The next few days passed in a blur. Each one crossed out in red on the calendar, a countdown to the race that loomed ever closer. Dahlia kept to Logan's schedule with iron discipline. She still made time for deliveries when she could, but most of her hours were spent in motion. At five sharp each morning, she'd be out the door. Jacket zipped, trainers laced, boots pounding the pavement as the city slowly woke around her.
Her days became a rhythm of sweat and repetition. Sets, laps, stretches, more sets. Instant noodles gave way to real food. Grilled chicken, rice, vegetables she'd once side-eyed in disgust. She learned which grocers sold the cheapest produce, which stalls offered leftovers near closing. It wasn't glamorous, but it was fuel. And somewhere between the protein shakes and salads she swore she'd never eat again; Dahlia began to feel it—change.
She could run longer. Faster. Her legs no longer ached when she rolled out of bed. Her breath came easy, her body lighter, sharper. Even Scarlet, still in her chair, would occasionally glance up from the corner of her eye. When midnight came, Dahlia and Logan owned the circuit. The floodlights blazed to life, the air thick with the scent of rubber and steel. Fujisawa dropped by every so often, pistachios in hand, offering the occasional snide remark, but even he couldn't hide the growing grin each time the stopwatch flashed a faster time.
Logan kept things simple: he'd record, replay, and point. A few words, a gesture, and Dahlia would take it from there. His lessons weren't about hand-holding. They were about trust. She learned to read the road, to feel her balance, to glide through corners instead of fighting them. Sparks flew from her cleats, smoke trailed behind her as she hit the straights, and the rhythm became instinct.
Bit by bit, she felt herself returning to form. Faster, steadier, stronger. For the first time in years, Dahlia felt like the girl who'd once run for the sheer love of it, before the world had taught her to be afraid.
It was a brisk Saturday afternoon when Dahlia and Logan took to the streets in Saburo's battered white Civic, the hum of the engine drowned now and then by the city's midday din. Horns blared, brakes squeaked, and buses hissed as doors slammed shut. The air carried the bite of early autumn and the sharp scent of exhaust, wrapping around the steady rhythm of city life.
Dahlia sat with her arms folded, gaze flicking between the crowded sidewalks and the man behind the wheel. Logan drove one-handed, eyes fixed ahead, cigarette between his fingers. She'd asked where they were going twice and received the same answer both times—vague, evasive, something about "Chiba" and "an old friend."
Nearly an hour later, the Civic rolled into a quiet industrial block, the skyline thinning into a sprawl of warehouses. Logan eased the car to a stop in front of a white building streaked with grime and age. The tires crunched against the asphalt as he pulled the handbrake, the lever locking in with a crisp click. He popped his seatbelt loose and jerked his chin toward the door.
Dahlia raised a brow but followed his lead. The door slammed shut behind her with a hollow thud. She looked up at the faded sign mounted above the warehouse entrance and frowned. "Um…" She crossed her arms, leather jacket catching the sunlight. "You wanna tell me what exactly we're doing here?"
Logan flicked his lighter open, the flame briefly cutting through the pale light as he lit his cigarette. He took a drag, exhaled, then nodded toward the building. "Race is in four days," he said simply. "We're here to get you geared up."
She blinked, peering through the open bay doors. Inside, rows of cars. Sleek, dented, gutted, rebuilt. Sat in organized chaos. Workers in grease-stained jumpsuits swarmed around them. "Uh, Logan," she said, pointing inside. "It's… a car shop."
He grinned around his cigarette. "Technically," he said, gesturing with two fingers. "But around here, we call it an Auto Saloon." He leaned close enough to drop his voice to a mock whisper. "And for the love of God, don't call it a car shop again. You'll hurt his feelings."
Before she could ask who "his" was, Logan's smirk widened, and he strode through the doors into the noise and heat of the workshop.
