"You think just flashing some cash makes the bike yours?" Ethan blocked Dezaya's path. "The dealer hasn't even agreed to sell it to you."
"Hmph. Then let's see you pull out the money, pretty boy," Dezaya said, folding her arms beneath her chest with a confident scoff. "Empty-handed, huh? Let's see how you pay."
Back when he didn't have much money, Ethan could carry everything in a little box.
Now that he had real wealth, it was too risky to lug around. These days, he only carried a couple hundred thousand Berries for daily expenses.
But he had already burned through a chunk of it on the hotel and then again on shopping. Right now, he didn't even have a million Berries in cash on him — no way he could buy the bike on the spot.
Still, the more he saw how much Dezaya wanted that machine, the more his priorities shifted.
He was now more interested in something other than the bike.
"I don't need the bike that badly," Ethan said, looking directly into Dezaya's bold, determined eyes. "But I'm curious. You've scraped together every bit you have for this thing. What's the reason?"
"What's it to an outsider like you?" she retorted.
"No harm in talking," Ethan shrugged, calm and persuasive. "Maybe I could be your sponsor. Maybe I've got money to burn."
"My grandma always told me, 'No one's nice for free — if they are, they're either conning you or want something from you.'" Dezaya's tone grew wary. "How do I know you're not with the Flying Fish Club?"
"What's that?" Ethan turned to the nearby salesperson. "You heard of them?"
"They're a notorious biker gang from around here," the clerk explained. "They're rivals of Dezaya's crew — the Candy Club."
"That's right," Dezaya nodded. "I've got a big race coming up against them. I need that jet bike. No other option."
"A high-speed race, huh? Don't you need to mod the bike for that? What's the point of buying a stock model?"
"You can only mod a bike if its base specs are solid," Dezaya said. "Otherwise, no matter how much you tweak it, you won't beat anyone."
"Ahem," the salesperson interrupted, raising a finger. "Vehicles bought on installment plans are strictly prohibited from being modified."
"Well, if you don't know I'm modifying it, then it doesn't count as breaking the rules, does it?" Dezaya said with a smirk.
The clerk blinked.
That... kinda made sense?
"Wait, no! You just told me you're going to mod it! I can't unhear that!" he cried. "No way I'm selling this to you now — not if you're going to enter it in an illegal race!"
"Looks like you've hit another roadblock," Ethan said, now watching Dezaya with interest. "Sure you don't need someone who can just buy the bike outright?"
Dezaya hesitated. "What's the catch?"
"What do you get if you win this race?"
"Honor."
"That's it?" Ethan blinked. "You're going to spend millions — millions — just for that?"
"Tch. You wouldn't get it," Dezaya scoffed. "This is biker pride we're talking about. That kind of glory isn't something you can put a price on."
"Even if you win, you still have to eat, don't you?"
"There's a prize: two hundred thousand Berries. If I win, you can have it."
"No thanks," Ethan said. "I'm not the kind of guy who snatches a beggar's lunch money."
Dezaya's glare sharpened at that. "I'm not some charity case. I'm a rider."
"Doesn't matter what you call yourself. If you're broke, you're broke," Ethan said bluntly. "From the looks of those coins on the floor, you scraped that together from who knows where."
Could've been borrowed.
Could've been stolen from a kid.
"I'll fund the bike," Ethan said finally. "As for what I want in return..."
His tone grew playful, and his gaze dropped to the tightly bound cloth around Dezaya's chest — a silent implication hanging in the air.
Dezaya stiffened, a sharp pang of unease in her gut.
He couldn't be serious, could he?
She'd grown up roughhousing with boys, riding with biker crews, and never once had she thought of herself as particularly feminine. Guys usually saw her as one of the crew — or not at all. Heck, even the milkmaid auntie in her village probably got more male attention than she did.
But in that moment, Ethan's gaze — and his words — made her heart skip a beat.
Face flushing, she lashed out in anger to cover the sudden flutter inside. "Are you messing with me? What kind of creep says that?"
"I didn't say anything," Ethan said, innocently enough, taking a pen and paper from the clerk. He jotted down his Den-Den Mushi number. "Here. Think it over. Call me if you're serious."
Dezaya looked at the number in her hand, then up at Ethan's retreating figure.
She bit her lip.
Why would someone like him be interested in someone like me... unless he's playing me?
Still, her expression had softened. For just a moment, she looked less like a street brawler and more like a conflicted young woman.
"Ten million Berries — that's steep," 2B said. "Back at the lingerie shop, you got a woman's number for free."
"Yeah... let's call it a collector's impulse."
Ever since he arrived in this world, Ethan hadn't gone out of his way to chase down the original characters from the old stories.
But if one of them happened to show up in front of him, well...
Why not add them to the collection?
Spending ten million Berries to unlock a 'pokedex entry'?
Totally worth it.
"Collector's impulse?" 2B asked.
"It's when people get obsessed with collecting items of the same type — stamps, bottle caps, soda cans, whatever," Ethan explained.
"And what does that have to do with you buying Dezaya a bike? Tifa and Mona won't be happy if they find out."
"It doesn't," Ethan said quickly. "Which is why you're not going to tell them. It'll be our little secret."
"Understood."
By now, it was already noon. They stopped wandering and decided to head back to the hotel for lunch and a nap.
On the way, Ethan made a few calls. Tifa and another companion were already at the hotel, waiting for him.
Mona, however, was holed up on the ship with one of the support bots, busy fiddling with a new gadget.
She planned to eat canned lunch meat and salad alone.
Ethan didn't go fetch her. He just told her to stay safe on the ship and hung up.
Because someone had just stepped into his path.
A man with a face like a thundercloud: Smoker.
He looked like a wolf about to growl — feral, dangerous, and barely restrained.
"Something you need?" Ethan tucked his Den-Den Mushi back into his pocket. "I've kept a pretty clean record today."
Smoker, known as the White Hound, didn't waste words. His voice was low and brimming with menace.
"You know exactly what you did."
White smoke burst from his legs as he launched forward in a blur.
In the open plaza, his ten-hooked jitte clashed violently against Ethan's sheathed blade.
The fight had begun.
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