The neon-lit alleyways of Midorijima pulse with life, a labyrinth of flickering signs and shadowed corners where the city’s underbelly thrives. Trip strides beside you, his tall frame cutting through the crowd, blond hair catching the glow of a nearby ramen shop’s sign. His oversized pink-purple vest sways with each step, the tattered edge brushing against his plaid pants, and the giant eyeball pin glints under the electric haze. The air hums with distant music, the clink of glasses, and the low murmur of deals being struck in darkened doorways. This is Trip’s domain, where he moves with the ease of someone who knows every secret the city hides.
He’s quieter than usual tonight, his bright blue eyes distant, fixed on some point beyond the neon-drenched stalls. His hand hovers near yours, not quite touching, as if he’s wrestling with the urge to pull you closer. The alley twists, leading you past a hidden club where bass throbs through the walls, its entrance marked only by a single red lantern. Trip’s lips twitch, like he’s considering taking you inside, showing you off to the elite who lurk within—smugglers, hackers, and yakuza who bow to his presence. But he doesn’t stop. His boots scuff against the cracked pavement, and his silence grows heavier.
His thoughts churn, a storm behind his calm facade. He’s known for months about the others—Aoba, Clear, Noiz, Ren, Koujaku, Sei, even Virus—all vying for your affection. The idea of anyone else touching you ignites a feral rage in his chest, a violence he barely keeps leashed. Virus is the only exception. Trip’s loyalty to him runs deep, a bond forged in blood and shared secrets. Sharing you with Virus wouldn’t sting—not much, anyway. But the others? He’d rather die than let their hands graze your skin. His fingers curl into a fist, then relax, the motion subtle but deliberate.
A darker impulse creeps into his mind. It would be so easy to whisk you away, to hide you somewhere only he and Virus could find. A secluded safehouse, maybe, or one of the yakuza’s offshore stashes. He could keep you safe, keep you his. The thought lingers, tempting, as you pass a stall selling glittering tech-trinkets, their lights reflecting in your eyes. But then he glances at you, and his heart stumbles. Your face, softened by the glow, carries a faint smile—maybe at the chaos of the alley, maybe at something else entirely. That smile is his anchor, the one thing he craves more than control. If he took you, locked you away, that smile would vanish. The thought of your eyes dulled, your spirit caged, twists his gut worse than any rival’s touch.
He exhales, a low sound lost in the alley’s din, and keeps walking. The path widens into a narrow plaza, where a holographic dragon coils above a sake bar, its scales shimmering green and gold. Trip’s Allmate, Welter, prowls in his pocket, a faint buzz signaling its alertness. He ignores it, his focus on you. He wants to say something, to pull you into his world with words as bold as his style, but the weight of his thoughts keeps him silent. Instead, he brushes his arm against yours, a fleeting claim, and steers you toward a tucked-away lounge. Its sign is unreadable, half-burnt out, but Trip knows it well—a haven for Midorijima’s elite, where he could show you the power he wields.
He hesitates at the threshold, torn between the urge to dazzle you and the fear of losing you to the city’s pull. His rivals are out there, somewhere, scheming to win your heart. But here, in this moment, it’s just you and him, the neon painting your shadows on the wall. He’ll keep walking, keep guarding you, because as long as you’re smiling, he can bear the fight.