6:57 a.m. Tongbay Street was already in chaos.
Half the road had been mysteriously swallowed by a construction crew. A line snaked out from the breakfast shop. Inside, Nami darted between the stove and oven like her shoes were bound together.
Her ponytail was half-undone, strands of hair plastered to her face with sweat. The dough in the proofing barrel was still rising. Dumplings hissed in the fryer, seconds away from burning.
She had class at eight. Sharp. But since 6:30, it had been nonstop—oven, stove, counter, register. Repeat. Her cheeks glowed from the steam, jaw glinting with sweat.
“Next—two sets of dumplings?” she called out, already stuffing packets into a bag before anyone replied.
In the corner, Mizutori sipped his usual black coffee. Blank-faced, unreadable. But he noticed the glance.
Nami flicked a look at the wall clock, then turned away.
**7:25. **
She was late. Tram or not, it was already slipping away.
“Your bread’ll take a bit!” she called, flipping an egg. “I’m gonna be late. My prof’s the kind who notices if you’re thirty seconds off. Total sadist.”
Mizutori said nothing.
Then, casually: “Want me to take you?”
The plastic bag in her hands jerked. Hot soy milk nearly splashed over her wrist.
“Are you serious?” she laughed, breathless. “You don’t really give off ‘public transit knight’ energy. Where’s this sudden charity coming from?”
He answered simply, without flinching. “I’m heading that way.”
She looked at him—really looked. And for just a second, her eyes softened, like something had tilted off-balance inside her.
“You just don’t want me to burn the bread, huh.”
He didn’t answer. Just stood, returned his empty cup to the counter.
She gave a short laugh and turned back to the fryer.
“Fine. Let me finish this batch. I’ll grab a clean jacket.”
The rain came early.
It pooled in sidewalk cracks, drummed gently against the metal eaves. Steam curled lazily off the leftover tofu. The fryer had gone cold. The scent of breakfast hung in the air like an afterthought.
Down the slop, the rusted tran stop was crowded—raincoats, silence, a transistor radio crackling out another storm warning off the eastern sea.
Nami burst out the side door, shoes splashing straight into a puddle.
A black BMW S1000 sat in front of the shop. Sleek, idling low, a sound more warning than welcome.
Mizutori was already on it, helmet in hand. Rain streaked across his face. He didn’t wave. Didn’t call her over. Just waited—like it didn’t matter if she came or not.
At the curb, he held the helmet out.
No words. Just the offer.
Nami circled the bike slowly, eyeing the angular frame.
“Do I need to sign a waiver just to sit on this thing?”
No reply. Just the soft click of the passenger bar lifting. “You’re late,” he said.
“This seat’s colder than my dad’s winter stew,” she muttered, swinging a leg over and sliding on the helmet. “If he knew I got a ride on this death machine, he’d probably have a stroke.”
She hovered awkwardly, unsure where to grab.
Mizutori, without turning: “Hold on.”
“Easy for you to say…”
The bike launched forward. Not fast. Just enough to make her jolt. Her hands went to his waist on instinct. Warm. Steady. She leaned closer.
Mizutori felt it immediately. Her weight. Her grip. A steadiness he wasn’t used to carrying.
The engine rose. The road opened.
Rain cut across the district. Brick blurred into motion. He didn’t look back, but he knew exactly where she was.
Strange. He’d been cold his whole life. This warmth pushed through anyway. Maybe Kamuy. Maybe nothing.
The city was half awake. Neon flickered behind rain-slick glass. The overpass jolted them; her grip tightened, then eased.
He noticed. Didn’t comment. He rarely rode like this. He wasn’t riding to escape. Not chasing. Just moving forward. He was used to riding against the city, treating it as something to survive.
Today wasn’t like that. Today was just a girl trusting him enough to close her eyes. Even if she was just a flour-dusted girl with grease on her sleeves and soy milk in her breath.
Rain streaked the windshield. Seabirds skimmed low. The air was salt and iron. He didn’t speed up. Didn’t cut corners. Maybe he wanted this stretch to last.
Behind him, her breathing evened out. Helmet resting between his shoulders. She followed every lean without thinking. The wind peeled past. The road hummed. Somewhere behind the storm, she laughed.
“Hey!” she called over the engine. “You always let people hold on this tight?”
He didn’t answer. The engine climbed a fraction. A reply, maybe.
7:56 a.m.
The digital clock above the Academy’s north gate blinked red.
Water glazed the pavement. Students hurried past, shoulders hunched. Some looked twice at the bike. At the girl riding with him.
The BMW glided into the circular drive, a black slash in the gray.
The engine cut. Rain filled the silence.
She slid off. Her shoe broke a puddle. That sound stayed with him. She checked the building. Her phone. Hesitated over nothing that mattered.
Then she looked at him. Just a smile. Crooked. Uncomplicated.
She handed the helmet back. Rain caught in her hair immediately. He nodded. A dark blue streak flashed once, then vanished.
He waited until she slipped under the overhang and out of sight. Then turned the bike around. He never lingered. But today’s rain carved the ride into the city like a groove in soft stone. And for a moment, that was enough.
All the things that had kept him alive—Stabilin, silence, whatever else broke people—felt like they led here. Not meaning. Not escape.
A strange warmth he couldn’t shake. One useless thought he couldn’t shut off: If the what he did was really so bad—why would someone hold on that tightly?
He didn’t try to answer. The S1000 rolled back the way it came.
Behind him, the chime from the clock tower rang, clear, steady. Like a clock underwater, echoing soft in the rearview mirror.