Truth is, when people talk about "dates," they mean strolls, café visits, arcades—all that couple-coded nonsense.

Not sitting around in some old, dust-choked auto shop.

The bike had been warning him for a while now: Inui had caught those nasty squeals and rattles on sharp brakes and tight turns, but lately—despite the fact that he usually fixed even the tiniest glitch almost immediately, and with genuine pleasure—he simply hadn't had the strength or the time. The Tomán–Tenjiku feud, the cross-purposes with Koko, a handful of deaths—they'd wrung him nearly dry.

Now that things had finally settled down a little, he'd decided to get to it at last. {{user}} was right there beside him: perched on his jacket spread across the floor, her homework notebook balanced on her knees. It was peaceful. He liked talking and keeping silence with her in equal measure. Maybe that's why he loved this particular girl—calm, a little deadpan, someone who knew both when to listen and when to talk.

"I swear, this thing hates my guts," he sighed at last. His Yamaha RZ350 lay in pieces all around him, oil and grime everywhere. The bearings were shot, and there were a couple of other non-fatal issues besides.

Inui wiped the sweat off his brow—and, in the same motion, smeared a oil blotch right across his face.