire by hand. He let Iwaizumi try for himself, almost taking him his entire body weight to unscrew a lug nut from the lock. It was almost natural for him to know about cars, the information instantly sticking to his brain.

You remembered being jealous of the passion Iwaizumi had for cars as he assisted your father on his Mitsubishi Evo, his desire driving him to become a great mechanic later on in life. He had a bright future ahead of him, and being able to work alongside Oikawa and the rest of the Seijoh Brawlers doing something he’d always loved doing—it was basically a dream come true. Iwaizumi wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

“Ey,” Oikawa nonchalantly came up behind Iwaizumi’s WRX, scaring the both of you for a second with his sudden greeting. He gave you a smile, crossing his arms over his open white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

“Don’t do that, you scared us.” Iwaizumi punched Oikawa in the arm before closing his eyes and sighing to himself. “Did you tell her?”

“Tell me what?” You raised an eyebrow, fixing your attention on Oikawa.

Once again, he pulled out the e-cigarette from his pocket, placing it in between his lips and inhaling a large puff of vapor into his mouth. It never bothered you how much he smoked, but you always wondered how much nicotine he really consumed in a single day.

“Iwaizumi is participating in the second race.” As he spoke, wisps of vapor sliced through his teeth before he exhaled a full breath of smoke.

“Oh?” You raised both of your eyebrows while crossing your arms, pouting your lips. “You told me you weren’t gonna race tonight.”

“That’s what I thought too, but your shitty boyfriend here insisted I should.” Iwaizumi leaned back against his car door, placing his hands inside the pocket of his dark wash jeans. He wore the same teal shirt Oikawa was wearing, indicating they both were members of the Seijoh Brawlers to other car clubs and gangs at the meet.

“Don’t be so rude, Indy.” Oikawa closed his eyes, taking in a series of quick hits off his e-cigarette.

“Your nickname, I presume?” You nudged his side with your elbow twice before Iwaizumi nodded.

“Homage to no other than my uncle.” Iwaizumi smiled softly at you, your face reminding him of the man that helped him become the person he was today. Besides helping out your dad with his car, you remembered he always watched the American Indy 500 races while on International cable. He recalled it being one of his favorite pastimes spent with your father.

“Well, I wish you good luck, Hajime. But I assume you won’t be needing too much of it since we all know you’re gonna win.” You winked at him, giving him an encouraging and supportive smile.

“Do you think your dad would like me?” Oikawa chimed in, smirking confidently to himself. Both you and Iwaizumi looked at each other, cocking up an eyebrow on both of your faces before chuckling and simultaneously saying the exact same thing.

“No.”

You both laughed at Oikawa getting offended, scoffing to himself as he questioned exactly why your father wouldn’t like him. For the rest of the time being, all three of you bonded well and laughed at jokes before the start of the second race. Unbeknownst to all you, it ended up being the last time the three of you had happily conversed without any complications.

You all were interrupted by someone announcing on the speakers that the racers should line up and those who wanted to spectate should go up to the platform soon. Iwaizumi gave you a quick hug, rubbing the top of your back before hopping into his car and taking off to the start of the race.

Sooner or later, you, Oikawa, Kuroo, Kita, and Leia jogged up the stairs that connected the parking lot to the observer deck, leaning against the railing up on the spectator platform. It was busy on the deck—almost everyone from the meet including family and friends, car enthusiasts, and the members of the street racing gangs all crowded around just to get a view of the racers.

Leia got her own snacks, lightly munching away at the leftover onigiri and Kenma’s favorite chips. Kuroo had his elbows on the railing and looked down at Kenma’s GT86 rumbling against the starting line, giving the blond haired man a smirk and a Nekoma salute. Kita quietly smoked another cigarette in between his fingers, the filter resting on his bottom lip as he let out an exhale of smoke.

With your left hand placed on the railing, Oikawa rested his right hand on top, curling his fingers down to intertwine with yours. He gave you a reassuring smile, the cool wind bristling through his locks as the tail end of his white button up shirt flowed back. Leaning in, he quickly kissed your cheek, whispering “my love” into your ear before fixing his eyes back at the starting line.

Down below was the view of the racers, six cars all lined up at the start of the base. From descending order, first in line was Yuu Nishinoya, a.k.a. Rolling Thunder of the Karasuno Killers. He drove a modified 2000 blood orange Subaru Impreza, the night sky almost making it look red in color. His nickname derived from the loud popping noises erupting whenever he revved his engine, the fuel burning out of his exhaust sounding like thunder every time.

Second in line was Iwaizumi himself in his 2006 white Subaru WRX. You could see him through his slightly tinted windshield, grasping the top of his wheel tightly with his right hand as he revved his engine, the loud revolutions of the motors churning underneath the hood of his car. A scowl was placed firmly across his face; you weren’t sure if it was from his determination to win the race, or his anger at Oikawa for making him participate.

Atsumu and Osamu Miya, a.k.a. Thrasher and Ghost of the Inarizaki Bois were directly in the middle, each one having the same sleek black 2002 Nissan Skyline GT-R 34—no one ever knowing who was who in which car. The only difference was a small sticker labeled “Cobb Tuning” laid across the side skirt of Atsumu’s car—a souvenir from a famous American Tune shop that specializes in GT-R Skylines.