The inside of the warehouse was enormous. Bright, clean, and gleaming with the kind of polish that only obsession could maintain. A steel walkway ran along the upper level, overlooking a pristine alabaster floor where more than a dozen cars sat lined in perfect formation. Dahlia slowed, eyes widening as she took it all in. She wasn't exactly a car fanatic, but even she recognized the silhouettes of legends: rows of GT-Rs and Supras, a handful of Hondas and Subarus, and tucked between them, the unmistakable contours of European beasts—Porsches, Mercedes, and Audis,
But what caught her eye was the car in the corner. A jet-black Nissan GT-R, its body polished to a mirror sheen that gleamed like obsidian under the lights. A tall spoiler arched from its rear, and its wide, predatory front gave the impression of something built not just for speed, but to defy it.
Dahlia's brow lifted. It was just another car, yet something about it felt wrong or perhaps too right. Cold. Coiled. Dangerous. The kind of machine that didn't just move fast, but devoured everything in its path. A faint chill ran through her spine before she shook her head, forcing the thought away.
She turned from the car and kept walking, her tail flicking unconsciously as she turned in a slow circle, eyes sweeping over stacks of tires, shelves lined with engine oil, and chrome rims hanging from hooks like trophies. The air was thick with heat, the scent of grease and polish, undercut by the faint hum of fluorescent lights, the rhythmic clatter of tools, and the whine of pneumatic drills.
Logan walked beside her, a faint smirk playing at his lips as his gaze drifted toward one of the workstations. A man was bent over the open hood of a car, his figure partly hidden by the rising haze of oil and exhaust. Logan was about to call out, but then his eyes caught the car itself.
The smirk vanished.
There was no mistaking that bright, blood-red finish or the twin white racing stripes slicing down the body, now joined by a jagged lightning bolt decal on the side. The chrome rims gleamed like mirrors, and the emblem of a cobra. Bold, unmistakable, sat on the front grille.
A Shelby GT-500.
Logan's hand dropped to his side, fingers twitching around the cigarette between them as the weight of recognition settled in. There's only one man in all of Tokyo who drove that car.
The mechanic straightened from behind the hood, wiping a streak of grease from his cheek with the back of his sleeve. His blue jumpsuit was blotched with stains, his square face weathered with age and years spent under fluorescent light. A thin trail of smoke drifted upward from the cigarette hanging off his lip as he squinted through a pair of thick, smudged glasses.
"Logan?" he said, the cigarette bobbing with the word.
Logan blinked, then broke into a grin. "Heya, Smokey." He raised a hand in a lazy wave.
Smokey chuckled, grabbed a rag from his pocket, and wiped his hands before stepping out from behind the car. "Well, I'll be damned. After picking up those hand-me-downs, I was starting to think you fell off the face of the earth." His eyes flicked past Logan to the battered white Civic parked out front. His grin dropped, replaced by a look of exaggerated horror. "Please tell me you didn't drag that heap here expecting me to tune it up."
Logan laughed, shaking his head. "Relax. I wouldn't insult your shop like that." He jerked his chin toward Dahlia, who was across the garage admiring a golden Supra gleaming under the lights. "I'm here for… something else."
Smokey followed his gaze, one eyebrow rising. "That her?" he asked quietly. "Scarlet's big sister?"
Logan nodded once. "Yeah. I'm gonna need the full set, and I'm gonna need it custom."
Smokey took a slow drag from his cigarette, eyes studying Logan for a long moment before he exhaled and crushed the butt into an ashtray on the nearby tool chest. "You back in the game?"
Logan scoffed, brushing the ash from his sleeve. "One time thing, old man. Then I'm gone."
Smokey smirked, folding his arms. "Sure. That's what they all say." Smokey crossed the garage toward the girl, boots echoing faintly on the spotless floor. Dahlia stood before the golden Supra, her reflection stretching across the polished bodywork as she tried to peer through the tinted glass.
"Beautiful, isn't she?" Smokey said, voice carrying that deep, sandpapered warmth of someone who'd lived half his life surrounded by engines.
Dahlia jumped slightly, ears twitching as she turned to him. "Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
He waved a grease-stained hand. "Relax, kid." His other hand settled fondly atop the car's roof, his gaze softening. "This one's my magnum opus. Built her from the ground up, tuned every inch myself. There ain't a bigger monster on four wheels anywhere in Tokyo."
