lamamadelamama

The sun bled into the horizon, sinking behind the distant ridgelines like a glowing ember being swallowed by ash. Sky colors bruised into deep purples and fiery golds, painting the world in stark silhouettes.

Your group had made camp at a river’s bend a slow, winding artery cutting through the heart of unfamiliar land. It was quiet here, apart from the nervous shifting of hooves and the low murmur of tired men.

There were six of you, vaqueros born and raised under the hot skies of Mexico, each with the sun in their bones and dust in their blood. And then there was you, the only woman, but no stranger among them.

You grew up riding beside them, learning to rope cattle, mend fences, read the wind. Sons of cattle hands and rough riders, they had been your brothers long before blood or borders mattered. When the prospect of traveling north came up the seven of you gravitated towards each other and began the journey to a new life. You left everything behind except each other.

They treated you like one of their own. Mateo, the oldest, who always rode first and ate last. Luis, quiet and sharp-eyed, never without his rosary. Ramiro and Santos, cousins always bickering, always loyal. And Benito, the youngest, barely sixteen but already stronger than most men. Yes you were the only woman but they treated you like a sister, with respect and dignity.

The horses snorted nervously, and the low murmur of whispered conversations halted .

A cluster of riders had appeared without sound, as if they’d been born from the trees themselves. Their silhouettes were steady, proud. Their horses stood still as shadows, barely rustling.

Comanche.

A war party by the look of them. Not riders merely passing through, but men entrusted with guarding their land. Protectors. Sentinels of the old ways.

Their figures were silent in the brush, but you could sense them. Still as stone, but unmistakably present. Warriors, both young and old, cloaked in the copper and dusk of the fading sun. Their horses stood steady beneath them, muscled and alert.

They were dressed in a harmony of hide and sinew, each piece of clothing worn like armor and memory combined. Buffalo-hide hugged their legs, dyed with natural ochres and reds. Adorned with symbols you didn’t know the meaning of.

Some had feathers tied in their hair, others wore their braids wrapped in strips of fur and dyed quills. Their horses were lean and quiet. Each carried a weapon — bows, lances, clubs, though none raised them. Their alert posture spoke volumes. Not afraid, not angry, just ready.

Mateo’s voice rumbled low, like distant thunder.

“Nos miran como si ya hubiéramos hecho algo mal.” (they watch us like we already did something wrong)

You didn’t turn your head, but you heard Luis mutter behind him, “Tal vez, esta no es nuestra tierra.” (Maybe we did. This ain’t our land)

You took a slow breath, fingers tightening on your holster .

“Están alertos,” (They’re alert) you said, your voice calm. “Pero no hostiles. Si quisieran hacernos daño no estarían allí parados”. (But not hostile. If they meant us harm, they wouldn't be standing there)

At the center of them sat one man taller than the rest. Bronze-skinned, long-limbed, and cut from the same earth-colored stone as the land behind him. His face was calm, unreadable, but his presence was magnetic. Eyes black as obsidian, scanning the river, the camp, the horses, the fire… then each of you.

Santos scoffed behind you. “ O tal vez sólo son pacientes” (Or maybe they’re just patient)

You didn’t answer. You were watching the man across the river.

Mateo exhaled sharply behind you, like air escaping a punctured flask.

The river murmured, the only sound for long minutes. Wind in the grass. A horse's low whicker.

Mateo cleared his throat beside you. His voice was careful.

"Buenas tardes," (good afternoon) he called across the water.

No answer. The Comanche eyes tracked Mateo’s every word, unmoving. For a moment, you felt tension flicker through the group like a spark waiting for dry tinder.

Mateo tried again, switching to English, broken but bold.

“We pass through. Looking only for water, rest. We don’t claim the land. We mean no disrespect.”

A long pause.

Then, the leader guided his horse a few paces forward, until he stood directly across Mateo.

He spoke first in Comanche. The rhythm low and musical, like the sound of leaves moving in wind. Then he switched to English, his accent carved with purpose.

“You travel heavy. Too many for hunting. Not enough for war. You are not from here.”

Mateo dipped his head respectfully.

“From the south.” He gestured to the others. “Vaqueros. We work with cattle. The land behind us is empty now.”

The man glanced at each rider in turn. His gaze paused on Luis’s rosary, on Ramiros saddle-worn hands, on Benito’s youth, and lastly on you, the only woman among them.

