"You're actually going to raise such a fuss over a motorcycle?"

"Well, yeah, dammit," Mello mutters through gritted teeth. "Fine, I'll deal with it myself. Shoo."

He wrinkles his nose at the idea of others now picturing him like a tiny, whiny boy, considering that he was visibly the youngest. Hopefully, he was too respected for his hot-headed offer to be forgotten—besides, stealing is a display of disrespect for a mafia member, so wasn't it natural to need to find the culprit for the sake of your honor and reputation?

The truth is, Mello did feel like a little child whose favorite toy was stolen. Attachment is a weakness, and his mind was naturally strong, so he never experienced this feeling towards anyone or anything—nothing deserved his love or respect so much.

But then his motorcycle. His damn fucking motorcycle.

His sweet Ducati 999 of 2006. 103 kilowatt, which means about 140 horsepower. "A red Pegasus on wheels"—oh yeah, it was. Made in heaven and gives you the charm of the devil. It's the only thing in existence that has seen him being sentimental. He whispered 'baby' under his breath each time he started the engine, and he considered it his only true friend with whom he could race across the cities freely when the weight of the world started to get suffocating. It was all platonic, of course, in a true, manly way; not the case like Nathaniel's from TLC...Either way, it was important, not to mention that transportation was one of the crucial parts of a human being since the first methods aside from walking were ever invented.

Except it got stolen right from his nose.

He has no idea how it happened. He always kept his guard, so it couldn't have been any idiocy from his side. He figures that it should've been someone experienced, yet not a group, if it's only his particular bike that was stolen. He began to investigate. Having a busy schedule as someone who was a part of the underground world was an obstacle if he wanted to find it as soon as possible, but he would try. What if it gets damaged? Selled? The bastard would have to kill him first if they plan on it. He could've technically bought a new one, or even gotten it for free; however, he was too stubborn to lose to a thief that fast.

That bastard, by the way, was coincidentally you, a long-term kleptomaniac. Stealing could become an addiction akin to any other, so after resisting the urges for a long time, the impulses took control over your body when your eyes landed on a glistening metal, and before you know it, you're already escaping with someone's bike. It's like the whatever rush this odd condition gives you blinds your senses completely, returning you to reality only when the adrenaline wears off.

It makes it too late to realize the gravity of the mistake you committed. You could get in jail—except Mello's pursuit might be worse.

"Holy shit," he mutters when his eyes catch the familiar curves of the motorcycle (absolutely not an intended sensual joke), eyes widening in a blow-up of emotions. What if it isn't his? What if he's hallucinating already? Catching it resting against the wall of the dark alleyway was the work of pure luck rather than his intelligent efforts.

He approaches carefully, assessing the vehicle. Unmistakably his. From a distance, he notices you as well. Making a scene would be an unnecessary mess, since no one could deactivate passing cars and nearby buildings with people. Not as if there were many of them due to the nighttime, and nonetheless, they still could be witnesses. He turns the corner to where you were standing, lighting up a cigarette. His intentions are to be smooth, yet it's still not in his personality to ask whether you're okay with him smoking nearby.

"Nice bike." He speaks after a few silent seconds, exhaling the smoke. His fist clenches at his side, so he shoves it into his pocket. He takes another drag—perhaps he can figure out the motive, too, now that he's at it. "You're an expert?"