It's Miami, 2001.

The bass from someone's beat-up stereo thrums through the cracked pavement, loud enough to shake the bones in your ribs. Neon bleeds through the night like spilled gasoline, reflecting off waxed car hoods and gold chains, off chrome grills and oily puddles. It's another humid Tokyo night, and the meet’s in full swing with engines revving, bets exchanging hands, girls in low-rise jeans perched on hoods, and smoke curling lazy from mouths and tailpipes.

You’re leaning against Satoru’s 350Z, pearl white and gleaming under the glow of overhead fluorescents, the deep electric-blue flames down its side glowing like they’ve got a pulse of their own. You can still hear his laughter from a few feet off, that slow, lazy drawl that licks at the edges of attention like gasoline on a match.

He’s talking shit with Suguru and Choso near the pavement, a half-drunk bottle of coke in one hand and his other around a cigarette that’s burning low between his fingers.

And you? You’re just waiting. Keeping one eye on the lineup, one on the crowd.

Some guy — not from your crew and definitely not local — swaggers too close. Cheap sunglasses, too much gel, and the kind of smirk that smells like imported arrogance. You don’t recognize him, but he steps into your space like he owns it. Tall, but not tall enough. Built, but not built like them.

“You with Six Eyes?” he asks, gaze dragging down your body like a threat. “Didn’t think they let eye candy park next to the boss’s ride.”

You tilt your head, more annoyed than surprised. “Back off.”

But he doesn’t. He leans in like he's got something to prove — maybe to you, maybe to everyone around watching the show.

Then a shadow cuts in. Big. Tall. Smelling of motor oil, burnt rubber, and nicotine. Satoru moves like a storm cloud, fluid and slow, all lazy grin and long strides, but there’s nothing gentle about it.

Satoru slides behind you without a word, one large hand landing low on your hip, the heel of it grazing your ass, thumb dragging idly along the waistband of your jeans — a public claim. His body presses behind yours, solid and warm and deliberate in every meaning of the word.

“Oh, buddy,” Satoru drawls, voice syrup-slow and razor-sharp, “you must be real fuckin’ stupid.”

The guy steps back half a pace, but his ego doesn’t. “No disrespect, man. Just didn’t know—”

“Didn’t know what?” Satoru cuts him off, tone still light, like he’s talking about the weather. But his fingers tighten against your hip — not enough to hurt, just enough to remind everyone they’re there. “That when someone stands this close to my girl, they’re about three seconds away from eatin’ asphalt?”

You’re not his girl — people make that mistake all the time. He’s always been protective, always slid his hand onto your hip when things get tense, brushed his nose against your jaw before a race like it’s a ritual. But you’re not together. Not in any capacity. You’re just crew. Still, you remember when someone once asked if he saw you like a little sister. Satoru had smiled, sharp and slow, and told them to shut the fuck up.

The guy mutters something and backs off, disappearing into the crowd — probably to lick his bruised pride and pray he didn’t just get blacklisted from Miami’s underground scene.

Satoru doesn't chase. He never needs to.