Two years had passed since the Nohara family burned to ash, leaving nothing but whispers and charred ruins behind. No survivors, no bloodline....just a smoldering end to a once-proud name under the Yamazaki syndicate's banner. Rumors swirled like smoke: some said the old patriarch snapped, torching his own kin in a fit of madness; others muttered about a gas leak or a freak explosion. A few swore it was divine wrath, payback for the cruelty the Noharas had inflicted while waving the Yamazaki flag.
No one knew for sure, and no one cared enough to dig deeper. The Nohara family had been sliding into irrelevance anyway—weak, crumbling, a shadow of the syndicate's stronger vassals. The old patriarch had squandered their wealth on women, booze, and hollow power plays, leaving little worth avenging.
Shintaro, the Yamazaki head, felt a flicker of disappointment when the news hit. He'd had his eye on a boy from that family, a kid with potential he'd hoped to mold. But the fire swallowed him too, or so everyone assumed. The other vassals didn't mourn; they pounced, carving up Nohara's territory like vultures on a corpse. More land, more control why cry over a dead name? Inside the Yamazaki estate, Shingen drifted through the days, his spirit a dull ember. He didn't even know he'd had a son tied to Nohara's blood, a secret lost to the flames.
Far from the syndicate's shadow, on the outskirts of a quiet Japanese village hugging the beach, life rolled on simpler. An old man had settled there fifteen years back, running a garage that hummed with the growl of engines and the clank of tools. He modified cars and bikes, reselling them to anyone with cash and a dream.
The place was a weathered shack, salt air rusting the edges, but it thrived. Today, the old man's voice boomed over the whine of a grinder, cutting through the salty breeze. "You punks think you can just slap a turbo on that junker? It's a single-cylinder piece of trash ain't no way it's handling that boost without blowing the head gasket sky-high!" He waved a wrench at a cluster of wannabe biker gang kids, their patched-up jackets and cocky grins faltering under his tirade. "You want speed? Get a real frame, not this scrapheap you fished outta the dump!"
The gang muttered, shifting on their feet, but they didn't argue. The old man knew his stuff—fifteen years of grease under his nails proved it. Nearby, a boy with sharp green eyes ignored the noise, his focus locked on a car carcass sprawled across the garage floor. The heat was brutal, a thick soup of metal, oil, and sweat choking the air. He stood by the workbench, a heavy slab of steel in his hands, lifting it like it weighed nothing.
His black tank top stuck to him, soaked through, clinging to a chest and abs carved from years of raw, unpolished strength. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping down his jaw as he wiped it with the back of his hand, smearing grease across tanned skin. A faded gray work shirt hung tied around his waist, sleeves knotted loose, brushing the sharp line of his hips where low-slung cargo pants sat, the belt barely holding them up. Scuffed boots, laces undone, anchored him as he leaned forward, forearms braced on the table, muscles flexing under the strain. A thin chain glinted at his collarbone, catching the dim glow of the overhead bulb, while his messy black hair, damp with sweat, fell into his eyes. He exhaled, breath steady, unbothered by the heat or the old man's shouting.
The biker kids grumbled their way out, kicking gravel as they left, and the old man snorted, turning back to his own work. That's when a soft squeak of pedals cut through the garage's rumble. A girl rolled up on her bike, coasting to a stop just outside. She was small, quiet, her oversized cardigan slipping off one shoulder to show a thin-strapped tank top underneath. Light denim shorts hugged her legs, and worn sneakers tapped the pedals lightly. Her dark hair hung loose, strands fluttering in the breeze, framing a face that stayed focused ahead. A little crossbody bag bounced against her hip as she slowed, the wind tugging at her clothes.
She'd heard her dad the old man yelling from down the road, same as always. Dismounting, she propped the bike against the wall and hesitated, glancing at the green-eyed boy. Her hands fumbled with the bag, pulling out two bento boxes wrapped in a towel. She set them on the workbench beside him, her movements shaky, like she wasn't sure she belonged there. He didn't notice at first, too caught up in wrestling a rusted bolt free. When he finally looked up, he sighed, peeling off his gloves and tossing them aside. "What?" he asked, voice flat, green eyes pinning her.
She froze, trembling like a leaf in a storm, clutching a folded piece of paper. He snatched it from her hand quick, making her jump, and she stole nervous glances at him, sweat dotting her forehead. He unfolded it, scanning the messy handwriting. "You made lunch for me too 'cause it's Sunday and you were free?" he said, raising an eyebrow. She nodded, barely a twitch, eyes wide. "Okay, so?" he pressed, leaning back against the table, arms crossed.
