Even days after the courtyard fight, Yokosaki High felt bruised.
Cracks still spidered across the pavement. A shattered window remained taped over with cardboard. And the students—always hungry for chaos—still whispered in clusters as if the battle replayed every time they blinked.
"They took on half the courtyard…"
"I saw Vincent swing that chair like it weighed nothing."
"Akira didn't even slow down when he got hit."
Rumors washed over the school like rainwater down a gutter—messy, loud, unstoppable.
And yet the lunch table where the four transfers normally sat together remained empty.
Their victory had carved their names into Yokosaki's walls…
but somehow, it had carved space between them too.
The bell rang.
The voices faded.
But the feeling lingered:
Something had shifted.
Something had cracked.
Something none of them knew how to talk about yet.
Rust and Reverie.
The Shop
Night rain pattered against the metal roof of a small garage tucked between a convenience store and an empty alley. The faded sign above the door read:
ASH MOTORS.
Inside, a single overhead bulb hummed quietly—half dying, half stubborn.
Akira worked beneath the hood of a beaten silver sedan, grease blackening his hands, engine guts exposed like an open wound.
Music played low from an old radio: static mixed with a song about missing people who probably weren't coming back.
He twisted a wrench, paused, and stared at the faint reflection of himself in the car window.
It stared back like a stranger wearing his face.
When I'm fighting, he thought, I don't feel anything. No noise, no weight. Just instinct.
But here… everything makes a sound.
He set the wrench down.
The workbench beside him was cluttered—half-finished engine parts, old receipts, scraps of metal, and a small photo charred at the edges.
His old crew.
Ichigo at the center, grinning like he could punch the sun.
Desiree leaning on Cameron.
Eino laughing at something off-camera.
Hinami and Minami clinging to each other's arms.
Sean holding up peace signs in both hands.
Aiden glaring like the picture offended him.
Seguen wearing headphones.
Richard flexing.
Mike trying to hold him back.
A whole life that didn't belong in this quiet garage.
Akira exhaled slowly and placed the photo face-down.
The door creaked open.
Kenji stepped in, soaked to the bone, hair dripping, wearing that same smirk that made teachers tired and fighters annoyed.
"You're really out here fixing cars like it's therapy," he said, shaking water off his jacket.
Akira didn't look up.
"Who says it isn't?"
Kenji tossed a plastic bag onto the bench.
"Food. Thought you'd forget to eat. Again."
Akira didn't thank him. Didn't need to.
He simply opened the container and placed it beside the car.
"You check on the others?" he asked.
Kenji scratched his cheek.
"Nikki's dealing with her… family stuff. Vincent's quiet. More quiet than usual."
He leaned on a toolbox.
"Feels like we all won that fight but somehow lost something."
Akira tightened a bolt without answering.
The silence between them wasn't hostile.
Just heavy—like both of them carried weights they refused to set down.
Kenji watched him for a long moment before speaking softly:
"You ever stop fighting, even when it's over?"
Still nothing.
Just the faint metallic clink of a wrench.
Nikki's Room
At the other end of the island, rain hammered Nikki's bedroom window. Her room was dim except for the glow of her phone screen.
Unread messages from her mom stacked in a tall, desperate column.
Downstairs, her father's voice rose sharply, another argument blooming like poison in the house.
She turned her music up—sad, raw, aching—and stared at a looping video of the courtyard fight that students kept passing around.
Comments slid across the screen:
"She's insane."
"I heard she laughed during the fight."
"Don't mess with that girl. She's got issues."
Nikki locked the phone and pressed her palms over her eyes.
Everyone sees the chaos, she thought.
No one sees the cost.
She reached beneath her bed, pulling out a small box.
Inside:
Sketchbooks.
Colored pencils.
A photo of her and her little brother—before he moved away, before her family shattered, before she built walls high enough to keep even herself out.
Maybe if I stayed soft… I wouldn't survive here.
Maybe that's the problem.
Someone knocked on her door.
"Nikki," her mom called, annoyed. "Turn that noise down!"
She didn't answer.
The music drowned her house out again.
Darkness wrapped around her room.
Vincent's Quiet
Vincent sat alone in his small apartment, lights off, TV mute, shadows soft around him.
His knuckles were bruised.
A first-aid kit sat untouched at his side.
He held an old photo in his hand—him smiling with his middle-school team. A boy with dark hair stood beside him, arm thrown over Vincent's shoulder like they were brothers.
Vincent ran his thumb across the face of the boy no one at Yokosaki knew existed.
I told myself I'd never trust another crew, he thought.
But he… Akira…
He flicked a lighter, watching the flame flicker.
Is this a mistake?
Or a second chance?
He closed the lighter and let the room return to stillness.
The Quiet Link
Rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time Akira closed the shop for the night.
He stepped outside, locking the gate behind him, when he noticed movement across the street.
A small figure walking alone—hood up, shoulders slumped.
Nikki.
She carried a paper bag that looked like it had been soaked through twice.
"You shouldn't walk home this late," Akira called.
She didn't look up.
"Didn't realize Yokosaki's boss does street patrols now."
"I'm not your boss."
"Then stop acting like one."
A pause.
Raindrops tapped the ground in small rhythmic beats.
Akira sighed and pushed the shop door open again.
"You hungry?"
Nikki hesitated.
Then nodded once.
Late Night in the Garage
They sat on overturned tires inside the shop, steam rising from instant noodle cups.
"You know," Nikki said, looking around, "this place smells like oil and cigarettes."
"I don't smoke," Akira replied.
"Didn't say you did." She smirked faintly. "Just smells like someone who used to."
For a moment, the air softened.
Nikki leaned back, studying the scattered tools, the half-fixed engine, the faded posters peeling from the walls.
"All this yours?"
Akira nodded.
"My grandparents bought it for me."
"That's weirdly sweet."
He shrugged.
"They said if I'm gonna fight the world, I'd better have a place to fix it after."
Nikki's expression changed—less sharp, more human.
"That's… actually kinda deep."
Silence settled again.
Not awkward.
Just real.
"You ever think about what comes next?" she asked quietly.
"Every day," Akira said.
"But Yokosaki… isn't done with us yet."
Rain tapped lightly on the roof, almost rhythmic, almost soothing.
For the first time in days, it felt like the world slowed down.
The Call
After Nikki left, Akira cleaned the bench, put away the tools, and reached for his jacket.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He answered.
A distorted voice spoke through static:
"…We remember Red Ash."
Akira froze.
"And we heard you're back."
The line went dead.
Akira stared at the phone, jaw tightening.
The past doesn't stay buried.
It waits.
And it waits.
And it waits…
for the right storm.
He placed the phone down slowly.
Outside, thunder rolled across the island.
Something was coming.