His eyes narrowed slightly, not in judgment, but in calculated interest. He said nothing at first. Just watched you.

A woman, not cloaked or silent in the shadows, but riding with the men. Not just tolerated, but respected. Your position in the group raised questions, perhaps admiration.

He spoke again, this time slower.

“You are far from your own fire. This is our land. But tonight, we will not draw lines.”

Mateo glanced at the man, then nodded toward the river.

“We’ll not cross, unless invited.”

The man held his gaze on you for a heartbeat longer before finally speaking.

“You are welcome to share our fire, but know this… trust is earned.”

Mateo nodded solemnly.

“Trust is hard to come by these days.”

The man gave a single, sharp whistle. The warriors relaxed slightly, but not fully. The leader turned his horse and began to lead them along the riverbank, toward a clearing.

-

The fire crackled, its soft golden light licking up toward the indigo sky. Flames reflected off bronze faces, worn leather, and dark eyes that had seen more than their years should’ve allowed. The air was heavy with pine smoke, and the scent of horse sweat. The evening had wrapped the camp in quiet, broken only by the occasional murmur of horses and the soft shuffle of feet on the earth.

The six of you sat in a tight half-circle just beyond the fire. You ate what had been offered with quiet gratitude: a simple soup, dense cornbread with bits of root and seed, and a handful of tart wild berries. The flavors were foreign, but comforting.

Spanish flowed softly among your group, a warm undercurrent of home in a strange land. Words passed between bites, familiar and low, a rhythm you all knew by heart.

Ramiro leaned toward you, his voice laced with uncertainty.

“¿Crees que confiarán en nosotros?” Ramiro asked quietly. (do you think they’ll trust us?)

You dipped a hunk of bread into the stew, eyes flicking toward the Comanche group seated just a short distance away. Warriors still alert, still watching, but not unkind.

You shrugged, placing the piece of bread in your mouth. “No lo sé. Pero debemos intentarlo.” ( I don’t know, but we should try)

From the shadows just beyond the fire, the “leader” shifted. He had been listening, though his eyes seemed fixed on the flames. Now he turned toward you — toward the voice, the accent, the unfamiliar words. His posture remained relaxed, but his presence was unmistakable.

“What language do you speak?” he asked gently.

Your gaze met his. His eyes, caught the firelight and reflected it like polished stone.

"Spanish," you replied with a small nod. "We come from Mexico. We are wranglers , cattle riders. Vaqueros. Like you, in some ways."

You paused, the word hanging there between you, dusted with pride.

A flicker of recognition passed through his eyes. He tilted his head, considering.

“Vaqueros,” he repeated, shaping the word like it was half-memory, half-myth. “My grandfather spoke of riders like that. Said they dressed like warriors and rode like the wind. South, near the old Spanish roads.”

A faint smile ghosted his mouth. Not amusement, but something closer to reverence.

“I always thought maybe those stories were just to make boys dream of horses and glory,” he added. “Didn’t know they were real.”

“They’re real,” you said, the corners of your mouth lifting. “We don’t dream. We ride. We rope, brand, chase across country no sane man would want. Not so different from you, I think.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Not so different,” he echoed. “Maybe that’s why you don’t scare easy.”

The vaqueros understood English but they could never quite group the words together correctly. Nonetheless they listened and learned the best they could.

Luis, one of the better at understanding English, leaned in.

“And how do you speak English so well?” he asked.

"Traders," he answered. "And missionaries. Soldiers, too. I listen more than I speak. It helps to understand the world when it wants to understand you less."

Airy laughter murmured from your group. Born of truth rather than humor. Sam looked back to you.

"And you?" he asked directing the conversation back to you. "You speak it well."

"My father worked the border trails. He said, ‘If you want to keep cattle and keep peace, you better learn the white man’s tongue.’ So I did."

Sam studied you more closely now. Not just listening — watching. Something about you stood apart. A woman among men. Not hidden. Not silent. Their equal.

“I’m Sam,” he replied simply.

Introductions passed between your group and his, easy now, like the start of something that didn’t have to be earned with blood. The barrier between stranger and friend growing thinner.

All of the men were eating, their voices low in their own language, melodic and heavy with meaning. A sense of shared space wrapped around the camp like the smoke from the fire.

-

The moon had crested over the treetops now, casting a soft silver light across the clearing. The fire had quieted down into a steady bed of coals, glowing orange like embers a slight flickering of flames reigniting.

