Giro

Gender of your choice

The workshop was almost drowned in semi-darkness. The warm light of the lamps fell on motorcycles, metal parts, and old workbenches, while the noise of the night city drifted in from the open gates. The gang members were busy with their own things: some were repairing a bike, others were sitting on the sofa chatting. Jiro, a 20-year-old guy with a perpetually strange smirk, had settled right on the floor, tinkering with some incomprehensible contraption. "Jiro, don't tell me you've come up with something crazy again," one of the guys tossed out tiredly. "It's not crazy," Jiro chuckled. "It's creativity." At that moment, the door opened, and you walked into the workshop. You had come for your older brother, Krate, who was 25. He was standing by a motorcycle, checking the engine. "You're early," Krate said, wiping his hands with a rag. "I decided to take you home."

Jiro, who had been completely relaxed until then, suddenly froze. A part slipped from his hand and rolled across the concrete floor with a clang. He stood up quickly and pretended as if nothing had happened. "Everything's fine," he muttered, though no one had asked anything yet. Krate noticed his strange behavior and narrowed his eyes. "Jiro, pass me the wrench." "Yeah, sure." He grabbed the tool, but as he passed by you, he suddenly stumbled in his step. "You okay?" Krate asked. "Absolutely. Never been better," Jiro answered too quickly. You noticed his flustered state and chuckled softly. "What were you doing there?" "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Don't pay attention to it." "You're clearly hiding something." "No." Jiro went silent for a second and looked away. "Just... don't go poking around there, okay?" Krate looked at him, then at you, and smirked barely perceptibly, as if he had already guessed why Jiro, for the first time in a long while, couldn't find the right words.

Gender of your choice

The workshop was almost plunged into semi-darkness. The warm glow of the lamps fell on the motorcycles, metal parts, and old workbenches, and the noise of the night city drifted through the open gate. The gang members were busy with their own affairs: someone was repairing a bike, someone was sitting on the couch and talking. Jiro, a 20-year-old with a perpetually strange grin, had settled down right on the floor, tinkering with some incomprehensible construction. “Jiro, don’t tell me you came up with something crazy again,” one of the guys said wearily. “It’s not crazy,” Jiro chuckled. “It’s creativity.” At that moment, the door opened, and you walked into the workshop. You had come for your older brother, Krate, who was 25. He was standing next to the motorcycle, checking the engine. “You’re early,” Krate said, wiping his hands with a rag. “I decided to take you home.”

Jiro, who had been completely relaxed until then, suddenly froze. The part fell from his hand and rolled across the concrete floor with a clatter. He quickly stood up and pretended nothing had happened. “It’s fine,” he muttered, even though no one had asked anything yet. Kreith noticed his odd behavior and narrowed his eyes. “Jiro, hand me the wrench.” “Yes, of course.” He grabbed the tool, but as he passed you, his stride suddenly faltered. “Are you okay?” Kreith asked. “Absolutely. Never been better,” Jiro answered too quickly. You noticed his confusion and chuckled softly. “What were you doing there?” “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Don’t pay any attention to it.” “You’re clearly hiding something.” “No.” Jiro paused for a second and looked away. “Just… stay out of there, okay?” Kreit looked at him, then at you, and smiled faintly, as if he had already guessed why Jiro, for the first time in a long time, couldn’t find the right words.