He exhaled slowly, a faint smile tugging at his weathered features. "These days she just sits here collecting dust. Guess that makes the two of us pretty alike." His fingers tapped the metal once. "Spent and retired, just like old umas who've run their last race."
Logan approached, slipping in beside him. "Dahlia, meet Katagiri Nagata. He owns and runs the place."
The old mechanic gave a polite bow, and Dahlia quickly returned it.
"Call me Smokey," he said, grin returning. "And I'm guessing you're here for a fit, huh?"
Dahlia blinked. "A… fit?"
Smokey sighed, cutting a sharp look at Logan. "You didn't tell her?"
Logan shrugged, smoke curling lazily from the cigarette in his hand. "Wanted it to be a surprise. Besides, it's her first time."
Dahlia's brow furrowed in suspicion, tail flicking once. Smokey only chuckled under his breath before motioning with two fingers. "Follow me, kid."
He turned, heading toward the far end of the garage. Dahlia glanced at Logan, who merely grinned and tapped out his cigarette in the same ashtray before following after them.
****
As they neared the back of the warehouse, Smokey reached for a gray door and pushed it open. The instant they stepped through; the air shifted. Gone was the oily scent of gasoline and machine grease, replaced by the faint perfume of polish and cedar. The floor beneath them turned from concrete to polished wood, smooth and gleaming beneath the soft amber light. The walls stretched high, alabaster white, giving the space an almost gallery-like calm that contrasted sharply with the chaos of the garage outside.
Two sleek cars sat in the middle of the room, cordoned off by black wires and low black stands. Their bodies shone under the recessed lights, every curve and contour reflecting the golden hue of the room. Dahlia blinked, almost taken aback by the sudden refinement. The cool touch of the air conditioning brushed her face, carrying the faint sweetness of air freshener or perfume.
At the counter by the far wall, an older uma in a cream blouse sat tapping steadily at a keyboard. She didn't look up right away, just spared the three of them a fleeting glance before returning to her work.
Smokey led them past the showroom floor to a tall bookshelf at the far end. He cast a knowing look toward the receptionist, and with only a faint nod, she reached under her desk and pressed a button.
With a soft mechanical hum, the bookshelf slid aside, revealing a reinforced steel door behind it. Dahlia's ears perked. Her eyes wide as Smokey punched a code into a black keypad. The screen blinked green, and with a heavy click, the door swung inward.
The air that met them was different. Hotter, thicker, alive with the sounds of motion and industry.
Inside, the space opened into a sprawling underground workshop. The clanging of hammers on steel, the rhythmic buzz of machines, and the faint hiss of steam filled the air. Dozens of umas worked with focused precision. Sparks flared as one shaped a glowing set of metal cleats held in tongs, then quenched them in a vat with a sharp hiss and plume of vapor.
Others worked at long tables beneath bright lamps, guiding bolts of fabric through sewing machines. Rows of racer uniforms hung neatly on the walls. Each unique in color, style, and insignia. Accompanied by racks of boots arranged by size and cut.
The walls were lined with banners bearing the crests of different racing crews, some bright and new, others faded and frayed with age. Between them hung framed photographs of umas frozen mid-stride, their faces fierce with determination.
Dahlia stood rooted in place, eyes wide, tail twitching faintly behind her. "What… is this place?" she whispered.
Smokey's grin widened, a glint of pride flickering behind his glasses. "I like to take credit for what comes out of here," he said. "But this? Not exactly my expertise."
He tilted his head upward toward a glass-paneled booth on the second floor and let out a sharp whistle that echoed through the room. "Gear! We got customers!"
From the open window above, Dahlia caught sight of a twitch. A pair of uma ears flicking at the sound. A moment later, the window slid open as a figure leaned out: an uma with short, fringed ashen-brown hair and a white streak cutting through her bangs. One copper eye peered down lazily through the curtain of her hair, unimpressed and unreadable.
