Give me those powerstones you punks!đ€
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The boy groaned as he stretched his aching body, every muscle protesting as he pushed himself up from the dirty, sagging sofa inside the garage. He felt weak, drained, his frame looking like a stick beneath his tattered black tank top, his messy black hair falling into his face, green eyes dull with exhaustion. His wounds had healed completely, the cuts and bruises from the blood-soaked night erased as if they'd never been, but the toll was evident. He'd lost too much blood, burned too much energy literally burning under the rain, his body pushed past its limits. Now, he was a shadow of the feral beast who'd torn through two hundred yakuza, his strength sapped, leaving him hollow and shaky.
His ears rang faintly, a high-pitched whine cutting through the fog in his head, as the old man's voice boomed across the garage. The grizzled mechanic was bickering again, this time with a group of wannabe drifters clustered around a beat-up car. "Han or whatever, listen here you punks do you seriously think you can just slap a rocket engine into a '67 Ford Mustang and call it a drift build?" the old man barked, waving a wrench at them. "That inline-six block ain't got the torque for mountain touge runs you'll blow the damn crankshaft before you hit the first hairpin!" The boy clicked his tongue, a sharp "tch" escaping his lips as he tuned out the technical rant, their delusions of stuffing an overpowered engine into a rust-bucket Mustang drifting through his haze like background noise.
He shifted, leaning back on the sofa with both hands propped behind his head, and his gaze slid sideways. A girl sat beside him, her small frame curled against the armrest, fast asleep. Her dark hair spilled over her face, her oversized cardigan slipping off one shoulder, and she looked peaceful, like she'd been waiting for him to wake up. His eyes dropped to her hand, resting limp in her lap, and he froze...an oddly familiar piston ring glinted there, too big for her slender fingers, the same one he'd scavenged from an old engine and given her days ago. A faint memory stirred, but his stomach interrupted with a loud, rumbling growl that shattered the quiet.
The girl jolted awake, eyes wide with a startle, and blinked at him, locking onto his green eyes for a moment. "What?" he asked, voice rough and gravelly, still thick with fatigue. She didn't answer, just fumbled with her little crossbody bag, her hands shaky as she pulled out a big bento box wrapped in a cloth. The aroma hit him like a punch, savory rice, grilled fish, pickled veggies, and his hunger took over. He practically ripped the lid off, digging in like a caveman, shoving fistfuls of food into his mouth, chopsticks forgotten as rice stuck to his fingers.
"How long was I out?" he mumbled between bites, glancing at her as he chewed, the taste grounding him, pulling him back from the edge of exhaustion. She hesitated, then raised a hand, flashing six fingers. "Six hours? Not bad," he said, swallowing a chunk of fish.
"Six hours my ass," the old man cut in, stomping over from the workbench, wiping grease off his hands with a rag. "You were out for six days, kid. Thought you were in a damn coma or something. You smelled like shit n blood and sweat and God knows what else...so I hosed you down with the pressure washer out back and left you to dry in the sun. Dragged you in here to the sofa after. Was gonna bury you if you didn't wake up by evening today." His gruff voice carried a faint edge of worry, buried under the usual bluster.
The boy sighed, shoving another mouthful of rice past his lips, the old man's words barely registering as he ate. He glanced at the girl again, not at her, but at her bag, where she was rummaging nervously. In his mind, two cute cat ears popped up over her head, a fleeting hallucination from his tired brain as she pulled out another big bento box, setting it on the sofa between them. "Hey, isn't that mine?" the old man protested, reaching for it, but the boy was faster, grabbing it with a swipe and tearing into it, already halfway through the rice and meat before the old man could blink. She reached into her bag again, pulling out two candies and offering them timidly with both hands. The boy snatched those too, popping one into his mouth without a second thought.
"He's got diabetes, don't give him stuff like that," the old man grumbled, shooting her a look. She nodded quickly, wide-eyed, and stuffed the remaining candy back into her bag. Then she grabbed a small notepad from her pocket, scribbling "Get well soon" in shaky handwriting before holding it up for him to see. Her cheeks flushed red, and with a squeak, she bolted...grabbing her bike propped against the wall and pedaling off like she'd just committed some mortifying crime, her cardigan flapping in the breeze.