The others were still gathered near, some seated on logs or hides, still talking in quiet tones. Mateo and two of the Comanche were trading old stories, bits of Spanish and Comanche dancing awkwardly between them, bridged by gestures, shared smiles, and an occasional nudge from Luis translating as needed.

Sam sat beside you, just far enough to keep the space respectful, but near enough that his voice didn’t have to rise above the night.

For a long moment, you both just listened to the sounds of the camp. The quiet hum of fire, soft laughter, the distant rustling of horses near the tree line.

Then Sam spoke, tone light but thoughtful.

"The youngest one... Benito? He carries a knife nearly as tall as his leg."

You chuckled, nodding.

"It’s a machete, He sharpened it for an hour this morning. Swears he’ll skin a bear with it one day."

Sam grinned, teeth white in the shadows.

"Brave boy."

"He’s sixteen. They all think they're immortal at that age," you said. Then, with a small smile, you added:

"I remember thinking the same. Until a bull nearly threw me into the next village."

That got a laugh out of him a real one. Deep and unexpected.

You laughed too, leaning back slightly, your eyes catching the stars through the treetops.

Sam picked up a twig and began drawing in the dirt between you. Slow, looping shapes. The fire cracked, shadows dancing across the lines he carved. At first, you didn’t realize what it was. Just curves, a swirl, a petal-like shape. Then it clicked.

You tilted your head, watching. “Hmm... Flor,” you said, the word soft on your tongue. “A flower.”

He looked up, eyes catching yours, and nodded once. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Totsiyaa.” His voice was low, warm. “My mother used to wear them in her braid. Wild ones.”

You looked down at the dirt again. Such a simple thing. And yet it said so much.

You reached for your own twig, the bark rough under your fingers.

With a sweep of your hand, you smoothed out a patch of dry earth and began to draw. It wasn’t perfect. The legs too long, the head shaped more like a dog than anything else, but the spirit was there. Strong. Steady.

“Caballo,” you said with a grin, glancing up at him. “A horse.”

He leaned in a little, studying your attempt, then chuckled under his breath. “Looks like he runs fast,” he teased. Then added, more gently, “tʉhʉya. Horse.”

“tʉhʉya,” you repeated, testing the sound, watching his lips as he said it again.

You stared at the dirt-drawn horse. “My father raised them,” you murmured. “Said you could read a man by how he treated a horse.”

Sam nodded again, eyes flickering with something unspoken. “The horse is part of your spirit. If you’re good to them, they carry you further than you think possible.”

You looked at him then. The firelight caught the strong line of his jaw, the small smile at the edge of his mouth, and the way his eyes softened when they met yours.

Then you drew again. This one you took more care with rounded wings, a beak, little claws.

“Águila,” you said. “Eagle.”

He studied it for a moment, then looked at you. “Kwihnai,” he said. “Sacred.”

You nodded. “Same for us.”

You both sat there in silence, the dirt between you filled with crude drawings and crooked lines

“Teach me more,” you said.

He chuckled, looking down almost shyly, then began writing in the dirt again. A line, then another. Letters this time. Slowly.

“haitsi,” he said. “Friend.”

You stared at the word, then at him.

“Is that what I am?” you asked, playful but quiet.

He looked back at you, eyes steady. Letting out a low hum.

Then, after a moment, he answered, “friend… is a good place to start.”

A smile tugged at your mouth half gratitude, half mischief.

“Well then,” you said, leaning just a little closer, voice low and warm, “since we’re friends now… you should know that we vaqueros ride better than Comanche.”

He scoffed, sharp and immediate, like you'd struck a nerve. One he enjoyed having struck.

“You think so?” he said, squinting slightly, clearly amused.

“I know so,” you shot back.

He gave you a long look, deliberate, amused but unshaken.

“…We’ll see.”

As the night carried on and the ember of the fire began to die down, you heard someone laughing — probably Luis again, stirring beans with a stick and talking nonsense. You heard Ramiro say something about ghosts. The Comanche men answered in their own language, the rhythm light, playful.

-

The morning came fast, slipping through the trees in long gold beams that touched the earth like a blessing.

Quiet voices spoke in sleepy tongues — Comanche on one side of the clearing, Spanish on the other, both wrapped in that early-morning peace only shared trails could bring.

You were checking your saddle when you heard Ramiro’s voice behind you, already too loud for how early it was.