Kenma stood second to last on the line descending down, his red 2015 Toyota GT86, the newest—and dare say best looking—car out of all the racers. A street light shined underneath Kenma’s car, revealing him wearing black shades despite the moon shining up in the night. You wondered if it was a Nekoma Crew thing; wearing black sunglasses in the dark. You thought it seemed contradictory, but nonetheless they always looked effortless and unbothered while wearing them.

Last but not least was Satori Tendou, a.k.a. the Red Devil of the infamous Shiratorizawa Saints. His 1999 red Nissan 240SX rumbled along with the wheels, the body of his car lowered close to the ground. Tendou was well-known for being the Shiratorizawa Saints’ second best racer, right after Ushijima himself.

He was also comparable to Iwaizumi; an excellent mechanic and a very skilled racer. Red Devil derived from his spiky red hair and the monstrous power his engine held—but it wasn’t until Ushijima went missing awhile back where people started to develop a new meaning to his nickname, the Red Devil who made the Saint disappear.

All of the racers revved their engines, the sound booming throughout the air as the people of the spectator platform from above and down below on the sidewalk cheered. The flagger was a woman with black hair and glasses in an orange tube top and black booty shorts, her long thigh-high boots clicking against the concrete as she walked up to the middle of the street.

Nishinoya whistled out of his window, waving his hand out to the woman. She ignored his catcall and swung the orange flag in the air, catching the attention of all the racers. It sounded like their engines roared louder than before, the noise echoing throughout the air as it pierced through your eardrums. As the woman started counting down, the crowd behind you cheered wildly, screaming the nicknames of the racers they bet would win.

Five. Tendou made sure to turn down the music in his car, patiently waiting to hear the rest of the countdown.

Four. Nishinoya’s exhaust popped furiously into the air, fuel burning out as the noise mimicked a thunderstorm.

Three. Kenma adjusted his mirror and placed his hand back on the wheel, making sure everything was aligned in sight.

Two. The Miya brothers looked at each other through their tinted windows, giving a sly smirk before focusing back on the road.

One. Iwaizumi lightly pushed down on the accelerator and revved his engine, staring straight down the long street stretching a distance away.

Just as the woman motioned “GO!”, the screech of the racers’ wheels penetrated through the air, the noise almost sounding painful to bear up close. White smoke filled the area, each of the cars disappearing into the night until none of them remained at the starting line. The woman’s hair flew back as she covered her ears, looking over her shoulder at each of the cars already far down the road.

From the spectator view, you could see every part of the track and know exactly where the racers were. The wharf wasn’t too small nor too big, but nonetheless remained one of the most popular spots for street racing. It was far from downtown Tokyo and you needed to pay a toll bridge to enter, so law enforcement would have a hard time trying to get through in the first place.

Your heart pounded through your chest, the adrenaline pumping throughout your body despite only being a spectator on the observer’s deck. Car enthusiasts and other gang members cheered behind you, their screams and hollers echoing throughout the night as you all watched the racers drift the first tight round corner.

Kenma led first, his drifting skills almost comparable to Kuroo and Oikawa. Although he wasn’t the fastest racer, Kenma was the most skilled out of all of them. This helped him to an advantage; knowing exactly when and where to drift his car on the tight turn so he wouldn’t leave even the smallest scratch on his car. The rear of his GT86 swerved back to the left as he yanked his wheel to the right, not even a skid mark left on the asphalt.

Followed by Kenma was Iwaizumi, just barely catching up to him from behind. There was little distance between the front bumper of his car to Kenma’s rear, his headlights flashing directly on his license plate. Kenma cursed to himself, pressing down on the clutch before shifting the car into a higher gear, accelerating his speed. He looked into the rearview mirror; the determined expression on Iwaizumi’s face glaring back at him, concentrated on taking the lead.

From the other side, Nishinoya’s Impreza zoomed past both of them, sparks flying out of his exhaust as he drifted to the left, his steering wheel oscillating back and forth. He left multiple tire marks on the road, scraping the rear bumper of his car against the barrier of the street. Reckless as he was, Nishinoya used up all of his nitrous oxide, the turbo power maxing out from the engine.

Although he led first for a brief second, Kenma and Iwaizumi passed him directly after, avoiding his bashful swings left and right. Nishinoya slammed his hand on the top of his steering wheel, cursing to himself as both the Miya twins in their Skylines passed him as well—dropping him down to fourth place. It shows that a lot can happen and change in a matter of time; Nishinoya placing first and then dropping back down to fourth all within seconds.

Tendou couldn’t believe he was in last place despite the improvement changes he made to his car. Unlike the rest of the racers, his car was almost a half a ton heavier. This impeded his abilities to place first with all the extra weight, dragging him down to last. Although he was on the tail end of Nishinoya, it didn’t matter if you won by an inch or a mile—winning was winning, and last place meant last place.

