The Old Quarter woke before the alarm clocks. It was the kind of place where the dust knew the residents' names and the wind seemed to peek through windows before entering. The buildings bore scars, not renovations, and the walls held more faded names than fresh paint.
Although alive, the neighborhood carried war marks. Since the 2016 tragedy, when the tsunami swallowed half of old Oshima, that area seemed to have been forgotten by maps. Posts were patched with electrical tape, dimly lit alleys served as shortcuts for those still in a hurry, and broken asphalt seemed to mock the steps of those who insisted on moving forward.
On the corner of the main street, a wall remained intact, not by chance, but by memory. There, hand-painted in tiny letters, were the names of dozens of residents who disappeared or died in the tragedy. Dried flowers stuck in the concrete cracks. Extinguished candles. A dusty toy car. No one explained the mural. No one needed to.
Policing? Only in stories. Public healthcare? A rotating shift with every election promise. But even so, it was there that the city breathed most truly, where the residents' voices still screamed their children's names, where the smell of fresh bread competed with old oil, and where the sound of Kibo's deliveries echoed louder than any institutional siren.
And in the middle of this functional chaos, Jin glided.
The electric skateboard whirred, cutting through the silence of the dawn with the efficiency of a shark, and Jin, with his disheveled hair and a backpack overflowing with packages, seemed to be part of the landscape. He moved with a dancer's lightness, dodging cracks, avoiding puddles, sometimes even greeting the stray cats that roamed the alleys like silent guardians. His route included the furthest points, those that even official postal services avoided: the abandoned factory where an old man lived, the illegal market on the outskirts, the forgotten corner where children with dirty faces still played ball.
Jin whistled a melody that was more a collection of random notes than a song, but it was his. His way of announcing himself. "Kibo Delivery! The fastest, the loudest, the one who delivers even when the world is ending!" he would shout, not caring if anyone heard. He just needed to hear himself. He needed to feel that despite the dust and silence, he was still making noise. He was still there.
The packages, organized by Daisuke, were a daily miracle. Jin, despite his apparent chaos, knew each street, each shortcut, each crack in the asphalt like the back of his hand. He was the one who went where no one else went, a living satellite of the forgotten city. His routes were legendary among the boys. Not just for the speed, but for the stories he brought back: an old woman who offered him tea, a mechanic who repaired his skateboard, children who ran after him asking for candy. Jin was the neighborhood's ear, its eyes, its almost-hero. Almost.
"Morning, Mr. Kaito! Your newspapers from the center!" Jin shouted as he delivered the package. Mr. Kaito, always on the corner, with his fishing rod, just nodded. Some said he was waiting for the perfect fish. Others said he was just waiting for the day to end.
Hiroito, meanwhile, was already at the fish market, negotiating with the sellers. His presence was as quiet as the dawn fog, but his movements were precise, almost ritualistic. He didn't speak much, but he observed everything. He knew which fish was freshest, which seller would give the best price, which crab was "almost alive" and would still make a good meal. He bought the daily rations for the Kibo gang and, whenever possible, some extra for himself, because his room was a fortress of provisions.
Back at the market, the sun began to warm the alley, drying the puddles, but not the memories. It was then that Jin's skateboard whirred, announcing his return. Hiroito, already with the fish in a thermal bag, gave a silent nod.
"Morning, silence!" Jin shouted.
Hiroito, without turning: "You woke up late again, noise."
"I was saving the world from boring dreams. It's a heavy job," Jin replied, already heading upstairs.
Hiroito merely sighed. Sometimes he wished Jin would just be a normal human. But then, he remembered, normal humans were boring. And their life, definitely, was not boring.
At the Aoi Wave nightclub, Oliver and Daisuke were already with Mr. Daiko. The place was still dark, smelling of stale smoke and something that could only be called "forgotten dreams." Mr. Daiko, a man whose face was a map of old battles, sat behind a bar counter polished to a gleam that contrasted sharply with his own weariness. His clothes were impeccably tailored, a detail that spoke of an authority that went beyond mere wealth. He smoked a cigar, the smoke curling around his head like a crown of secrets.
"So, the kids are buying a van?" he asked, without looking at them. His voice was rough, like gravel rolling down a hill.
Oliver, always composed, held a small notebook. "It's an opportunity, Mr. Daiko. Matsuda is retiring, transferring all his clients. We calculate a 150% increase in deliveries within three months."