Without a word, she vaulted straight through the open window. Dahlia's heart jumped to her throat as the girl dropped the full height of the room, landing in a crouch before standing fluidly, dusting off her legs as if it were nothing. She wore a dark gray T-shirt, the top half of an orange jumpsuit tied around her waist, the sleeves hanging loose. Her thick leather gloves were smudged with oil and soot.
Smokey chuckled. "Dahlia, Logan—meet my granddaughter. Nagata Top Gear."
"'Sup," the girl greeted, voice dry, arms folded as she sized them up. Her tail flicked once. "You my new clients?"
"Yeah," Logan replied with a faint sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Need the full package, and a new set of wheels. Gonna need it on a rush."
Gear's ears twitched. She stepped in close to Dahlia, who instinctively stiffened. Her copper eyes scanned Dahlia from boots to crown, lingering in ways that made Dahlia's cheeks burn. "Hmm. Not much to work with," she muttered, circling once before stopping in front of her. "But I've built miracles from worse."
She turned to Logan, one brow raised. "So, what's it gonna be? Bargain bin or premium? And don't give me that puppy look—the rush job's extra."
"Top of the line," Logan said, waving a hand. "You know I'm good for it."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up." Dahlia raised her hands, stepping back as all three turned to her. "Can someone explain what's happening here? Starting with what this place even is?"
Gear blinked once, glancing between Logan and her grandfather.
"She's stock," they both said in unison.
Gear let out a long breath, scratching the back of her head before a crooked smirk slid across her face. "Ah," she muttered, the corner of her mouth curling. "That explains the look." She leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing with amusement. "Alright, princess, in case you haven't put two and two together yet—this little wonderland?" She gestured broadly with her gloved hand. "This is my workshop. And for folks like you in the MRA? Me and my crew are the reason you come back in piece and look good doing it."
Dahlia's gaze darted around the room again, taking in the humming machinery, the clanging of hammers, the umas cutting, stitching, welding. For the first time, she understood what this place really was.
Gear caught her staring and chuckled. "Forget those prissy getups the girls wear in the Classics. All lace, no bite." She waved a hand dismissively. "Those tracks are just for show. Out here, it's different. I build gear for the streets. Tar, concrete, asphalt."
She reached over to a nearby worktable, grabbed a steel cleat lined with rubber, and without warning tossed it at Dahlia.
"Whoa!" Dahlia fumbled but managed to catch it, her fingers trembling under the weight. She turned it over in her hands, tracing the seams, feeling the dense material. Every stitch, every ridge had purpose.
"My work's top of the line," Gear said, pride slipping into her tone. "The best you'll find in Tokyo—hell, maybe the whole country." She grinned, tail flicking behind her. "So if you're looking to suit up, princess, you just hit the jackpot."
Dahlia turned the cleat over in her hands, tracing the solid lines of stitching, the weight of the steel, the faint scent of fresh rubber still clinging to it. Her eyes flicked toward Logan, who only tilted his head with a faint grin.
"I told you there were folks who specialize in street gear," he said, gesturing around the workshop. "And these guys? They're the best in the game. Hands down."
Gear stepped in close, tapping the back of her gloved hand lightly against Dahlia's chest. "And you should count yourself lucky. Cleat replacements, gear repairs and adjustments are one thing, but full fits?" She gave a low whistle. "I'm booked out for months." Her copper eyes slid toward Logan. "Only reason you're getting a priority slot is because your trainer here happens to be tight with my grandpa."
Dahlia blinked. "Wait… I can't afford any of this." She motioned vaguely to the rows of custom outfits, the machines, the half-finished suits on mannequins. "Seriously, this all looks like it costs a fortune."
"Relax," Gear said, jerking her thumb toward Logan. "Your trainer here's picking up the tab."
Dahlia snapped her head toward him, brow raised. "Really?"
"You think just because I dress like this means I'm broke?" Logan exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He then pointed at himself. "I used to be one of the top uma trainers in the world. I've got more than enough saved up to splurge a little."
Dahlia opened her mouth to argue, but Logan lifted a finger to cut her off.