In a matter of seconds, Iwaizumi surpassed Kenma while they both drifted to the right. The rear ends of their vehicles swerved all the way out of line with the street, only Iwaizumi’s tires skidding across the asphalt. The side of Kenma’s car was dangerously close to Iwaizumi’s driver side, for which he had to slow down a bit to refrain from scratching his precious GT86. Racing meant nothing if his car was scratched in any sort of manner.

Kenma’s hesitation left him vulnerable for Iwaizumi to lead in first, another curse under his breath as he slapped his left hand on the wheel. Speeding down through a tunnel with the underground lights zooming through, Kenma pushed the bridge of his sunglasses up his nose. Wind flowed through his hair, little strands of his dyed blond locks coming undone from his small bun tied in the back of his head.

From the observer’s deck, a wave of excitement erupted from the crowd with you cupping your hands against the side of your mouth, cheering for Iwaizumi taking the lead. A whoop erupted from the bottom of Oikawa’s throat, clapping his hands together as he leaned over the railing. A smile formed on his lips, showing how proud he was of him. You let out another cheer as the crowd roared again, all the racers drifting another tight corner to the left.

“Go Haji!” You screamed out, even though you knew he couldn’t hear you. Whistles and cheers from the rest of the Seijoh Brawlers dispersed throughout the crowd as you saw Kuroo grip the handle of the railing, a tensed expression on his face.

“Come on, Snake Eyes! Stop worrying about your fucking car, damn it!” Kuroo boomed as he watched Kenma trail behind Iwaizumi, knowing exactly why he always refrained from racing.

Kenma has a copious amount of exotic cars imported from the United States and Europe—the Audi R8, the McLaren 720s and the Porsche 911—all sleek and red in color, sitting pretty in the Nekoma Shop garage never to be raced against even though it would smoke out any competitor. Kuroo always thought it was ridiculous of him to never even drive it out onto the street, afraid to even get a little scratch on his precious and expensive toys.

From the corner of his eyes, Kenma looked up into the rearview mirror to see both of the Miya brothers speeding up behind him, neck in neck with each other. His pupils constricted, knowing what was to come because of their reputation. He stomped down on the clutch with his left foot and quickly pressed the break with the tip of his right toe before blipping the throttle, quickly downshifting to match his revolutions.

As Kenma slowed down the RPM of his engine, Atsumu and Osamu zoomed past him with ease, trailing behind both of their Nissan Skylines. He couldn’t tell who was in which car as their windows were tinted to the darkest setting legally possible. Kenma heard their engines speed up as they crept up behind Iwaizumi, both of them now in second place. He pressed down on his accelerator again, intently watching behind the twins.

Iwaizumi’s confidence exuded off his skin, adrenaline pumping throughout his body. He saw the black Skylines tailgate behind, forcing him to press down harder onto the accelerator. A growl erupted from the back of his throat as he saw one of the Skylines disappear out of the rearview mirror. Immediately looking over both of his shoulders, he noticed no one was there, only one of the Miya twins flashing their bright headlights directly behind.

Atsumu revved his engine loudly, spurs of the cyclic gears grinding against one another, taunting Iwaizumi. He swerved to the right, immediately catching up side by side. Nervously looking over his shoulder, Iwaizumi tried to focus his attention onto the road while also being cautious of Atsumu as a tight hairpin turn approached on the road ahead.

Instantly, Iwaizumi yanked the wheel to the left, kicked the clutch, and pulled the emergency brake, holding onto it tightly as he balanced his right foot on the throttle. Atsumu did the same; drifting side by side with only a paper thin difference in length between their car doors, just barely scratching the paint. They both immediately yanked their wheels back to the right, the rear ends of their vehicles swerving to the side as their tires skidded the asphalt.

The crowd behind you watched intently, their focus solely between Atsumu and Iwaizumi. Your eyes trailed on the both of them as they approached another hairpin turn—the one right underneath the observer’s deck attached to the parking lot. While leaning over the railing, the wind rushed through your clothes, feeling the crisp night air tickle on your skin. You crossed your arms over each other before Oikawa linked his pinky finger with yours, scooching closer to your body as the crowd roared again.

Iwaizumi’s heart raced; sweat dripping down his forehead as the wind from his open windows sucked into his vehicle. Atsumu was right there next to him, revving his engine loudly to catch him off guard. He couldn’t tell if it was Atsumu or Osamu in the car, but he quickly found out once the black Skyline swerved to the right before yanking the steering wheel back to the left, ultimately thrashing into the driver’s side of Iwazumi’s WRX.

He felt the jolt of impact, losing the grip on his wheel as every organ in his body shifted to the left. In the corner of his eye, he saw Osamu’s car sneak up on the other side of him—Iwaizumi now realizing he’s being targeted by the Twins’ infamous Quick Attack. He tried his best to rev match back down to fourth gear, balancing his right foot between the brake and throttle—yet, it was too late.

Atsumu rolled down his window, a smirk forming on his pierced lip as he gripped the handle on his steering wheel and yanked it to the left again. The passenger side of his car collided with Iwaizumi’s WRX, ultimately thrashing straight into him once again. The force colliding with the side of his car caused him to spin out of control, losing any grip on the wheel. He tried his best to brake, but the speed on his dashboard already passed over 120km/h.

