Three days passed in the blink of an eye. Akira had already obtained his motorcycle license without any surprises, and the club recruitment period came to a smooth end.
Most students joined clubs of their choice, though a handful—Akira among them—remained in the so-called Go-Home Club. How long the others would last before quitting their clubs was anyone's guess.
Those who didn't join any club were naturally questioned by Nanase-sensei. Akira had been called into the office as well, but unlike the others who were stuck inside for a long time, he was "invited" out within just a minute or two.
"Akira, what did Nanase-sensei ask you about?" Shouko tilted her head curiously. She had noticed that he was the only one back so quickly.
Akira paused while packing his bag, trying to recall the brief exchange.
"She only asked why I didn't join a club, and what I'd be doing after school. Nothing important."
Just as Shouko was about to press further, Atsuya—sitting in front—turned around.
"Shouko-chan, let's go."
"Ah, okay." Shouko gave Akira a quick smile and put on her backpack. "I'll ask you later, Akira. I'm heading out now."
In the Art Club, she wasn't that close to the others yet. Usually, she brought her tablet to continue her illustrations. Only Ayumi and her senior, Miyagi Yuki, knew about her illustrator identity. Whenever she ran into difficulties, she would naturally ask Yuki-senpai for advice.
After saying goodbye, Shouko left with Ayumi, while Akira finished packing. Once again, he felt like a lonely old man watching everyone else leave.
He didn't bother waiting around at school for Shouko. It was better to go home first and return later to pick her up. Besides, he had promised his mom, Shizuka, that he'd go with her today to choose a motorcycle.
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Mid-April. At three forty in the afternoon, the thin clouds couldn't block the warmth of the spring sun. Students trickled through the streets, uniforms swaying in the breeze, a few holding ice pop wrappers from the convenience store.
"I'm back."
"Ding-dong—"
Akira's voice and his phone notification chimed at the same time as he stepped into the living room. Shizuka wasn't there. Tossing his bag onto the sofa, he pulled out his phone and checked LINE.
Jun:Miyamura-sensei, we can start a small-scale promotion next weekend. Any ideas?
Akira:Just follow the usual procedure.
He didn't know much about promotions, so it was better to leave that to Futaba Publishing.
Akira:(OK.jpg)
Akira:Jun-san, when will it hit bookstore shelves?
The message marked "read," but the reply took a moment. While waiting, Akira sat down by the coffee table, peeling an orange. Finally, the screen lit up.
Fūno Jun:If nothing goes wrong, the 24th of this month.
They exchanged a few more messages, though Jun also hinted about the low sales of Anohana. Akira brushed it off with the excuse that he still needed to revise.
The door clicked open.
"I'm back."
Shizuka's voice carried into the living room. "Akira, let's go."
"Mom, where are we going to buy the bike?" Akira asked after settling into the back seat of her car.
Shizuka caught his expression in the rearview mirror, fastening her seatbelt before starting the engine. "We're heading to Red Baron in Shin-Kiba, Kōtō Ward. It's Japan's largest motorcycle chain, and their main store has every model. You'll definitely find one you like."
"That far?" Akira was surprised, watching the scenery pass by outside.
"By train it takes about twenty-five minutes with transfers. Driving is a little over twenty. Not much difference."
He nodded, letting the subject drop. She probably chose the main store because it had the best selection.
Over thirty minutes later, they stepped out into the Shin-Kiba industrial district. The Red Baron neon sign glowed faintly in the afternoon sun. The gear-shaped turnstile gleamed with oil, clicking crisply like an old kickstarter when pushed open.
Inside, hundreds of steel beasts rested in a vast showroom. Sunlight streamed through towering glass walls, shimmering across the chrome tanks of gleaming Ducatis and Yamahas. The air carried a pungent but oddly sweet mix of rubber, antifreeze, and nitromethane.
A staff member approached, warmly greeting them and quickly recognizing from Shizuka's questions that she was no novice. Akira, meanwhile, wandered among the rows of bikes, more focused on the atmosphere than the technical details. He left the serious matters to his mom—he just needed to choose what felt right.
Besides, some strange intuition told him he might not keep this bike forever.
Under the staff's guidance, Akira tested several models that matched his height. Shizuka carefully considered commuting needs, maintenance, and long-term costs.
Height was important—having the balls of your feet firmly on the ground gave far more security than just tiptoes.
Finally, one stood out: a 398cc matte black street bike.
Its sharp, angular design gleamed with metallic flecks in the paint. The trellis frame cut diagonally beneath the tank, its short tail leaving the rear wheel completely exposed. Six-spoke alloy wheels reflected a cold gleam, while the silver inner tube of the inverted fork contrasted with its black casing. The bright red Brembo logo on the brakes stood out vividly.
Twin intake ports on the tank gave the machine an aggressive profile, while its LED headlight trio lit sequentially from bottom to top. The LCD instrument panel was set in carbon fiber, red-zoned at 11,500 RPM.
The hidden under-seat exhaust ended in a stainless steel tip with a subtle burnt-blue gradient.
At just 167 kilograms, the bike was light, and when Akira straddled it, his knees fit neatly against the anti-slip pads.
It was the perfect match.
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