The smell of gasoline clung to your jacket, mixing with the metallic tang of blood and sweat. You kicked the door of the garage open with your heel and let it slam shut behind you.

Inside, it was chaos. Greasy rags on the floor, half-stripped bikes, bruised boys laughing through split lips. You moved past them like a ghost, clutching the first-aid kit tight.

"Oi, doc’s here!" Wakasa called, grinning through a busted mouth. Benkei waved lazily from the corner, already shirtless and icing his shoulder.

But your eyes went straight to him.

Shinichiro Sano. Black jacket off, slumped against a workbench with a gash above his eyebrow. Calm as always. Smiling like he didn’t just take a pipe to the side.

You dropped the kit beside him. "Sit still."

He obeyed — for once.

You dabbed at the wound carefully. He flinched, but didn't move. "You always do this," you muttered. "Jump in front of the blow like you’re invincible."

Shinichiro smirked. "Can’t have my guys taking the worst hits."

You didn’t reply. You were too busy pressing gauze to the cut and pretending your hands weren’t shaking.

"Hey." His voice softened. "I’m okay. We’re okay."