The last thing Iwaizumi saw before his car flipped over onto the road was a maniacal laughter erupting from Atsumu’s mouth as both the Miya twins zoomed past his car, now taking first place.

Your heart dropped down to the pit of your stomach the moment Iwaizumi’s car flipped over. The air felt dense, making it hard to breath as your eyes diligently watched the wheels fly out, the body of his car tumbling against the asphalt as he crashed into the barrier of the street. Your pupils constricted, not a muscle in your body moving as a painful chill ran down your spine, almost making you feel sick to your stomach. No thoughts in your mind processed through as you were left in complete shock, peering down at the WRX utterly wrecked with glass shattered all over the road.

The crowd behind you screamed as his car collided with the barrier, the shrill noise of their panic piercing through your ears while the boom of the crash erupted from down below. Time slowed down for you, but it wasn’t the same way you would have expected it to.

It felt like everyone around you disappeared, your surroundings completely dissipating into an abstract empty bright white room, no quantum definitive measurement of how long it stretched. You tried your best to move a muscle as your eyes looked down at your hands, waiting for it to start trembling.

Kita stopped breathing for a second, holding in the smoke within his lungs as he dropped the cigarette from his fingers onto the ground below. Only shock ran through his body as he reflected on the situation; Kita never once witnessed Atsumu cause a crash before. Usually, their Quick Attack only ever damaged the side of their targets’ cars—never intending to flip them completely over and collide with the road barriers. His jaw hung low as a trail of smoke escaped his mouth, his hand still in the same position as when had a cigarette in between his fingers.

Kenma’s eyes widened, watching the whole thing unveil. Stepping on the accelerator, he immediately zoomed past Iwazumi’s wrecked car, instantly drifting in a half moon circle as smoke erupted from his exhaust. His vehicle swiftly parked parallel to the middle barrier of the road, the front end of his GT86 perpendicular to the crash site. He gasped abruptly, seeing the accident and Iwaizumi’s body hanging upside down in his car up close felt all too real for him.

“INDIGO!” Kenma screamed, quickly shifting his car in first gear before pulling up the e-brake. He didn’t even take his keys out of the engine before swinging his door open and rushing straight to Iwaizumi, discarding his black sunglasses over his shoulder.

Blood quickly rushed through his veins as he looked underneath the car, Iwaizumi’s unconscious body upside down in his seat with his hands hanging below his head. All the windows were shattered over the concrete, glass shards displaced in a scattered and random pattern. Kenma didn’t care if he injured himself while crawling down onto his knees, pulling Iwaizumi out from under the driver’s seat. A pain winced through his forearm as a large metal scrap protruded out from the side of the window, piercing through his skin as he dragged out his body.

“Fuck! Indigo, hang in there!” Kenma pleaded, his hands placed underneath Iwaizumi’s armpits. Blood was scattered all over his face and clothes, soot and dirt plastered all on the right side of his cheeks. He dropped down onto his knees as he cradled Iwaizumi’s head onto his lap, leaning his ear down to his busted lip. Kenma couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

He placed two fingers to the right side of his jugular vein, feeling Iwaizumi’s carotid artery pulse against the tips of his fingers. Taking in a huge breath of air, tears formed in the corner of his eyes. He shot his head back up, peering straight into the observer’s deck. Locking eyes with Kuroo, Kenma’s pupils constricted—a panicked and anguished expression formed on his face as he let out the loudest scream possible.

“CALL AN AMBULANCE, FUCKING DAMN IT!”

The crowd behind you screamed, running in all sorts of directions—back to their cars to avoid law enforcement, scrambling to find their friends and family or quickly dialing the 119 emergency number. Kuroo quickly took out his phone, his fingers stumbling to press down on the pads. Kita exhaled the smoke from his lungs, coughing profusely as tears formed from the corner of his eyes. Leia and Oikawa held you close on either side, checking to see if you were okay.

It felt like your soul sunk down to the ground as your eyes widened, your body completely left in shock, unable to process any information. Your hands trembled on the railing; your lungs having a hard time breathing in air. When Leia grabbed your right hand, you slowly turned your head to her—your eyes watering profusely down your cheeks, your lips quivering with a babbled noise.

“NO! HAJIME!” You screamed, gripping your hands on the cold metal bar before leaning all of your body over the observer’s deck, your feet placed on the base of the railing. You gritted your teeth, letting out another scream of shock while looking down at Kenma stabilizing Iwaizumi’s head on his lap. Tears dripped down your eyes, scattering onto the road down below.

Oikawa grabbed your waist and wrapped his arms around your body, pulling you back onto the observer’s deck before you could hurt yourself. You felt his heartbeat pump loudly against his chest, adrenaline also running throughout his veins. It felt hard for Oikawa to breathe as shock infiltrated his body, his mind ruminating to make quick decisions.

Oikawa didn’t know what to feel at the moment; not knowing if he should have felt dismayed over the crash or infuriated over Kita’s negligence over the Miya Brothers—nonetheless, what topped both of those emotions was the overwhelming feeling of remorse.

