The auto shop breathed at night.
Metal ticked softly as it cooled. Tools chimed when set down. Somewhere above, rain began to fall—light at first, then steady—drumming against the corrugated roof like a tired heartbeat refusing to stop.
Akira worked beneath a single hanging bulb, the light casting long shadows across concrete stained by years of oil and ash. His hands were black with grease, knuckles nicked and scarred, moving with practiced calm as he tightened the last bolt on a half-rebuilt bike.
The radio hummed quietly in the background, an old alt-rock song drifting through static—something about second chances and roads that never quite lead back home.
He wiped his hands on a rag and paused.
There was a faint burn mark along the sleeve of his jacket. Old. Almost healed. A souvenir from a fight that no one talked about anymore.
They said fixing cars would calm him down.
Akira stared at his reflection warped in the oil pan beneath the bike.
Engines are like people, he thought. No matter how much you clean them up, something underneath always burns.
He tightened the wrench again. Metal squealed in protest.
For a moment, the reflection shifted—not the shop anymore, but an alley soaked in neon rain. Ichigo laughing. The Red Ash Crew moving like ghosts through a city that never slept.
The bell above the door jingled.
Akira didn't look up.
"You always work this late?" Nikki asked.
She stepped inside, umbrella dripping onto the floor, school jacket still clinging to her shoulders. Rain framed her like she belonged to the night just as much as the shop did.
"Work's quieter than people," Akira said.
She snorted softly. "That's one way to avoid us."
He glanced up, half a smirk tugging at his mouth. "I'm not avoiding. Just… thinking."
Nikki leaned against the counter, watching him with that unreadable look she wore when she was pretending not to care.
"About what?"
Akira hesitated.
"How fast everything's changing," he said finally. "How everyone's finally getting along… and how easy that could break."
Nikki tilted her head. "You think too much."
"Someone has to."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The rain filled the space words didn't need to.
Nikki grabbed a rag and started wiping oil from a nearby hood, movements absentminded but familiar.
"You fix the engines," she said. "I fix the silence."
Akira chuckled quietly, the sound barely louder than the rain.
Elsewhere, the streets of Yokosaki lay open and empty.
Kenji tore through them on his motorcycle, headlight slicing through fog and wet pavement. The city reflected back at him in blurred streaks of neon and shadow.
At a corner, a group of delinquents loitered beneath a flickering streetlamp. One of them shouted as Kenji slowed.
"Hey! Yokosaki's new king! You gonna back that title up or what?"
Kenji smirked but didn't stop.
"Not tonight."
He revved the engine and vanished into the dark.
But the look in his eyes—sharp, restless—said the fire hadn't gone anywhere. It was just waiting.
The Genesis dojo glowed softly under lantern light.
Onori swept the wooden floor in slow, deliberate strokes. Outside, thunder rolled, lightning flashing pale against the paper windows.
Her gaze drifted to the weapon rack.
The bo staff Miylen had splintered sat repaired now, bound carefully beside her bokutō. Wild and disciplined. Side by side.
"Steel and splinters," Onori murmured.
Her grandmother hummed as she passed behind her.
"Harmony isn't found in silence, child," the old woman said gently. "It's found in sound that learns to listen."
Onori smiled faintly, committing the words to memory.
Back at the shop, Nikki had fallen asleep on a stool, chin tucked into her jacket, breath slow and even.
Akira finished the repair alone.
Thunder rattled the windows as the lights flickered once, then steadied.
His phone buzzed.
A message.
Ichigo:
How's the island treating you, boss? Heard Yokosaki's getting rowdy again.
Akira stared at the screen longer than he meant to.
He typed back.
Handling it. Don't come here.
He set the phone down, the glow fading into darkness.
Rain drummed harder now.
The island feels quiet, he thought. Too quiet.
And quiet places always woke up screaming.
Dawn crept in slowly.
Akira stepped outside, wiping his hands as pale light filtered through thinning clouds. The rain had softened to a mist.
Down the street, he heard a motorcycle—Kenji, riding just a little too fast.
Somewhere closer, laughter echoed—Nikki, alive in that way that made chaos feel survivable.
And faint, steady, unmistakable—the sound of wood striking wood. Onori training.
The sounds blended together.
Imperfect.
Uneven.
Alive.
We're not a team yet, Akira thought. We're just pieces.
Steel.
Splinters.
Cinders.
But maybe… maybe that was how every fire started.
He took a breath.
And went back inside.