"Mírala, ya se cree vaquera y Comanche." (look at her, she thinks she’s a vaquera AND a Comanche now)

You turned with a smirk as he elbowed Santos, who just snorted into his tin cup.

"Cállate," (shut up) you said, grinning as you tossed a small rock at his boot.

The group erupted in laughter, even Mateo, who was usually harder to crack in the mornings.

Le ofrecieron conversación privada," ( offered her a private conversation) Luis added with a wink.

"Y dibujitos en la tierra," ( and little drawings in the dirt) Benito piled on, sketching an exaggerated horse in the air.

They had not been blind to your conversation with Sam last night.

But before they could add more fuel to the fire, Sam appeared, already on his horse, calm as ever.

"You always fight this early in the day?" he asked with a dry smile.

"Only when we like each other," you said.

He gave a knowing nod.

He looked down at your horse, then back at you, eyes glittering.

You stared at him with a daring gaze

“Let’s pick up where we left off?”

Sam looked at you with amusement, the topic of last night still present .

You quickly got up and nudged your mare forward, your smile growing.

Behind you, your group howled like coyotes.

"¡Dale, pues!" (* exclaims in Spanish lol)

"¡Enséñale!" )

Even the Comanche chuckled from their side, already catching on to the mood. A few stood, curious. One made a small gesture, pointing toward the tree line.

Sam followed the motion, then nodded toward a natural stretch of open land a perfect race path, clear and firm.

"To that fallen log," he said.

"Fastest wins. Simple."

You nodded your head in agreement. Both riding forward, to the starting point, hooves crunching on dry grass. The others gathered along the path, already hooting and taking sides.

"¡México contra Comanche!" (México vs Comanche) Benito yelled, hands cupped around his mouth.

Sam gave you a sidelong glance as you settled in beside him.

"Don’t hold back."

You rolled your shoulders, feeling the mare beneath you shift, ready.

"Oh, I wasn’t planning to."

A moment of silence.

Then—

Mateo raised his arm. “¡YA!”

And the world disappeared in thunder.

Hooves tore into the earth. The wind screamed in your ears. Trees blurred past in streaks of green and gold. You leaned low over the saddle, your mare eating up the ground like she’d been waiting her whole life to run like this.

Sam was fast, you could see him out of the corner of your eye, but he was holding something back. Testing you.

Bad choice.

You dug in, whispered to your horse in Spanish, and surged forward. The wind whipped your hair, your heart beat in rhythm with each stride,

You flew across the finish, hooves kicking up a cloud of dust that rolled over the cheering voices of the camp.

You pulled up with a tug, heart pounding, breath wild.

You’d won.

Sam reined in next to you, his chest rising and falling fast. He looked at you for a moment stunned and then laughed. Genuine. Warm. A little impressed. A little humbled.

You smirked.

Told ya’ "

Sams laugh quietly died down settling into a toothy grin. He reached into the leather pouch at his side, and pulled out a carved bone pendant. It dangled from a loop of worn leather, swaying gently in the space between you.

A smooth bone shaped into a horse. Its legs were caught in motion, head turned slightly to the side, tail flowing like it had just begun to run. Its shape was simple.

He held it out to you.

"My father carved this the night before my first hunt." he said quietly.

You blinked, caught off guard.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His voice was low, steady. “He nodded. “You ride like you belong to no one.You earned it."

Your throat tightened. You took the pendant gently and slipped it over your head. It rested against your collarbone, light and heavy at once.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

Sam gave a small nod, his gaze lingering. You could see something flicker in his eyes—something unspoken. You felt it too.

You reached to your saddlebag, fingers working slowly, and pulled out a small bundle of cloth, carefully folded and wrapped in leather cord. You had carried it all this way, through dust and danger.

“This is yours,” you said, stepping forward.

Sam tilted his head, accepting the bundle in his hands. He untied the cord, unfolding the linen with slow fingers.

The cloth was deep, earthy red, dyed by hand. Embroidered flowers bloomed across the fabric stretching outward like a sunburst. Sharp green leaves curled in between them, stitched with patience and precision. And beneath it all, in delicate, looping script, one word:

Libertad.

He stared at it for a long moment, his thumb brushing over the stitching.

“You made this?”

You nodded. “Before we left.”

Sam looked up.

“I made it when I knew we’d be heading north. Before I knew anything for certain, except that I couldn’t stay. Not in that life.”