Seeing the anguished expression on your face, feeling your body trembling against his, and hearing the wails of agony erupt at the bottom of your lungs—it felt like every bone inside him collapsed, completely crushing every aspect of his mind and soul.

“LET ME GO! HAJIME!” You flung your legs in the air, desperately prying open Oikawa’s hands off your waist.

“NO! Stop it!” Oikawa tightened his grip around your body, trying his best to prevent you from doing anything rash and impulsive.

You began to sob uncontrollably, your tears staining the fabric of your clothes. The whites of your eyes became red, your vision blurred with the street lights and neon signs of the shops surrounding nearby. A pain formed in the back of your head, the pressure of your sinus spreading all throughout the front portion of your face. Every muscle in your body felt weak, yet the rush of adrenaline kept you awake.

The minute Oikawa let go of your waist, the heels of your boots touched the ground—your legs immediately moving, your body furiously running down the steps of the observer deck. Oikawa, Leia, Kuroo, nor Kita couldn’t even chase after you as your silhouette quickly disappeared, rushing past the crowd to Iwaizumi’s aide. Your first priority was being by his side, desperately wanting to know if he was still alive. He has to make it, you thought.

‘Don’t fucking die on me. Not right now.’

Tendou and Nishinoya had already blocked the road on both ends with their cars, making space for the accident. Kenma remained on the ground, clutching Iwaizumi’s unconscious body with his hands defiled with blood, dirt, and grime. He didn’t even know him that well, nor even spoke a word to his face before—yet, every voice in his mind was telling him to help. He could have taken off into the night just like the Miya brothers, all of the Inarizaki Bois except for Kita disappearing from the scene in fear of law enforcement.

Kenma screamed the moment he saw you run up beside him, tears dripping from his eyes. He was relieved to see you, but also guilty he couldn’t help much further. Watching the tears stream down your face as you mumbled out incoherent words, he couldn’t even imagine how much pain you were feeling. It wasn’t like him to be sympathetic, much less empathetic—but experiencing it up close with the bloodied body of a fellow racer on his lap, Kenma knew that could have easily been himself instead.

“Is he still breathing?!” You hovered your hand over Iwaizumi’s mouth, trying to feel the soft and shallow exhales escaping from his lips.

While pressing your hand over his carotid artery, you felt slow but consistent pumps of blood patting against the bottom of your fingertips. The tense and tight feeling in your chest released, knowing Iwaizumi was still alive. Yet, you knew the time for him was ticking, the critical condition of his body fighting between a gamble of life and death.

“We need to get him to a fucking hospital, now!” You screamed through your teeth, looking down at his body. The teal Seijoh Brawlers t-shirt he was wearing was now drenched in blood—a large red stain on the right side of his torso. Bruises covered all over his arms, neck and face; his eyes shut from the swelling of his busted eyelid. He was missing a shoe, the bottom half of his jeans ripped to the seams.

In the distance, the sound of two engines roaring broke through the crowd’s barrier, people rushing to the side of the street as Oikawa’s Mazda RX-7 and Kuroo’s Nissan 350Z sliced through the air. The tires of the familiar white car skidded across the road, spinning in a perfect circle before stopping right in front of you. Oikawa rolled down the windows, a petrified look on his face as his eyes fixated on Iwaizumi’s helpless body on your lap.

“Get in, now! We don’t have much time!” Oikawa growled through his teeth, revving the engine twice.

You turned your head to Kenma, your tears flying off your face and hitting the asphalt. He stared back at you, his own tears dried up against his cheeks filled with soot. “Help me carry him into the car!”

Kenma wasted no time and grabbed the base of his ankles, touching the lacerations all over his calves with his dirtied hands. Iwaizumi’s body caved in like a folded piece of paper as you both struggled to lift up his body, only barely making it to the passenger side of the RX-7. Oikawa already had the door swung open, reclining the passenger seat all the way down. A grunt escaped your lips as you heaved yourself into the car first, your body squeezed up against the back of Oikawa’s seat.

Once Kenma dropped Iwaizumi’s body onto the passenger seat, the back of his head collapsed onto the headrest—blood still dripping down from his forehead with his eyes swollen and his lip busted open. Another tear dropped out from your eyes; seeing him in this state made you sick to your stomach. Kenma tucked in Iwaizumi’s legs, shutting the door.

Oikawa pressed down on the accelerator, the tires underneath squealing against the asphalt. Kuroo and Leia followed closely behind in the 350Z, both of their cars speeding down the street as the sound of their engines roaring echoed into the night. A gust of wind flew past Kenma, the strands of his long hair unraveling from his bun as it grazed against his cheeks. He placed the back of his left hand on his forehead, releasing a shaky exhale from his lips.

More tears dripped from his eyes, questioning to himself why he was crying. He looked down at his bloodied and stained hands, grime and soot scattered all over his forearms. Grazing his hands on the front of his cargo pants, he dropped down onto his knees. Kenma couldn’t process what had happened in the last few minutes; cursing to the universe why time changed so fast. He looked up at the night sky, praying to the God he didn’t believe in that Iwaizumi would be okay.