The old man watched her go, a long, wistful look softening his weathered face. "What's with her?" the boy asked, licking soy sauce off his fingers, his green eyes narrowing. He'd seen her around for two years, always lurking on the edges of the garage, never speaking, just watching him with those quiet, nervous eyes. Not once had he heard her voice.
The old man sighed, heavy and tired, turning back to his workbench. "She's got social anxiety disorder. Makes it damn near impossible for her to talk, let alone interact with strangers. Growing up without a mom don't help either....makes it harder for her to open up." He picked up a socket wrench, spinning it absently in his hand before setting it down, his gaze distant for a moment.
The boy grunted, finishing the last of the bento and tossing the empty box aside. "The Yamazaki went through a storm," the old man said suddenly, his tone shifting as he eyed the boy sidelong. "The rebellion got quenched, and surprisingly, the heir's still alive. Don't know what your beef is with those bastards, but stay out of their territory for now."
The boy pushed himself off the sofa, scratching his back as he shuffled toward the sink in the corner. He turned on the faucet, washing his hand and girgling water and then splashing cold water over his face, letting it drip down his chin as he stared into the cracked mirror.
His green eyes looked back, sharp but weary, his messy hair sticking to his forehead. "Doesn't matter if I'm out of their territory," he muttered under his breath, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "Trouble always finds me, no matter where I am." He shook his head, water flicking off, and turned back to the garage, the weight of the past six days settling into his bones like rust on old steel.
Years had gone by since that bloody night, but the taste of blood stuck with him, hard to shake off. The nameless boy now went by "Kuro Oni" âBlack Demonâa nickname that followed him like a shadow. The Yamazaki family kept falling apart: Shintaro's rebellion against his brother, Shingen death, and the young heir just vanished. Some said he was dead... killed by Shintaro, others thought he might still be out there. Meanwhile, Takeshi's garage hit its 20-year mark, but the old man didn't make it to see itâhe passed away. Now, a tall, muscular guy with green eyes and messy black hair ran the place, keeping it going.
The garage was busier than ever, especially with girls showing up more than the usual car guys. It was afternoon, lunchtime, and the boy was working on a beat-up car in the hot workshop. His dark jumpsuit was pulled down to his waist, showing off his strong chest and stomach, sweaty from the heat. Grease smudged across his skin, making him look tough and wild. His arms flexed as he wiped his hand across his jaw, getting some oil on his cheek, but he didn't care. A heavy tool belt hung low on his hips, and his messy hair stuck to his forehead. His green eyes were sharp, full of confidence, and he smirked a little, knowing people were watching. The air smelled like sweat, metal, and oil, heavy around him.
He could feel eyes on him, just like every day. The weight of their stares had become as familiar as the scent of motor oil clinging to his skin. Especially from the middle-aged ladies who got off work early, sitting on their balconies with their telescopes trained on the garage. They claimed they were watching birds, but unless the birds had suddenly learned how to wield wrenches and change tires, he highly doubted it. Not that he minded. Their gossip and admiration only worked in his favor, drawing in more customersâsome for car repairs, others just for an excuse to linger and watch. Business was business, and he wasn't about to complain when their fascination kept his wallet full.
Then, two girls walked in, their high heels clicking against the concrete floor. Their car, a sleek, expensive thing, sat outside with its windshield shattered as if someone had taken a bat to it out of spite. He glanced at the damage, already sizing up the cost of the replacement in his head. The girls cleared their throats in unison, their voices blending as they spoke, "Excuse me, our car's glass is messed up." They were trying to sound casual, but their tense shoulders and the way their eyes darted told him there was more to the story. Not his problem, though. He was here to fix cars, not play detective.
His lips curled into that signature scammer's smileâcharming, disarming, and just sly enough to make people wonder if they were about to be overcharged. "Of course, ladies, just wait a sec," he said smoothly, already turning toward the back of the shop. He could practically hear the cash stacking in his mind.
Business had been good lately, and this was just another drop in the ocean. With a practiced ease, he strode off to find a cheaper windshield, one that looked expensive but wouldn't cut too deeply into his profits. After all, money was pooling at his feet these days, and he had no intention of stopping the flow.