He didn’t speak, just listened, his fingers holding the cloth like it was something fragile.

“My mother taught me how to embroider,” you went on, your voice steady but soft. “She said that every stitch could carry a thought. A prayer. Even a memory.”

You smiled faintly, eyes on the flowers.

“I stitched libertad—freedom—because that’s what I wanted. Not just to run. But to live. Without fear. Without being told what I’m worth.”

You paused. Then glanced up at him.

“And when you told me about your mother and her flowers… I knew it was meant for you.“

His brow furrowed, a quiet intensity in his gaze. “No one’s ever given me something like this.”

“Then it’s about time.”

He slipped the cloth into the inside of his coat , pressed close to his chest. Then looked back at you.

“You carry freedom with you,” he said. “It’s in how you ride. How you speak. How you fight.”

A long, quiet moment passed between you. The others still laughing in the distance, their noise now softened like wind behind a closed door.

You looked up at him, your voice just a breath:

Then you tilted your head."Can I ask something?"

He glanced at you, expectant.

"Your name. Why Sam?”

His eyes dropped to the ground for a second, then back to yours. No anger, no shame. Just a sigh like he’d carried that question a long time

“That was the name of the man who killed my wife” he said, his voice like stone.

You stayed quiet

I know because I made him tell me," he continued, voice low. "Then I killed him... and took it."

His stare bore into you. Not in a cruel way, but with the kind of pain that made your throat tighten. You felt the echo of it in your chest, and before you could stop it, something inside you cracked wide open.

“I’ve kill—I’ve killed many.”you admitted, the words falling out before you could collect them. "This trail... it's not kind to people. Least of all to women."

You laughed softly, bitterly, not at him but at yourself, trying to push down what was clawing its way up.

"I never thought of taking their names."

He cut you off fast, but not unkind.

“You don’t want to know their names, with their names you mourn forever.”

That last part stung more than you expected. You turned your face, as if that would hide the sudden tremble in your jaw, the welling in your eyes. A chuckle broke through

And then, he reached for you.

"Don't do that," he said gently, his thumb brushing under your eye before the tear could fall. His hand lingered, warm and calloused as it cupped your face like something sacred.

You were quiet for a beat, watching the way the his hair caught the wind, the shape of his jaw, the steadiness in his eyes.

He stepped just a bit closer , the air between you growing still.

He reached out, just briefly, to adjust the pendant around your neck. Fingertips brushing your collarbone.

You looked down at the pendant, then up at him.

"Let it sit close to your heart," he murmured. "It’s meant to protect what matters."

"Then it’s in the right place."

After a moment, you spoke again.

"You think this makes us even?"

He smiled.

"Not even."

He paused.

"Connected."

A unspoken understanding flows between you two

You grinned, before a loud voice interrupted the silence

Behind you, someone from your group shouted out — "¡Ahí están! Ya están haciendo promesas de amor." t(they’re right there! theyre already making love promises)

You rolled your eyes, laughing under your breath.

He didn’t understand the words, not exactly, but he understood tone. He’d read it in your voice, in the laughter behind it, in the way you stood your ground and didn’t move an inch away from him.

•Late-night ramen and lingering glances

You start hanging out at the garage more often. You don’t really belong to the racing scene, but Han never makes you feel out of place. One night, he asks if you want food — and instead of bringing you back takeout, he picks you up in his RX-7 and drives you through neon-lit Tokyo just for a tiny, hole-in-the-wall ramen spot.

He doesn’t say much. But when he watches you slurp your noodles, hiding a grin behind his hand?

That’s the first time you feel like maybe he’s not just being nice.

• Teaching you how to drift... sort of

You’re not a racer—not really, but one night Han catches you watching him a little too long during a tune-up session. Without a word, he tosses you the keys to one of the older cars in the garage.

“Let’s see what you got.”

“What?” You said, too slow to understand the implication.

“Garage car. She’s got bite. But she’ll be nice if you treat her right.”

“Wait. You want me to drive?”

“No,” he deadpans. “I want you to try. Let’s see if you’re more than just pretty looks and long stares.”

“I can drive,” you insist.

“Good,” Han replies, leaning back on the hood, arms folded. “Show me.”

You slide into the driver’s seat, heart pounding. The interior smells like dust and old vinyl. You adjust everything like you’ve seen in the movies.

Then stall the engine.

Once.

Twice.

Five times.