Oikawa pressed down on the clutch while upshifting gears, the sound of his engine growing louder and louder in your ears as he sped down the street. Wind rushed through your face, feeling the sharp and cold gust of air along the surface of your skin. Looking down, you caressed Iwaizumi’s face, some of your tears dripping onto his cheeks. Your body rocked back and forth from the turbulence of the car, trying your best to keep yourself steady squeezed behind Oikawa’s seat.

Only the roar of the engine and your silent sobs could be heard in the car; not a single word exchanged between the both of you. Oikawa tried his best to distract himself as he sped down the highway, entering the bridge that connected out of the wharf. He tightened his grip on the wheel, trying his best to not think about Iwaizumi’s unconscious body in the passenger seat of his car.

You looked up into the rearview mirror and saw a scowl plastered across Oikawa’s face, watching intently on the road ahead. Looking straight out the windshield, you saw the Tokyo skyline in the distance—yellow, red, and blue lights flickering all over the place. Holding onto Iwaizumi’s right palm, you placed your other hand on top of his, warming up his bruised and battered fingers.

A whimper escaped your lips as more tears fell from your eyes, reaching down to the corners of your mouth. You tasted a bitterness on your tongue, the chemical formula of stress diluted into your tears stinging and burning onto your cheeks. Your face became itchy, a desire to scratch all over your body overwhelmed your mind.

Panic. Aguish. Remorse.

Those were the three emotions you could only feel.

Panic. Anguish. Remorse.

Those were the three emotions Oikawa wished to feel.

He kept repeating those words in his head over and over again, trying his best to feel them one at a time—yet, nothing came to mind. In truth, Oikawa couldn’t feel anything. Just like everything traumatic he had experienced before, his brain instinctually buried all of his emotions down into the depths of his subconscious—his own body’s way protecting himself from the grief and sorrow that was to be expected later.

Oikawa desperately wanted to feel something, anything. No emotion or thought ran through his mind; only the instinctual movements of his body driving the car keeping him sane. He felt a tightness in his chest, the air around him feeling dense. Again, he ran through the three emotions he wanted to experience in order to feel normal.

Panic. Anguish. Remorse.

Pain.

Oh how he wished to feel pain.

Kuroo followed closely behind, flashing his high-beams at Oikawa to signal he was right there next to him. They both exited off the highway, entering through the Kohoku Ward, traveling in the direction of the Yokohama Rosai General Hospital. Although it was far out of reach, it was the only hospital open at the time—one that could take in Iwaizumi’s critical condition and treat him immediately regardless of the hour.

Oikawa stepped on the gas, the engine booming once again throughout the night. You pressed the back of Iwaizumi’s hands on your forehead, silently weeping to yourself. Muttering small murmurs of hope through your lips kept you alert, despite the lack of energy you felt throughout your body. Your fingers trembled holding up his right hand, a painful shiver running down your spine.

Nothing but pain could be felt in your heart. Your tears were running dry, constantly wiping your face with the back of Oikawa’s bomber jacket sleeve. His vitals were dropping every second of the way to the hospital, Oikawa increasing his speed as quickly as he could.

While staring down at Iwaizumi, you couldn’t help but think back to all the times when you two were younger—a bright smile on his face while he called your name, riding on the back of his bike while he pretended it was a car and you were his passenger. Fast forward to more than a decade later, you remembered seven months ago when you saw him again for the first time at the street race—his figure swallowing you in a giant hug with Oikawa standing right beside him.

As more memories flooded your mind, you sobbed profusely thinking back to a couple of hours ago when you had just conversed with him about the future and his plans to finish university. Iwaizumi dreamed of going back to California to open his own mechanic shop, naming it after your father—the man that helped him discover the one thing he loved doing most. A sharp pain formed in your chest as you clutched his right hand with both of yours, absolutely crushed by the thought of knowing these would be the last moments you spend with him if the worst happens.

Oikawa approached the front of the hospital, the squeal of his tires catching the attention of a few patients and staff members outside. The 350Z rolled up behind him, Leia rushing out of the vehicle and into the building screaming for help. Kuroo ran up to the passenger side door and swung it open, placing his right hand underneath Iwaizumi’s shoulder blades while his left scooped under his knees.

Effortlessly lifting his heavy body up from the seat, Kuroo exhaled a large breath before carrying Iwaizumi over to the building in front of him. You climbed through the passenger seat, clutching onto the headrest as you placed one foot out first before completely hopping out. Oikawa exited the car and jogged right behind Kuroo, furiously panting out large breaths of air as they both dashed through the entrance of the hospital.

“WE NEED A DOCTOR, NOW!” Kuroo kicked open the doors, all his energy dropping by the second.

Leia came out through the corner with a rush of trauma and emergency staff members wheeling in a stretcher trolley, oxygen ventilators and cardiac monitors—all helping Kuroo place down Iwaizumi’s body onto the bed before pushing him away in the opposite direction.

