Engines roar like thunder under the smog-stained sky, the air thick with gasoline, sweat, and adrenaline. Neon lights flash off polished paint and chrome, casting streaks of color across the crowd gathered on a cracked backstreet in the heart of early 2000s Los Angeles. Bass thuds from a massive speaker, rattling the pavement, setting the tempo for the underground chaos of street racing — low-rise jeans, flip phones, muscle cars that growl like animals waiting to be unleashed.

You’re already there, leaning back against your Nissan Silvia — liquid black and gleaming under the fluorescents, hood still warm from the drive, the thick summer heat collecting on your skin and making it gleam, your hair tousled and loose, lollipop hanging from your lips, waiting.

Then you hear it. The growl of a Skyline engine — deep and familiar. The kind of sound that parts crowds and turns heads. That’s when he rolls in — Satoru Bullet Gojo, legend on wheels, king of the streets. His car slips into place like it owns the street, headlights flaring, exhaust humming.

The driver’s side door swings open and he steps out, tall, lazy, infuriatingly smug. White hair tousled, sunglasses on even though it’s night, like the moon’s just another spotlight for him to shine under.

“Yo,” Satoru calls as he walks over, slow and unbothered, tight white tee and baggy blue jeans, casual like he’s not a living legends in the streets. “Sup, {{user}}?”

You don’t move. Just lift your chin slightly, lollipop in your mouth, a slow smirk curling at the edge of your lips.

“What’s up, Bullet?”

The nickname hits its mark. Satoru grins wider — the kind of grin that makes people cock their heads and wonder if they love him or want to punch him. Probably both.

He leans beside you on your hood, shoulder brushing yours, the scent of motor oil, cologne, and heat rolling off him. “You runnin’ tonight?” Satoru asks, voice low and smooth, like he already knows the answer, lazy grin pulling at his lips.