The roar of engines faded into the distance, but the smell of burnt rubber still clung to the air. Rainwater mixed with the black streaks on the asphalt, carrying the heat of the race into the gutters.
Hinshiko's crimson machine slowed just enough to drift smoothly through the bend before the finish line. Neon signs from a nearby arcade flickered against the chrome of his bike, flashing red and white with each turn of the wheel.
The crowd surged forward, shouting, pointing, phones snapping blurry pictures. Some were still mid-cheer when the Black Serpent challenger thundered in behind him, his tires screeching against the slick road. The Serpent rider leaned over the handlebars, helmet tilting toward Hinshiko in a glare that pierced through the visor.
But Hinshiko didn't even glance back. His bike roared once more, drowning the cheers, and carried him away into the night. The only thing left behind was the fading hum of his exhaust, echoing down narrow streets like a ghost slipping back into the shadows.
Somewhere above, in the shadows of a rooftop…
A man in a perfectly tailored black suit lowered a pair of high-end binoculars. The rain ran in thin silver streams off his slicked-back hair, but he didn't move to wipe it away. His gloves were leather, his posture unshaken — more soldier than observer.
He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a sleek, encrypted phone. The call connected in a single ring.
"It's him," the man said simply, voice low. "Hinshiko. The Ghost. He's surfaced again."
There was silence on the other end, the kind that felt heavier than words. Then a deep, smooth voice answered, dripping with certainty.
"…This time, we will not lose him."
The watcher's expression didn't change.
The setting shifted — a penthouse office high above Yokohama's glittering sprawl. Rain streaked down the floor-to-ceiling windows, distorting the lights of the city like smears of oil paint. The watcher now stood inside, coat dripping onto imported Italian marble.
Behind an enormous mahogany desk, the boss sat. His face was partially hidden in shadow, but the details that showed were deliberate: gold rings heavy on his fingers, an antique watch peeking from under his cuff, the faint glint of a holstered pistol beneath his tailored suit.
Stacks of yen and foreign currency lined the desk in organized piles. A gold-plated revolver lay beside them, gleaming under the soft light of a desk lamp. A single black-and-white photograph sat face-down, untouched — but not forgotten.
The boss swirled a glass of 30-year-old Yamazaki whisky, watching the way the amber liquid caught the light. His tone was calm, conversational, but his eyes were sharp enough to cut glass.
"Ghost…" he murmured, almost tasting the word. "The city talks about him like he's a rumor. But we both know better."
The watcher stayed silent. He'd been with the boss long enough to know when words weren't needed.
"This city," the boss continued, turning slightly to watch the skyline, "is just a chessboard. And every piece… every pawn… has its place. That boy—" he sipped his drink slowly, savoring it— "was a piece I lost. And I don't lose pieces."
The sound of ice shifting in the glass filled the room.
"Bring me updates," he said at last. "Every night he rides, I want to know where. I don't care if you have to tear the city apart."
The watcher nodded once. "Understood."
Yokohama at night had two faces.
In the heart of the city, neon signs pulsed over crowded ramen stalls, pachinko parlors buzzed with the clink of metal balls, and hostess clubs glowed like warm traps for lonely men. The sidewalks were slick rivers of light, every puddle reflecting red, blue, and gold.
But further out — past the train lines, past the markets — the streets grew narrow, dark, and quiet. Here, the graffiti wars raged: Red Devils tags marked in deep crimson, Serpent fangs sprayed in acid green. Layers upon layers of paint told the history of countless turf clashes, each claiming the other's territory by force or by ink.
And on some nights, the Ghost would appear.
Hinshiko's bike was unmistakable. Its frame had been stripped down and rebuilt with a precision no ordinary mechanic could match — low, sleek, almost predatory. The engine purred like a beast at rest but roared with a sharp, metallic snarl when pushed.
The public only ever saw him at night, and even then only for a moment — a flash of chrome, a smear of red across the black canvas of the streets.
Kids traded rumors like baseball cards: "He rides alone because no one can keep up."
Others whispered darker tales: "Ride with him and you vanish. No one knows where."
The older generation, the ones who'd seen too many turf wars, simply muttered: "trouble."
Hinshiko ignored them all. He rode for reasons only he understood.
That night, he dreamed.
It was always the same dream. Warm sunlight spilled across the pavement. The faint smell of gasoline hung in the air, mixing with the scent of soap.
His younger brother crouched beside Hinshiko's bike, a sponge dripping in his hand. The boy's black hair stuck to his forehead, his grin wide and careless. Soapy water ran in rivulets down the chrome, pooling on the ground before flowing toward the street.
"Careful with the exhaust," Hinshiko had said back then. But in the dream, his voice was faint, like an echo through static.
His brother laughed, flicking water toward him, and for a moment Hinshiko felt that same ease he'd felt back then — like the world was smaller, lighter.
He reached out, fingers almost brushing the boy's shoulder—
Static.
The sunlight bled into gray. The warmth drained away. And Hinshiko woke.
Rain pattered against the single window of his apartment, the sound sharp in the silence. His bike sat in the corner, frame gleaming even in the dim light. He stared at it for a long time before running a hand down his face.
Later that night, the tail began.
Hinshiko rode through the far edges of the city, tires slicing through shallow puddles. The industrial district here was a maze — warehouses squatting like rusted giants, shipping containers stacked like forgotten toys.
A hundred meters back, a bike followed. Too steady, too deliberate to be random. The rider wore Serpent colors, helmet visor down, moving like a shadow that had learned to ride.
Hinshiko noticed within seconds. He didn't speed up. Didn't swerve. Instead, he veered into an even narrower alley, where the streetlights were dead and the rain made the asphalt shine like black glass.
The Serpent followed.
Left turn. Right turn. Through a covered passage that smelled of damp concrete. Hinshiko's taillight flickered in and out of sight, leading the way like a will-o'-the-wisp.
Then… nothing.
The Serpent rider slowed, scanning the darkness. Empty streets. Silent warehouses. The sound of rain dripping from corrugated roofs.
A faint hiss of tires on wet asphalt came from behind him.
He spun around. No one there.
The silence felt heavier now, like the city itself was holding its breath.
The Serpent muttered, voice barely above a whisper, "Now I get why they call him Ghost…"
And somewhere above, on a rooftop, the watcher watched still — phone in hand, ready to report.