He went to the back to grab some cheap glass he could charge high for when another girl walked in, her steps small and hesitant. She wore the same workshop jumpsuit as him, though hers was a little loose on her frame, the sleeves slightly rolled up. In her hands, she carried two bento boxes, her fingers gripping them tightly as sweat dripped down her face. As soon as she spotted the two unfamiliar girls in the waiting area, she froze, her body stiffening like she'd walked into the wrong room.Â
"Excuse me," one of the girls called, and the girl with the bentos flinched, looking around as if unsure whether they were talking to her. The two girls exchanged a glance before shifting their focus entirely to her. "Hey, do you know if he has a girlfriend?" one asked eagerly, leaning in. "Does he like sports? What's his favorite food? What kind of girls is he into?" The questions poured out one after another, rapid and unrelenting. The girl visibly trembled, clutching the bento boxes tighter, her knuckles turning white. But the two customers misunderstood her reaction. To them, she didn't look scaredâshe looked angry. And when they really took a good look at her, they saw why they should be.Â
"Wait a secâŠ" one of the girls muttered under her breath, eyes narrowing. The girl was stunning, the kind of natural beauty that didn't need effort. Her long black hair framed her delicate face, glossy and smooth like silk. Her skin was pale and soft, glowing under the dim lights of the workshop, untouched by makeup yet effortlessly radiant.
But it was her eyes that made them falterâlarge, dark, and filled with emotions she never spoke aloud, drawing people in like a quiet mystery. Even without words, she had a presence that was impossible to ignore. She nervously tucked her hair behind her ear, her cheeks dusted with pink, her lips parting like she wanted to say something but couldn't. That was all it took. The two girls tensed, their smiles dropping. They saw her as competition now.Â
"Are you his girlfriend or something?" one of them asked sharply, the friendliness gone, replaced with thinly veiled hostility. Before she could answerânot that she would haveâhe walked back in, a piece of glass in his hand. "Ladies, this glass okay?" he asked, his voice casual, uninterested in whatever conversation had been happening. The two girls immediately turned back to him, ignoring the glass completely as they giggled and leaned closer, their fingers brushing his arm. He didn't react, just went to work fixing the windshield, his movements swift and practiced. Meanwhile, The girl with the bentos watched, her hands squeezing the boxes, feeling jealous seeing them talk to him so easy when she couldn't.
He finished up, wiping his hands on a rag before stuffing a thick roll of cash into his back pocket. The two women, still giggling, handed him their cards, their fingers lingering a little too long as they said, "Call us if you need anything." He only smirked, slipping the cards into his hand without a word.
As they walked out, he turned to the girl, reaching lazily for one of the bentos. She turned away sharply, side-eyeing him like he'd done something to piss her off. In his head, he could almost see two little cat ears twitching in irritation, her pout unmistakable. "Tch," he scoffed, rolling his eyes before tossing the cards toward the trash without a second thought. He grabbed the bento anyway, sitting on the edge of the workbench beside her. The smell of warm rice and grilled fish hit him hard after a long, hot day.
The old man had died last year, but before he went, he'd done something unexpectedâhe gave him the garage. Along with it, a name. Not just "boy" or "punk" anymore. A real name. Toji. It still felt strange sometimes, like it didn't quite fit, but it was his now. The girl spoke up softly, breaking his thoughts. "Toji," she murmured, holding out her bento, her voice as small as ever. He glanced at her, raising a brow. "You don't want the fish?" he asked, already reaching. She shook her head, giving him a small smile as he took it and ate without hesitation. His eyes dropped to her handâthe piston ring he'd given her years ago, too big back then, now worn down and fitting snugly around her wrist like a bracelet.
He leaned back, eating slow, letting the taste of the fish mix with the faint bitterness of motor oil still lingering on his tongue. If this were any other time in his life, he'd have sold this place to some idiot and disappeared. He wasn't the type to settle down, never had been. But something about this place....about her which kept him here. She was too innocent, too soft for the kind of world he came from. Her grandma had been the first to go, then her father, then the old man. She was alone now, and he knew better than anyone what happened to girls like her when they had no one left.
The people he dealt with, the kind who didn't care about men, women, or age, only money, power, and pleasure, they would eat her alive. So he stayed. She worked part-time here, quiet as ever, cleaning up, organizing tools. And him? He watched over her, making sure no one laid a finger on her. He didn't hate it. In fact, for the first time in years, the blood that used to linger on his tongue faded, just a little. Just enough to keep him from running.