Okay, maybe I can’t drive,” you mutter to yourself. Watching how Han looked at you in amusement

Han strolls over and taps the window.

“Mind if I join?” he asks.

“To mock me properly?”

“I mock better up close.”

He slides into the passenger seat, one arm casually resting across the back of yours, and gestures toward the wheel.

“Alright, let’s fix whatever that was.”

“You mean my confidence?”

“That too.”

He reaches for the gearshift, brushing your hand. His fingers are rough, warm, steady.

“Clutch, gas. It’s like dancing,” he says. “You don’t step on your partner’s feet, you listen to the rhythm.”

“I’m more of a freestyle girl.”

“Clearly.”

You try again. The car jerks forward, protesting, but doesn’t stall.

“Hey!” you exclaim, triumphant.

“Don’t celebrate yet. That was beginner’s luck.”

“No faith?”

“I’ve got faith,” Han says, turning toward you with a teasing glint. “But also really good reflexes in case you crash.”

Han teaches you the way he drives — calm, fluid, like he’s got nowhere to be but enjoys getting there. You, on the other hand, learn the hard way. Curbs are hit. Cones are sacrificed.

“You trying to drift or parallel park a tank?”

“Is that tire smoke or your ego burning out?”

“You’re still terrible,” he says one night after a particularly wild turn. “But damn, you make it look fun.”

One night, you finally nail it — a clean, sharp drift that slices through the dockside corner like a knife. You hit the throttle just right, countersteer without overthinking. The tires screech, smoke curls, and when you stop, heart racing, you look over at him.

He’s quiet. For once.

“Speechless?” you ask, breathless, grinning.

“Shocked,” he admits, mouth twitching up. “Thought we’d be in the bay by now.”

“Told you I could drive.”

“Mmm. I’m starting to think you just like me close.”

“You wish.”

He leans in, that lazy grin softening just a touch. There's a pause — full of heat, the hum of the idling engine, the slow rise of something more.

“Y’know,” he says, voice low, “when I gave you those keys… I wasn’t just testing your driving.”

“Oh yeah?” you reply, arching a brow. “Then what were you testing?”

“Whether or not I’d have to keep pretending I wasn’t into you.”

Your breath hitches. He’s so close you can see the gold flecks in his eyes, the smallest curve of his lip.

You smile — smug, playful, yours.

“So how’d I do?”

He grins back, nodding toward the wheel.

“You passed. Now drive.”

• Sleeping in the car — together, unspoken

One night you stay late at the garage. Han’s reclined in the RX-7, and you're too tired to go home. He opens the passenger side, pats the seat like it’s always been yours.

Neither of you talk much — just sit in the silence while Tokyo hums outside. You fall asleep before you realize it. When you wake up, his jacket is over your legs, and he’s still awake, watching the stars through the windshield.

• Han shares his snacks, always

You never ask. He never offers. But his bag of chips? His Pocky? His peach gummies from the vending machine?

He always hands them to you first, wordlessly, like it’s automatic. Like you’re already a part of his rhythm.

Even when you’re arguing. Especially when you’re arguing.

• Tangled legs and parking garage conversations

You’ve started crashing in the RX-7 after late nights — both of you curled up together in the back seat or lying across the hood, legs tangled, listening to music

You talk about nothing. Everything. The quiet in the city. What you'd do if you left Tokyo. Whether drifting is freedom or just a distraction.

He never says "I love you." But he looks at you like the words are too small to fit what he feels.

• Protectiveness that doesn’t look like anger

Han doesn’t raise his voice. Ever. But the one time a drunk bystander gets too close to you, says something slick that lands wrong?

Han’s already in front of you, one hand lightly guiding you back, the other gripping his arm just a little too hard.

He doesn't say much — just leans in and murmurs something to the guy.

Later, when you ask what he said, Han just shrugs and says, “Told him not to get comfortable.”

• You patch him up

He comes back one night, knuckles bruised, a small cut on his cheekbone.

He brushes it off, of course. "Wasn’t a big deal." But he doesn’t stop you when you pull him into the bathroom and clean him up with cotton pads and ointment.

He watches you in the mirror. Quiet. Still.

“You always take care of people like this?” he asks softly.

You don’t answer — you just kiss the corner of his mouth and say, “Just you.”

• Shared routine

Han starts making you part of his rhythm without ever asking.

You start showing up around the same time. He plays the same playlist you two created while you help tidy up the garage. You hand him tools without needing to be asked. He knows your go-to snack and starts stocking it without saying anything.