"But don't get the wrong idea. This isn't charity." He stepped closer, resting a firm hand on her shoulder. "This is an investment. You know what I used to do. You know what I'm doing now." His gaze locked on hers. "I told you before. There's something in you, kid. Something no one else has seen yet. But I see it." He gave her shoulder a light squeeze. "And when the time comes, the whole damn world's gonna see it too."
For a fleeting moment, Dahlia's gaze lingered on Logan's hand resting firm on her shoulder before it drifted upward, meeting his face. Something stirred deep in her chest. The words he'd spoken shouldn't have meant so much, and yet they did. She blinked rapidly, fighting back the warmth rising behind her eyes.
For so long, she'd waited to hear something like that. From her father, her trainer, the man who should have believed in her when no one else did. Instead, he'd turned his back, leaving only the echo of his disappointment in place of the pride she once lived for. And now, from a man she'd barely come to know, those same words carried the weight of everything she'd lost, and everything she still longed to hear.
"Hey," Logan said, head tilting slightly, his tone softened. "You alright, kid?"
Dahlia swallowed, forcing a small smile as she shook her head. "Yeah. I'm fine."
He studied her for a moment longer, then nodded and turned to Gear. "She's all yours."
"Perfect." Gear clapped her hands together once before grabbing Dahlia by the wrist. "Come on, let's get your measurements. But first, we're gonna have to strip you down good take a good look under the hood." Her grin turned positively mischievous.
"Wait, what?!" Dahlia's eyes went wide as she stumbled forward. "What do you mean strip?" She looked over her shoulder toward Logan, half-pleading, half-aghast. "Hey, a little help here?"
Logan only raised his hands with a smirk. "Remember what I said. Suck it up and lace up."
Before Dahlia could protest further, Gear had already pulled her toward the fitting area and out of sight.
Smokey chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "Heh, she's in for a long afternoon. Come on, Logan. I'll pour us a drink." He started toward the door. "Still got that same brand of whiskey you used to love."
Logan followed after him. "Good," he said. "Because I've got a few questions. Mostly about that Mustang you were working on."
Smokey glanced back with a knowing grin. "Heh. Figured you'd bring that up sooner or later."
"Ahhh—hey! Don't touch me there!" Dahlia's voice rang out from behind the curtain, sharp and indignant. "Watch where you're putting those hands!"
****
"No kidding?" Smokey muttered, glancing up from under the Shelby's hood. A thin ribbon of smoke curled from the cigarette between his lips as he squinted at Logan. "You're tellin' me that gaijin who drives this monster is one of the pioneers of C.H.A.S.E. and the S.P.U.?" He gave a low whistle, shaking his head. "Could've fooled me."
Logan leaned back against the car door, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, cigarette glowing faintly in the dim light. "Yeah," he said, exhaling a steady puff of smoke. "Met the guy myself. Brain's not firing on all cylinders, but behind the wheel? He's got skill, and a hell of a reputation." A faint grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'd even say he's a better driver than you were back in your Midnight days."
Smokey barked a laugh, setting the wrench down on a rag. "If you'd told me that yesterday, I'd have called you full of shit." He paused, gaze drifting back toward the open hood. "But now? I might just believe it."
Logan tilted his head. "That so? What makes you say that?"
Smokey pointed with a grease-stained hand toward the exposed engine. "This thing's a masterpiece. Easily pushing a thousand, but that's not the impressive part." His tone took on a rare edge of reverence. "Every inch of it's been worked over by hand. Custom parts, fine-tuned components, precision connections. Whoever built it knew the machine like a living thing. Hell, down to the last bolt holding the radiator, I'd say he did all of this himself."
Logan gave a low whistle. "Never thought I'd hear you gush over someone else's work, old man. You almost sound like a fan."
Smokey smirked faintly, folding his arms. "Maybe I am. Red Harlow… kid's rough around the edges, sure, but he's got instinct. He left this beauty here 'cause he wanted a second opinion from an old legend." He exhaled smoke through his nose, eyes gleaming behind his glasses. "Truth be told, even layin' a wrench on it feels like sacrilege. But if that boy ever hangs up his badge, he's got a hell of a future as a mechanic."