Daisuke, normally quiet, added: "And the van will allow us to transport larger volumes. We can expand the delivery area."
Mr. Daiko finally looked at them, a half-smile playing on his lips. "Mathematics is a beautiful thing. Almost as beautiful as a promise kept." He took another puff of his cigar. "I already told Kazuki: I'll put up half. But the Aoi Wave's deliveries become priority. And you'll have to deal with some... extra packages. Discreetly."
Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Discreetly?"
"Let's say they're not always legal, but they're always profitable," Mr. Daiko said, extinguishing the cigar in an ashtray shaped like a dragon. "And this van... I want it wrapped. Something that represents 'Kibo Delivery.' Something... memorable."
Daisuke looked at Oliver. A memorable van for illicit deliveries. It had a certain charm.
"Consider it done, Mr. Daiko," Oliver said, closing his notebook. "We'll send the designs for your approval."
Mr. Daiko chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. "Good. Now, get out. The air here needs to breathe before the night."
As they left, Oliver turned to Daisuke. "So, illegal packages, then? Your sense of adventure is about to be tested."
Daisuke shrugged, a slight smile on his face. "As long as it's not a live bomb, I think I can handle it. Besides, a little adrenaline never hurt anyone."
They returned to the garage, where Kazuki, Jin, and Hiroito were already waiting, discussing the best way to load the van with boxes.
"So, good news?" Kazuki asked, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Oliver nodded. "Mr. Daiko agreed. Half the value, and he wants the van wrapped."
Jin whistled. "A customized van! We're going to look like rock stars, but of deliveries!"
Hiroito, as always, remained impassive, but a slight nod indicated his approval.
Daisuke added: "And we'll have priority for Aoi Wave deliveries, including some... 'extra packages.'"
Kazuki understood immediately. "Understood. The less we know, the better, right?"
Oliver gave a slight smile. "Precisely. Ignorance is bliss, especially when it comes to organized crime."
While they finished organizing the first day's deliveries, Kazuki looked at the van. It was old, yes, but it represented a new beginning. A new rhythm. He opened the sliding door, and the interior smelled of old gasoline, dust, and something else... the smell of opportunity.
"Let's put some music in this thing!" Jin exclaimed, pulling out a portable speaker.
"Only if it's something that makes me want to dance like a maniac!" Daisuke replied, starting to load the boxes.
The sounds of a high-energy rock song filled the garage, mingling with the creak of the floor and the laughter of the boys. It was a chaotic harmony, but it was theirs. It was the rhythm of concrete.
The deliveries began, each one a small chapter in the neighborhood's daily life. Kazuki, efficient and focused, drove through the main streets. Hiroito, silent, navigated the narrowest alleys. Jin, with his skateboard, explored every corner. Daisuke, calm and precise, kept track of the inventory and organized the routes. Oliver, from the apartment, managed the orders and communicated with Mr. Daiko, ensuring that everything ran smoothly.
Late in the afternoon, Oliver and Daisuke returned to Mr. Matsuda's house to finalize the payment for the van, as agreed. But the old man didn't seem interested in money — only in what would come next.
— "It's official, then," Matsuda murmured, raising his glass like a silent toast.
— "It is," Daisuke replied.
— "And I'll tell you something..." — he paused, as if searching within himself for the last lesson. — "As much as you're a bunch of delinquents... this city loves you. Not because of the deliveries. But because you still show up. Because you're still here."
Oliver raised an eyebrow, picking up his notebook. — "I guess Oshima always had a peculiar taste for heroes."
The old man laughed, low and nostalgic. — "Maybe because Oshima always knew that the true heroes... are the ones who don't leave."
The van was theirs now. But it wasn't just a vehicle with a sliding door and peeling paint. It was a symbol. Of the city that still breathed. Of the neighborhood that still remembered. And of the legacy that couldn't be left behind.
As they got back on the scooter, the afternoon light filtered through the garage cracks, gilding the van's body like a domestic monument to collective effort.
Already on the street, a luxury car passed them, shining between the poles and the reflections of the shop windows. In the front seat, a man in a suit kissed a woman, indifferent to the world around them.
Oliver looked quickly, like someone seeing something he should have already forgotten. But he didn't forget.
He didn't know why, but he felt that fleeting moment...