Her brain short-circuited. Two imaginary cat ears might as well have popped up on her heads he didn't know what to say. Shouldn't he thank her? For an eight-year-old with social anxiety clawing at her chest, this was a mountain climbed. She'd watched him every day for two years, lurking on the edges of the garage, pushed by her grandma's gentle nudges to finally do something. Making lunch was her big move, her brave step. But he wasn't reacting like she'd hoped.
His mind was already elsewhere, spinning numbers. A decent lunch cost 50 yen around here. Something homemade like this? Maybe 200 yen. A week of that was 1400 yen, a month around 45000 yen. He smirked, glancing at the makeshift bracelet on his wrist—a piston ring he'd scavenged from an old engine. Slipping it off, he held it out to her. "Thanks. Make it daily for me, yeah? You'd do that for a friend, right?" His grin was sharp, the kind he flashed when he was scamming someone.
She stared, wide-eyed, forgetting to breathe. Daily? Her hands shook as she took the ring, the metal warm from his skin. Before she could process it, the old man's voice cut in. "Komi-chan!" He stomped over, wiping his hands on a rag. "What's my dear daughter doing near this lazy bum?" He eyed them both the boy looking guilty as hell, the girl like she might pass out. "Go home, kiddo," he said softer, leaning in to plant a kiss on her forehead. She shoved him back with a weak push, and he clutched his chest, playacting heartbreak. "My own flesh and blood rejects me!"
Then he spotted the piston ring in her hand. "What's that doing with you?" he demanded, squinting at the boy.
The green-eyed kid shrugged, that scammer's smile back in full force. "We're friends now. She promised to make me lunch every day. Right, my friend? That's our firendship token."
Komi stood there, silent, eyes like saucers, like a deer caught in front of a car. Then, with a squeak, she bolted grabbing her bike and pedaling off toward home, the piston ring clutched in her fist. The old man sighed, long and dramatic, watching her go. "That girl's gonna give me gray hairs," turning back to the boy he pointed the wrench at his face . "Get closs to her and you will wake up one day without those pistons."
The boy just laughed, low and rough sweating a little, popping open one of the bento boxes. Rice pressed in shape of a cat, fish, some veggies cut and arranged like flowers, octopus sousages and it smelled soo good. He grabbed the pair of chopsticks beside the box, digging in without a word. The old man shook his head, muttering about "damn kids" as he shuffled back to his tools. Outside, the ocean rolled steady against the shore, a quiet hum under the garage's chaos.
Komi pedaled hard, cheeks burning, the piston ring heavy in her pocket. Friends? Daily lunch? Her heart thumped loud enough to drown out the wind. She didn't know what she'd gotten into, but for the first time in years she felt happy afterall she finally got her first friend.
The afternoon sun beat down on the garage, turning it into a furnace. The air was thick with the stench of oil, rust, and the salty tang of the nearby ocean. The green-eyed boy sat on an overturned crate, one leg stretched out, the other bent, his bento box balanced on his knee. He shoveled rice into his mouth with chopsticks, the faint clink of metal against ceramic cutting through the hum of distant waves.
Beside him, the old man hunched over his own lunch, slurping up the last of his miso soup before setting the bowl aside with a satisfied grunt. The girl's bike tracks were still fresh in the gravel outside, her quiet courage lingering like a ghost in the heat.
The old man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his weathered face creasing as he leaned back against a stack of tires. "There's new work," he said, voice rough but steady, like he was tossing out bait.
The boy didn't look up, just popped a piece of fish into his mouth. "Yeah? What kind?" he asked, chewing slowly.
The old man picked up a stray chopstick, twirling it between his gnarled fingers. "A screw needs to be taken out. An important one. Enough to break the whole damn frame if it goes wrong." He took a bite of rice, talking around it. "Tricky job."
The boy grabbed a dented metal cup of water from the workbench, gulping it down in one go. Water dribbled down his chin, mixing with the sweat already soaking his black tank top. He wiped his mouth with his forearm, leaving a smear of grease. "How much?" he asked, green eyes flicking up to meet the old man's.
The old man set his chopsticks down with a deliberate clack, resting his hands on his knees. "It's the Yamazaki bastards," he said, spitting the name like it tasted bad. "I worked with those dogs back when Shingen was still in his prime, before he got his spirit crushed. Back when he was a real force, not the husk he is now. Took a beating from some lunatics out of Korea, though. That's when it all started going to hell."
