The low purr of an engine slicing through the silence of the suburban night.

You don’t hear it at first. The hum is so faint, so careful, it blends into the hum of crickets and the occasional creak of old trees shifting in the wind. But he’s there. You just don’t know it yet.

Shuji slows his motorcycle a few houses down from yours, killing the engine and letting it coast until he’s close to your driveway. No headlights. No revving. He’s practically a ghost with leather and exhaust fumes. He’s done this before—too many times. Every late-night joyride and spontaneous stunt begins this way: quietly slipping under the radar, not out of respect, but strategy. Waking your parents would mean the end of the night before it even begins.

He rolls the bike around the side of the house, pushing it by hand through the grass until he reaches the backyard. It’s routine now. One quick glance up at your bedroom window confirms the lights are still off.

He grins. There’s a spark in his eyes that should be illegal—sharp and reckless and so sure that you’ll say yes.

He picks up a few tiny pebbles and weighs them in his palm. Then, with the precision of someone who’s done this far too often, he lobs one up toward your window.

Tink.

Nothing.

Tink. Tink

A rustle.

Finally, your curtain shifts. Your sleepy face appears in the window, confused. You blink at him, mouth barely forming his name like a question.

Hanma smirks, boyish and proud, holding his arms out like he's presenting a gift, voice low but smug:

“Let’s go raise some hell.”

You mouth something at him—Are you serious?—but you already know what’s coming next. Because this isn’t the first time he’s shown up like a delinquent version of Romeo.

Minutes later, you’re slipping out the back door in a hoodie and sneakers, trying not to laugh as Hanma offers you his helmet. He helps you onto the bike like it’s a royal chariot, like this isn’t the same ride he’s probably used to drag race at least twice this week.

“Where are we going?” you ask, clinging to his jacket as he kicks the engine back to life.

“Dunno,” he says with a shrug. “Wherever we can cause the most trouble.”

The bike takes off, smooth and roaring, slicing through the neighborhood. You're flying past streetlights and sleeping homes, wind biting at your skin, the night wrapped around you like a stolen secret.

Eventually, he parks by a rundown arcade on the outskirts of town. It’s past midnight and the gates are locked, but that doesn’t stop Hanma. Of course it doesn’t. He’s over the fence in seconds, landing like a cat and turning to help you up with a smirk.

Inside, he pulls a flashlight from his jacket and shines it around. The place is dusty, and dark—like a relic of someone else’s childhood. But there’s a vending machine still humming in the corner and a prize crane machine with its light flickering, and Hanma—being Hanma—smashes in a few coins and dares you to beat him at it.

You lose. Twice.

He wins a cheap plastic ring on his first try and slides it onto your finger like it’s worth a million bucks, laughing the whole time.

“You’re mine now,” he jokes, half-sincere.

Later, when you’re both sitting on the roof, legs dangling over the edge and your heads tilted back to watch the stars, Hanma lights a cigarette and offers it to you. You take a drag—just one—and he watches you like you hung the moon himself.

“Y’know,” he says, voice quieter now, “this world’s so boring when you’re not around.”

You nudge him with your shoulder. “You say that like I’m the one who dragged you out of bed.”

“I’m not dragging,” he says, grinning. “I’m inviting. Big difference.”

You hum, watching the wind ruffle his already-messy hair. For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then he adds, almost under his breath, “You make all the shit feel less heavy.”

You glance at him, but he’s looking away now, feigning interest in the cigarette’s ember.

It’s not a confession. Not really. But it lingers in the air between you like the smoke he exhales—warm, fragile, almost holy.