"Honestly," Logan said with a crooked grin, "I just find it hilarious that the guy leading the charge to tear down the MRA walked straight into your garage. Right next door to the one place keeping it alive and had no damn clue."
Smokey snorted, shaking his head, but Logan's grin faded. He drew in a breath, exhaling a long, heavy stream of smoke. "I ran into Lightning a while back," he said quietly. "Turns out she joined the force after I went away. Now she's the face of C.H.A.S.E."
Smokey blinked. "Lightning? As in Wild Lightning?"
Logan nodded once. "Yeah. The same." His gaze drifted toward the floor. "I should be proud, right? She made something of herself. Became everything I thought she could be." He hesitated, the faintest edge of guilt creeping in. "But part of me can't shake the feeling that she chose that road because of me. That she's still chasing ghosts I left behind."
"I was eight years into my stint when the Strider Scandal broke out. Heard bits and pieces, but I was never fully invested, nor did I care." He paused. "But after our talk, I dug into everything I could find. Strider, Roark, every filthy thread buried under all that corporate shine." Logan's words carried a grim weight as he spoke, the smoke curling from his cigarette between his fingers. "Then Lightning and her crew rolled in like a goddamn hurricane. They tore Strider apart. Brick by brick, floor by floor. Every secret dragged into the light. Every name carved into record."
He let out a bitter breath. "She wasn't just investigating. She was hunting. And when I say hunting, I mean it. She put people in hospitals. Some didn't even make it that far." He turned to Smokey. His gaze sharp beneath the haze. "I swear, if she weren't with S.W.A.T. the day they came to put Roark in handcuffs, I'd bet every dollar I've got that she would've left the man's head in wet chunks all over that marble floor." He scoffed. "And wouldn't that been ironic."
For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the fluorescent lights and the faint clink of tools cooling on the bench. Logan looked down. "Maybe I'm full of myself thinking I had anything to do with it. But the timing, the target… it's too damned convenient to be coincidence." He drew one last drag from his cigarette. "She didn't go after Roark and his goons for justice. She went after them because it was personal."
"And that's the problem. She runs after justice like it's some kind of salvation. Like if she digs deep enough, she'll finally find what makes the world make sense." He looked up again, eyes tired but faintly wistful. "Truth is, she's been running ever since, and she doesn't know how to stop."
"You know, I'm hearing you talk plenty about Lightning," Smokey said, leaning back slightly as he studied Logan. "But this isn't about her, is it?"
Logan's brow furrowed, a faint flicker of surprise crossing his face as Smokey went on. "You're diving head-first into a world she's sworn to burn to the ground," the old man said. "You're scared. Scared you'll end up on the wrong side of the line she drew. That all this," he gestured vaguely around the garage, "will make you the kind of man she's spent her life fighting against."
Smokey paused, adjusting his glasses before meeting Logan's eyes again. "You think you'll disappoint her. That she'll look at you and see the reason she's still running." He gave a low hum. "You're right about one thing—you are full of yourself." A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. "She's grown, and so are you. She made her choice, and you've made yours."
He turned slightly, nodding toward the heavy steel door behind him. "The only thing left to ask is this. Are you going to keep standing in the shadow of your past… or start walking toward your future?" He jerked his thumb toward the back room. "Because that girl in there getting fitted?" he said. "She's the one you ought to be thinking about right now, not Lightning."
Logan blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before his shoulders eased, and the tension drained from his face. He rubbed the side of his temple, a faint, tired smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah," he murmured. "You're right."
He let out a long breath like a sigh years in the making. "Guess I've been sitting in the dark so long, I forgot what it feels like to flip the light back on." He gave a small nod, meeting Smokey's gaze. "Thanks… I needed that."
Smokey took one last drag from his cigarette, the ember flaring before he crushed it into the ashtray. "I'll let you in on a little secret. See, life's a lot like a car," he said,. "You throw it in gear, hit the gas, and tear down the road with everything you've got. You can't stop, and hell, you don't want to."