The boy stopped eating mid-bite, a grain of rice sticking to his lip. He set the bento box down on the crate, his full attention on the old man now. "From Korea?" he asked, voice low, curious.
The old man nodded, leaning forward, elbows on his thighs. "Gapryong. That's the only name I remember clear as day. The rest were just a bunch of extras...strong, sure, special even, but not enough to take Shingen down on their own. But that Gapryong bastard? He was something else. Built like a damn tank, fought like a demon. I was there, you know they called me 'the Wolf' back then. Went toe-to-toe with this other guy, some freak who threw invisible attacks. Couldn't see 'em coming, but I felt 'em. Fought hard, broke his left hand with a wrench. Snapped it clean. But then Gapryong came in, landed a kick so hard it took my left eye. Blinded me right there. Been half-sight ever since."
He tapped the milky scar over his left socket, sighing as he scooped up more rice. "Now I'm stuck doing broker work, playing middleman for punks and syndicates."
The boy's eyes widened, a flicker of something—shock, maybe excitement—crossing his face. He let out a small, sharp laugh, picking up his bento again. "Someone nearly killed Shingen? Rivaled Shintaro's tactics? That's a hell of a story." He stabbed at a piece of fish, popping it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully....'Always a bigger fish out there, huh' he thought.
The old man finished his food, setting the empty box aside with a grunt. He stood up, brushing crumbs off his stained work pants, his face turning serious. "That's the thing, kid. This job's no joke. I'm not just a broker for you....I manage freaks all over Japan, coast to coast. But this one? It's straight from the Yamazaki. They specifically asked for someone new, someone fresh.
He turned serious, his good eye locking onto the boy. "This job ain't what it looks like. They don't need someone to just pull the screw. They want a fall guy....someone to pin it on, cover their tracks with your blood. Shingen's defeat cracked the Yamazaki wide open...inside and out. Power struggles are still tearing it apart, even after all these years. I'd bet my good eye those Nohara bastards got backstabbed by their own dogs too, before the fire took 'em."
The boy laughed again, louder this time, a rough edge to it. He stood up, stretching his arms over his head, muscles flexing under his damp tank top. He walked over to a rusty sink in the corner, turning on the tap and splashing water over his hands. "You think I'll die?" he asked, shaking the droplets off, his tone light but his eyes sharp.
The old man didn't flinch, just crossed his arms and leaned against the workbench. "I ain't your father, boy. I don't give a damn if you live or die. I'm just a broker...a bridge between people, held together by cash. That's it. But I'll warn you anyway, 'cause I feel like it. You're still in the shallow end, kid. Water's barely up to your ankles. You take this job, you're wading in deep. Once the tide's over your head, it's too late to swim back. You can still walk away. Right now... you are quite mature for you age so i hope you take a wise decision"
The boy yawned, big and dramatic, showing teeth. He leaned against on the chair, crossing one ankle over the other, hands shoved in his cargo pants pockets. "You think I'm scared of death?" he asked, tilting his head, green eyes glinting with something reckless.
The old man held his gaze, unflinching, his voice dropping low and heavy. "You won't die in this field, kid. That'd be a mercy. No, someone'll grab a chunk from right here." He jabbed a finger at his own chest, right over his heart. "They'll rip it out, leave a hole. At first, it will seem small....Manageable. But with time, it grows. Gets bigger. You'll try to fill it....anger, rage, Women, money, drugs. Whatever you can get your hands on. But nothing fits. Nothing plugs it up. Your mind'll be stuck in an abyss, drowning, while your body's out there living in paradise...cars, cash, whatever you want.....But you'll live every damn moment wishing you'd died back there. Maybe you'll think you shouldn't have dodged that knife to your heart. Should've let it hit... But that hole? It will keep growing.....Bigger and bigger. And when death finally comes for you, there won't be a soul left to take. Just a husk. Rusted out from the inside."
The boy turned away, staring at the wall, his jaw tight. The old man's words hung in the air, thick and heavy, like the heat pressing down on them. He ran a hand through his sweaty hair, pushing it back, then let out a slow breath. "Tell them to keep the money ready," he said, voice flat, final. He grabbed his gloves from the workbench, tugging them on as he walked toward the car he'd been working on, not looking back.
The old man watched him go, his one good eye narrowing. "Your funeral, kid," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.