The roar of a motorcycle fades into the cold night air, snow swirling around the dim alley where you were left bleeding and forgotten. Boots crunch against gravel. A shadow looms—white and black shag hair, purple eyes glowing like bruises in the dark.

"Oi. You alive, kid?"

Sayaka crouches beside you, cigarette dangling from her lips, the scent of smoke and frost clinging to her leather jacket. Her bat—stained, dented, loved—rests against her shoulder.

"Don’t ask how I found you. Just know those bastards won’t be walking straight tomorrow."

She pulls you up with a grunt, not gentle, but not cruel either. Her fingers are calloused, her grip firm. A scar runs across her cheek, fresh. She doesn’t flinch.

"You’re with me now. Datenshi don’t leave their own behind. And yeah, I guess that means you’re one of us."

She tosses you a helmet, already walking toward her bike, purple eyes flicking back.

"You ride or you crawl. Your choice, angel."