They hooked him up onto the machines, cutting his Seijoh Brawlers shirt down the middle to expose the wounds all over his chest. Blood dripped onto the sheets of the stretcher, the wheels squeaking against the floor as they rolled him away. Just before they turned back into a corner, one of the nurses exclaimed, “His left lung has collapsed, he’s hypoxic and hypotensive.”

Kuroo ran a hand through his hair, pushing back his bangs as he let out the heaviest exhale—still feeling that burdening weight on his shoulders. He turned around and faced Oikawa; a desolate and confused look across his face. Looking down at his shoes, Kuroo inhaled another breath, sweat dripping down his forehead. He wished he could have done more to help—he couldn’t bring himself to call the ambulance earlier.

Back on the observer platform, Kuroo just stood there staring at his phone’s keypad—his eyes shifting towards the one and nine buttons, but not having the strength to push them down. Just like everyone else, only shock ran through his body—his hands trembling while his breath hitched. Everything was rushing so fast, he didn’t even have time to stop and comprehend the situation. Kuroo felt guilty that he didn’t call the ambulance immediately, debating to himself if he cost everyone the valuable time.

Leia came rushing to your side, holding you in her arms as you placed both of your hands to your face, continually sobbing into your palms. She stroked the back of your head while your knees buckled inwards, your whole body shaking from panic and sorrow.

“Hey, hey. He’s going to be alright, they’re treating him right now.” Leia cooed, trying her best to console you. She didn’t know how to comfort others, never learning compassion or empathy from her parents—yet she knew when the situation called for it, especially when her best friend needed a shoulder to cry on.

Oikawa took in a sharp and painful inhale through his mouth, feeling his lungs cave in. His heart pounded through his chest, adrenaline and shock igniting all throughout his body. Looking around the hospital emergency room triggered a flashback to Osaka—the ambulance sirens blaring in his ears, dead bodies surrounding him in every direction, the taste of bitter blood on his lips.

His pupils constricted as he looked at you on your knees, bawling your eyes out over the floor while Leia held you close. All of the emotions he wanted to experience earlier came flooding in—instantly regretting his desire to feel them all, one at a time. They rushed in like the blood flowing through his veins, infiltrating every crevice of his mind while taking over his consciousness.

His vision blurred and swayed left and right—it almost felt like he was looking through a black and white kaleidoscope. Oikawa grabbed the nearest doctor by his shirt, shoving his face close to theirs. He growled through his teeth, his eyes filled with panic. “Is he going to be okay?!”

The doctor beneath his grip shook in fear, his skinny legs quivering against each other. He dropped the clipboard from his hands, trying his best to not look at Oikawa in the eyes as he turned his head away. A whimper escaped from his lips, begging for him to let go. “I don’t know! I’m just an intern!”

Oikawa looked down at the man’s white coat, the name of the anxious doctor in front of him plastered on the left side of his chest—Ittetsu Takeda.

He immediately let go, Takeda stumbling onto the floor as he crawled away. As he stared down at his hands, he watched his fingers tremble in fear; sweat and grime covered all over the surface of his palms. Looking over his shoulder, he felt the atmosphere of the room grow dark. The patients in the waiting room all stared at Oikawa in fear—a terrorized look on their faces as they cowered in the corners, clutching the handles of their chairs.

‘People are afraid when I walk into a room because they know who I am and what I’ve done.’

Oikawa lifted his right arm up and looked at the tail end of his dragon tattoo, twisting his wrist back and forth. He took in a shallow breath, panic running through his mind. He was crumbling; coming to the realization of the truth—Iwaizumi might die, and it would be all his fault.

Oikawa thought that should have been him; he should have been the one to race instead. Guilt ran through his mind, internally torturing himself on what could have happened if he wasn’t acting out on his own selfishness. Iwaizumi was fighting for his life on the hospital bed, and Oikawa knew it was all because of him.

A boom pierced through the building from the outside, a familiar black Nissan Silvia rolling up to the side of the hospital. You looked out the window behind you, Kita’s red tail lights flashing in the distance. Kuroo whipped his head to the side, sweat running down his forehead. Leia placed her hands on your waist, helping to lift your crouched body up from the floor.

A chill ran down Oikawa’s spine, a contrasting feeling to what rage was building up inside of him. How dare Kita show up to the hospital, knowing it was his own kin that caused the accident in the first place? An infuriated expression formed on Oikawa’s face, his teeth gritting against each other as a deep guttural sound erupted from the bottom of his throat.

He rolled up his sleeves, marching out the glass doors of the hospital entrance. Kuroo dashed through the doors as well, trying his best to reach out to Oikawa before he acted out on his impulses again. Leia followed Kuroo as you both chased after all of them, tears still falling from your eyelashes.

The minute Kita shut his door, he turned around to Oikawa furiously sprinting up to him—the rage and violence in his eyes speaking louder than words itself.

“Cypher, I’m sorry—”

Oikawa quickly punched the side of Kita’s face, landing a hard blow to his left jaw. Kita stumbled back against his car, scrambling to find the car door handle before Oikawa hit him again with the edge of his knuckles, imprinting a mark on his cheek. Dropping down to the ground, Kita felt the back of his head collide with the hard surface of the sidewalk—the bottom of his palms scraping against concrete.

