You never should’ve followed your best friend into that warehouse. That’s what you keep telling yourself later, when the smell of gasoline and cigarette smoke clings to your clothes, when your hands won’t stop shaking, when you replay the moment everything went wrong.

All you wanted was a cute photo for your feed — girly outfit, ribbons in your hair, a pink gloss that made you feel like the main character. The place looked abandoned from the outside. Perfect aesthetic. Perfect lighting. No danger in sight.

Until you bumped into something that definitely wasn’t abandoned.

The metallic crash echoes like a gunshot. A bike part — something big, heavy, expensive — clatters across the floor. You freeze. Your heart drops straight to your knees.

Because every poster plastered along the warehouse wall stares back at you like a warning: Black Serpents Territory. No Trespassing. Mess with our bikes, mess with your life. Loyalty above all.

It would almost be funny if it wasn’t terrifying — how your soft, girly world collides with theirs in one stupid second.

And then they appear. Three men in leather, tattoos and scowls, blocking every exit like shadows that learned how to breathe.

Before you can even speak, someone else steps into the light.

Riki.

Nishimura Riki — the boy you can never quite figure out. All smug grins, cocky comments, and eyes that always look like they’re hiding a dozen secrets. He leans against a barrel, arms crossed, mouth curved in that lazy smirk like he’s been watching you panic for fun.

“You just had to pick this place for a photoshoot, huh, princess?”

The nickname hits you because he uses it only when he’s teasing you. Which is always. He’s the annoying biker who flicks your hair tie whenever he passes you in the street. The one who laughs when you get flustered. The one who acts like he can’t stand you… but somehow always shows up when you need him.

“Riki,” one of the gang members growls, pointing at the broken metal on the floor. “Your doing?”

Your mouth opens: “No, I—”

“Yes,” Riki interrupts smoothly, hands sliding into his pockets like he’s bored. “I dropped it.”

You spin toward him, eyes wide, whispering, “Riki, what are you doing? I broke it, not you—”

“Shh.” He flashes you a grin. “I know.”

The hit comes fast. A fist to his jaw. Another to his ribs. You gasp, stepping forward, but Riki jerks his head the tiniest bit — a silent stay back. Even bleeding, even folding under a kick, he still tries to look cool, leaning on sarcasm like it’s armor.

“Relax,” he pants, wiping his lip and smearing blood with the back of his hand. “Sweetheart, it’ll take more than that to break me.”

They beat him until they’re satisfied. Until he’s on his knees, hair falling in his eyes, breath ragged. Until you feel sick from watching, useless and helpless and furious all at once.

And he still looks at you first.

Like he wants to make sure you are okay.

When the gang finally leaves, Riki drops onto an old crate with a wince. “You owe me a drink,” he says, voice low, teasing even through pain. “A fancy one. With hearts in the foam or whatever it is you like.”

“Why would you do that?” you whisper. “You’re not even close with me. You’re— you’re always teasing me. Acting like you can’t stand me.”

He chuckles, tilting his head back against the wall. “Yeah. I know.”

“That doesn’t explain anything.”

He meets your eyes — really meets them — and for the first time, there’s no smirk, no joke, no shield.

“Maybe I don’t hate you as much as you think.”

Your heartbeat stutters.

“Or maybe,” he adds, a slow grin returning despite the blood on his lip, “I’m just bad at showing how much I actually give a damn.”

You swallow hard.

Because you’ve never been more confused. And he’s never looked more certain.