He stepped closer, the faint smell of oil and tobacco clinging to him. "Sure, sometimes you stall out. Sometimes you break down. But you fix what's busted, top off the tank, and keep moving. You might not know where the road's taking you…" A faint grin crept across his face. "…but you sure as hell know where you've been. And that's what keeps you driving."
"Well, that's one way to look at it," Logan said, lifting a hand to rub the back of his head.
Smokey's gaze snapped to Logan's forearm, catching the ink that ran from wrist to elbow. The tattoo looked old. Tribal, almost ceremonial. Lines of dark ink formed a tapestry of creatures: sharks, eagles, storks, spiders, beetles. All woven together with skulls and strange, unfamiliar symbols that seemed to breathe with their own story.
"Got that while I was inside," Logan muttered, lowering his arm once he noticed the look. His tone made it clear he didn't want to elaborate.
"Really?" Smokey said, leaning a little closer. "Doesn't look like your average prison scratch. Whoever worked on that knew what they were doing."
Logan exhaled. His eyes distant. "Yeah… they did. I'll tell you about it another time." He paused, the weight of memory flickering behind his eyes. "It's not exactly a story I like revisiting."
A sharp clang echoed through the garage, metal striking concrete hard enough to make the air vibrate. The chatter and hum of machinery died instantly. Every worker froze, their gazes snapping toward the entrance, unease written plain across their faces.
"Come out, come out, old man!" a voice called. Familiar, grating, and full of swagger. The sound of it made Logan's eyes narrow, his expression hardening.
Smokey groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Third damn time this week," he muttered before glancing at Logan. "Stay put, I'll handle it."
Logan flicked the last of his cigarette into the ashtray, the ember hissing out. "And let you have all the fun?" He pushed off the car, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. "Not a chance. Let's go see what idiot's come knocking this time."
****
Logan and Smokey made their way toward the entrance, boots echoing softly against the polished floor. As they stepped out onto the open, four figures stood waiting beneath the pale halogen light. Three of them were dressed like knockoff gangsters. Cheap suits thrown over loud Hawaiian shirts splashed with garish reds, yellows, and greens. Fake gold chains gleamed under their collars, and every one of them bore the same souvenir: bandages on cheeks, missing teeth, and fading bruises mottling their faces.
At their head stood the ringleader, hands jammed in his pockets, legs braced wide. Behind them loomed a fourth figure. Broad-shouldered, towering, built like a wall. His dark blue yukata strained at the seams, a size too small for his massive frame, the fabric clinging across his chest and arms. Black hair was drawn back into a tight topknot, accentuating the hard lines of his face. His skin was darker than the others', and the sharpness of his features told Logan instantly, this man wasn't Japanese.
Smokey stepped ahead. "I thought I made it clear the first time. I'm not interested in your little 'protection plan.'" His eyes hardened. "This shop's been standing on its own for decades, and I don't need a bunch of street rats pretending they're yakuza to change that."
The leader sneered, yanking off his sunglasses. One of his eyes was blackened, swollen nearly shut. "And I thought I made it clear, old man. No one says no to—"
He stopped mid-sentence. His gaze flicked past Smokey and landed on Logan. His face went pale.
Logan raised a brow, lips curling into a grin. "Nishi?"
Nishitani groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Oh, hell no. You've gotta be kidding me."
The two lackeys behind him looked like they'd seen a ghost, the color draining from their faces.
Logan's grin widened. "You boys look like you've been through the wringer." His tone turned sharp. "Sides, you'd think after the last time I left your sorry asses bleeding in that alley, you'd have learned. But then again, that might be asking too much."
Smokey glanced between them, confused. "You know these clowns?"
"More or less," Logan said, folding his arms across his chest. "Bottom feeders. Cannon fodder. The type you use once, then toss the moment they stop being useful." His eyes flicked toward them, a faint sneer curling his lip. "Their boss figured he could send these jackasses to hound me into joining their little get-rich scheme off the MRA." He exhaled sharply. "They took a few swings, and I was nice enough to hold back... for a time."
