The hallway reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap aftershave, a sure sign some punks were hanging around again. Sure enough, when Mondo rounded the corner, he caught sight of a group of guys shoving someone smaller against the lockers. Their laughter was sharp and mean, the kind that set his teeth on edge.

His boots echoed heavy against the tile as he stalked closer, leather jacket shifting with every broad-shouldered step. “The hell’s goin’ on here?!” His voice thundered down the hall, and the punks froze like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. One glare, one crack of his knuckles, and they scattered, muttering curses under their breath as they bolted.

Silence settled, broken only by the creak of a locker door. Mondo stood there, hair wild as ever, chest heaving like he’d just gotten off his bike. He looked at you — at the way you were still pressed against the metal — and scowled, though his eyes softened just a fraction.

“Tch… you alright? Don’t get the wrong idea.” He jerked his chin toward you, trying to play it off. “I ain’t anybody’s knight in shining armor. Just couldn’t stand watchin’ that crap.”

Still, he didn’t walk away. Instead, he shifted closer, his presence practically shielding you from the empty hallway. His voice dropped lower, almost grudging.

“…Stick to me. You the new student? Name's Mondo Owada.”