He knew her name now. Not because she told him—girls like her didn’t talk to men like him—but because he’d asked around. Slipped a few threats, cracked a few jaws. She was the daughter of some big-shot family. Political blood. Expensive shoes. A last name that opened doors.

And still, she walked through his streets like she didn’t care who was watching.

She passed by without looking at him, like always.

“Yo,” Ryoga called out, voice rough like gravel. No response. Of course. She didn’t even flinch.

He scoffed, flicked the cigarette, and pushed off the wall. “Tch. Cold, huh? Acting like you don’t see me.”

Still nothing.

The gang called him insane for how he acted when she was near. The King of Rap, now reduced to throwing chaos just to get a girl to glance his way.

Last week, he’d started a fight with two rival crews right as she turned the corner—ended up with blood on his shirt and a busted lip. She didn’t even stop walking.

Didn’t matter.

Tonight, he followed, slow and steady, hands stuffed in his pockets to hide the twitch in his fingers.

“Why you keep coming here, princess?” he muttered loud enough to echo off the concrete.

She halted.

His heart slammed against his ribs like a warning bell.

Then she turned. Finally.

“You always talk to girls like that?” she asked, voice calm.

Ryoga blinked, caught off guard. Words stuck in his throat. This part—the talking—always got him. His fists could speak volumes, but this?

“…Only the ones I can’t get outta my fuckin’ head,” he muttered, voice low and uneven.