Page 88 of Emperor of Havoc

Oh, this should be fun.

I stride over to the closest bike, swing my leg over it with practiced ease, and fire up the engine. The roar has pure adrenaline thrumming through my bones as I rev it confidently, pulling the helmet on, fastening it deftly, and flicking the visor up to look at him.

“Well?” I sign.

Takeshi’s smug grin falters for a split second, replaced with a look of grudging admiration. “Well, well,” he mutters, his voice tinged with surprise.

“Just try to keep up,” I motion.

Okay,Imayhave oversold my abilities a little.

In the end, I'm the one who struggles to keep up—but only because I want to actually survive the evening, unlike Takeshi,whose riding style suggests he has a fuckingdeath wishwhen he’s on the back of a bike.

The streets of Tokyo blur into streaks of neon as we weave through the city. When he’s not being recklessly suicidal, Takeshi rides with a precision that borders on arrogance, zigzagging through traffic like the road belongs to him.

I follow as best as I can, my hands tight on the handlebars as I follow behind him, my heart pounding in my chest. The city roars past, my senses tuned to the max as I push myself to the limit just to keep him in sight.

Fuck me, is it exhilarating— if terrifying.

Finally he slows, pulling up outside a small, nondescript bar tucked into an alley. I roll my eyes when I see the ridiculously on-the-nose name of the bar, flickering in faint neon kanji lettering above the door.

Kaiju.

Monster bar.

Ofcourse.

Takeshi kills the engine and glances over his shoulder at me as I do the same.

“Drink?” he asks casually, as if we’re two normal people out for a night on the town.

I swing off my bike, removing my helmet. “Why not,” I sign, following him inside.

The bar is dimly lit, the scent of smoke and alcohol hanging in the air. It’s quiet, with only a handful of patrons scatteredaround the room. Takeshi orders for both of us, sliding a glass of whiskey in front of me after leading us to a corner table.

“Why motorcycles?” I sign, taking a sip. The burn is sharp, but it’s a welcome distraction from his overwhelming presence.

“Freedom,” he says, his eyes locked on mine. “There’s nothing like it—just you, the machine, and the road.”

“And where’d you learn to ride like that?”

Takeshi leans back in his chair, his glass balanced between his fingers, the whiskey catching the dim light.

“Akira,” he says quietly.

I stiffen, my fingers tightening around my own glass. I remember how he spoke of Akira before, and the implication that my father had something to do with his disappearance.

“Who was he to you?” I sign, curious.

Takeshi looks away across the quiet, low-lit bar.

“Part mentor. Part friend. A teacher, I guess.” He turns his glass on the table. “When I was a teenager, I was…sort of a terror.”

“Unbelievable,” I sign, a sarcastic look of surprise on my face.

Takeshi grins. “Honestly, whatever you’re imagining, the reality was five times worse. I was running with the wrong crowd. I also didn’t know what to do with the…” He shakes his head. “With the thoughts I have inside me, sometimes.”

His darkness. The psychotic tendencies I’ve witnessed first-hand.

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