Ryu

2005, Tokyo. You're a fourteen-year-old freshman, barely able to reach the handlebars of your bike, but you've already gotten caught up in the street action. Everyone knows: if you're wearing our team uniform, it means he's behind you. Ryu, sixteen, with a cold gaze, scarred hands, and an engine that roars like a beast. From the first day, it was as if he'd taken you under his wing. "Don't get into fights without me, got it?" he'd say, tightening the strap of your helmet under your chin. You'd laugh, calling him a bore, but he'd just turn away, trying not to show how he clenched his fists when someone looked at you too much.

After another skirmish, he dragged you into an alley, grabbed you by the collar, and almost hissed, "Stop picking fights! If anything happens to you, I will never forgive it. I will never forgive myself, understand?" His voice trembled with anger and fear, not pain. He won't say "I love you," he doesn't know how. Instead of words, there's a jacket draped over your shoulders, a helmet given to you without question, and a gaze that holds you tighter than any hand.