His expression darkened, the air thickening as his gaze locked on Nishitani. "At least, until this dickless wonder decided to say something he really shouldn't have."
"Screw you, you damned gaijin!" Nishitani snapped, pointing a trembling finger. "Do you have any idea how much dental work costs?!" He yanked back the side of his lip. "You knocked out six of 'em! Six!"
Logan took a slow step forward, cracking his neck. The color drained from Nishi's face, his men stumbling back like startled dogs.
"Oh, I can do a whole lot more than that," Logan said. "And maybe this time I'll rearrange your whole damned face while I'm at it."
Nishitani wasted no time ducking behind the massive man towering behind them. A mountain of flesh and muscle, easily a head taller than Logan. The giant's dark eyes fixed on Logan with a cold, assessing stare, lips pressed into a flat line that spoke more menace than words ever could.
"Have you met my Samoan friend?" Nishitani asked with a smug grin, patting the brute's side as though showing off a prized weapon.
The man exhaled, the sound deep and sharp. His wooden clogs tapped against the floor as he took a deliberate step forward. Logan didn't move. He simply looked up.
"He's from the States, like you," Nishitani continued, his smirk widening. "Did a stint inside, like you. Came here to train as a sumo wrestler, but got kicked out for being, well…" He tilted his head. "A little too violent. Now he works for us." He gestured toward Logan. Eyes gleaming. "And trust me, he's very persuasive."
Smokey's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. The Samoan let out a low growl, muttering something in his native tongue. Words Logan didn't understand but recognized for what they were: a threat. His eyes glinted, not with rage, but with the anticipation of violence.
Then his gaze dropped to Logan's arm. To the ink winding up his forearm. The man blinked, froze, then blinked again. A tense silence fell.
"I know that is," he said, carrying a sudden unease. His stare lifted to meet Logan's. "I know who you are."
Every head turned. Smokey raised an eyebrow. Nishitani and his goons traded puzzled looks. "Wait, what?" Nishi demanded.
The giant's expression shifted from menace to pure fear. "Brother," he stammered, hands slowly raising, "I ain't got no beef with you."
"The hell are you talking about?" Nishi barked. "Do your damn job!"
The man shook his head, stepping backward. "You don't get it. This dude's a ghost." His body trembled, the words spilling out faster. "I can't tangle with no ghost!"
Then, he turned and bolted for the entrance, his heavy footsteps thundering across the floor. "I ain't messing with no ghost," he muttered as he rounded the bay doors and disappeared down the street.
"Get your fat ass back here!" Nishitani yelled after him.
Logan's slow, footsteps echoed through the garage, each one tightening the air. Nishitani turned, his face slick with sweat, a nervous grin twitching at the corners of his mouth as he forced out a shaky laugh.
"Listen good, cause I'm only gonna say this once. If I ever see your slimy little asses back here again," Logan said. "If I so much as get a call from the old man saying he caught a whiff of your stink anywhere near this shop…" He leaned forward slightly, his shadow swallowing the trembling man. "Forget a dentist. You'll be getting fitted for a casket. And it sure as hell won't be an open one."
"Y-you'll regret this!" Nishitani stammered, pointing a trembling finger. "We'll get you back, gaijin. You'll see!"
Logan tilted his head, cracking his knuckles as he took a half-step forward. "You still here?"
That was all it took. Nishitani yelped and spun on his heel, bolting for the exit with his two lackeys in tow. Their screams and curses echoed down the street until only silence remained.
"Punks," Logan muttered, exhaling as he turned back toward the workshop. He slipped his hands into his pockets, the tension already gone from his frame. "Come on, I could use another drink."
Smokey lingered for a moment, eyes on the open doorway where the last of the trouble had vanished. Bewilderment flickered across his face, questions clearly pressing against his tongue. But he said nothing. Instead, he sighed, wiping his hands on the side of his jumpsuit as he followed after Logan.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Me too."