Oikawa straddled his body, repeatedly punching him in the face as Kita spat blood onto the floor. He couldn’t control himself knowing what Kita had allowed the Miya brothers to do to Iwaizumi. He was the leader of the Inarizaki Bois—ultimately responsible for whatever his gang did, including paying the price for the repercussions of the accident.

“Why did you let those Miya fuckers get away with it! WHY?!” Oikawa screamed down at him, the back of his hand slapping across Kita’s bruised and bloodied face.

“CYPHER, STOP!” Kuroo ran up behind him, grabbing onto Oikawa’s waist as he tried to pull him off Kita. “Sly Fox had nothing to do with this!”

Kuroo could sense him slipping back into his old ways—the same confused, angry, and violent side of Tooru Oikawa taking over his actions again. It was exactly like when he first met him back at the Tokyo Freight Terminal over three years ago, Oikawa’s gun pointed directly between Kuroo’s eyes. He remembered he had his hands up in the air, begging for him not to shoot as he dropped onto his knees.

That day, Kuroo was sent by Mr. Sakanoshita to pick up a large shipment of pure uncut South American cocaine, coming straight from the United States, distributed nationally through Japan by the Kitagawa clan. He was instructed to pay the transporter three billion yen, all stuffed well into a suitcase resting in the passenger seat of his car. When he arrived, all he saw was a man with short brown hair and the same dragon tattoo as his imprinted on his neck—his slightly tanned skin glowing under the sunset, a prominent scowl on his face.

At the time, he didn’t know it was Oikawa.

Kuroo handed over the suitcase, gulping down a hard swallow as he watched him open up the locks. A calm yet enraged expression formed on Oikawa’s face as he pulled out a gun from underneath his pants, cocking back the slider before pointing it straight at Kuroo’s face. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“What do you mean?! I was instructed to only give you three billion!” Kuroo’s hands trembled as he raised his arms high, showing he genuinely didn’t know what he was talking about.

“Where’s my other two billion?”

“I don’t—”

Without letting Kuroo finish his sentence, Oikawa shot him in the shoulder, a piercing affliction to his axillary nerve. He remembered gripping his right shoulder in pain, a loud cry erupting from the back of his throat for him to not shoot any more than he needed to. Oikawa loomed over his aching body on the floor, an expression on his face Kuroo would never forget.

At the time, neither of them knew it, but Mr. Sakanoshita had purposefully swindled both of them short of two billion yen—a payback to Oikawa’s boss in the Kitagawa clan. He wanted Oikawa to kill Kuroo that day, using them both as pawns in his own fucked-up game of chess. Kuroo realized it after Oikawa had shot him, a bullet scar forever remaining on the right side of his arm in memory of that day.

A cold and painful shiver ran down Kuroo’s spine as he looked back at Oikawa—the exact same violent and aggressive expression on his face filled with rage and animosity as when he first met him. That face merged in with the present Oikawa, mercilessly beating up Kita below as he swung both of his arms down into the ground.

Both you and Leia stayed far back, your hands placed over your mouths as the three men rumbled with each other. You didn’t know why you couldn’t stop sobbing—for the past half-hour only bitter tears shed from your eyes, dehydrating your body out until there was none left to cry with. Your wet hands felt cold, the sleeves of Oikawa’s bomber jacket defiled with the stains of your tears.

You didn’t notice when several police cars rushed to the front entrance of the hospital, men dressed in law enforcement gear and bullet proof vests hopping out from the flashing vehicles. Leia gasped, catching your attention when you saw red lights shine through the slits of your fingers. The cops pulled Oikawa and Kuroo off Kita’s beaten body, restraining both of their arms behind their backs.

“Let go of me, I didn’t do anything!” Kuroo screamed, thrashing his body from left and right as they handcuffed his wrists together.

They pinned Oikawa to the ground, his right cheek pressed up against the rough concrete of the sidewalk as they kept both of his hands behind his back. The policemen tightly handcuffed his wrists, the cold metal slicing through the surface of his skin. With one eye peeking open, he felt nothing but pain all throughout his body when he saw a shocked and desolate expression on your face, both of your hands covering over your mouth.

You wanted to scream his name and beg for them to stop—but Leia held you back, shaking her head as she knew it would only make things worse than it already was. The policemen held back Kuroo, shoving his body up the side of a police car as trauma and emergency staff members surrounded Kita. They lifted his body up into a gurney, placing a manual ventilator around his mouth as they rushed him into the hospital entrance.

Out of a black car, an old man dressed in a dark navy suit stepped onto the hospital sidewalk with both of his hands placed inside the pockets of his trousers. His white hair slicked back as he furrowed his thick eyebrows, taking out his law enforcement badge as he flashed it towards the both of them—Lead Detective, Tanji Washijou.

“Tetsurou Kuroo and Tooru Oikawa,” Detective Washijou gave a distasteful scowl, shoving his ID badge back into the pocket of his blazer.

“You’re both arrested for the murder of Nohebi Clansmen leader, Suguru Daishou.”

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