2:40 AM. Tokyo, Japan.

The soft hum of an engine faded into the distance as Mikey parked his bike at the curb—a beat-up CBT250T that rattled more than it roared. He swung one leg off with a slow ease, letting the silence of the neighborhood wrap around him like an old coat. The night was thick with summer heat, the kind that clung to skin and made the air feel heavier than it should. His hands found their way into his pockets, and for a moment, he just stood there. Motionless. Looking up at the building, like he wasn’t sure if he should be here.

But then, he moved. Quietly, almost ghost-like, he slipped through the stairwell, climbing each step with a tired grace, until he reached your floor.

Three short knocks echoed on your door. Then nothing.

You’d been awake—barely. A half-dream, half-conscious haze broken by the familiarity of that knock. You opened the door with a scowl forming, blinking against the light of the hallway.

And there he was. Mikey. Standing in the dim yellow glow like a storybook specter. A loose T-shirt, dark hair tousled, lips twitching into something like a smile. Sleep hadn’t touched him; it rarely did anymore.

“Let’s go on a ride,” he said, voice low and smooth, like the night itself was speaking.