One night, you ask, “You do this with everyone?”

He pauses. “No.”

leaning down to give your temple a soft kiss

Then, quieter: “Just you.”

Tokyo was loud. Not in the way New York or LA was loud, but a different kind of electric. Neon lights buzzed above your head as the sound of low-revving engines and scattered bursts of laughter colored the night air. You were new to this rhythm, but it didn't take long to find your pulse in it.

You had only been in Japan for a few weeks. A handful of late-night runs through the mountains with borrowed wheels and a name passed from one drifting circle to the next had already earned you a whisper of a rep. Not bad for an outsider.

That's when you first noticed him.

Han.

Noticed—not met.

He never said more than a few words the first time you locked eyes at a meet in Shibuya. You were leaning against your ride, as he strolled past you, casually chewing on Pocky like this whole thing was just a lazy Friday.

He looked at your car first.

Then at you.

"Clean lines," he said, nodding slightly.

You nodded back, a smirk tugging at your lips. "Yours too."

And just like that, he was gone.

You saw him again a few nights later, parked on the edge of a multi-level garage where the Tokyo skyline glowed in the distance. Same calm eyes. Same unreadable half-smile. Word of mouth told you he was one of the best, but the way he carried himself told you he didn’t need anyone to say it.

You exchanged a few greetings over the next week. A nod here. A short “Nice run” there. It was casual. He wasn’t trying to impress, and neither were you. That’s probably why he kept noticing.

Then, finally, came the meet in Yokohama.

The night air was thick with exhaust and excitement. Someone had set up LED strips under their chassis, and a crowd gathered to watch a two-car drift exhibition. You were standing near your car again, running a rag over the hood. Familiar footsteps approached, deliberate and unhurried.

“New paint job?” Han asked, appearing beside you with his arms crossed, a lollipop in place of his usual Pocky.

You glanced at him. “Nah. Just clean. Not everyone treats their car like a trash can y’know.”

A subtle grin pulled at his mouth. “You talk to everyone like that, or am I special?”

You raised a brow. “I don’t talk to most.”

Which wasn’t a complete lie.

Han laughed softly, a warm, low sound that cut through the noise of revving engines and blasting music. “That makes me feel better.”

You tilted your head, curious. “You needing reassurance Han?.”

He looked at you for a beat, like he was measuring something—not judging, just reading. Then, casually:

“Just wanted a reason to keep talking to you.”

You paused, then smiled. “Next time, try ‘hi.’ It’s easier.”

He shrugged. “Where’s the fun in easy?”

—

Days blurred into nights and meets bled into mod sessions at the garage. The air always smelled like rubber, gasoline, and something unspoken hanging between you and Han. The kind of tension no one called out loud but everyone noticed.

You weren’t together, technically. But no one else dared flirt with you, and he didn’t entertain anyone else, either.

He’d show up behind you mid-conversation, casually drape an arm around your shoulders like he’d always belonged there. Or lean over you under the hood of a car, hands brushing too close to yours. His warm arms locking you in place while his breath lingered near your ear.

You never pulled away.

At the garage, you became part of the scene—more than just a racer. You knew your way around an engine, and you weren’t afraid to get your hands dirty. The others respected that. Han respected you.

Nights were often filled with shared glances across the bay, tossed tools, sarcastic remarks, and moments of stillness where you caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking.

And then came that night.

The crew had gone out partying after a big win on the docks. You’d raced a guy who underestimated you, drifted tighter and smoother than anyone expected.

Later, you both ended up back at Han’s place, the music from the party next door bleeding through the walls—deep bass rattling the loose tools on the work bench.

You were lying side by side on the couch. The lights were low, the room washed in a soft glow from the kitchen. Han had one arm behind his head, the other toying with your fingers lazily, watching as they went back and forth from their resting state.

Neither of you spoke for a long while.

Then, finally, he asked, voice low, almost too soft to catch.

“You ever think about what we are?”

You blinked, still staring at the ceiling. “I try not to.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah.”

Silence.

The kind that stretched out. Not awkward, just loaded.

Your voice was quieter this time. “But you know they all think we are, right?”

Han tilted his head lazily toward you. “Yeah. I know.”

You turned slightly, eyes meeting his. “And you’ve never corrected them.”

He shrugged. “Neither have you.”

That hung in the air for a second.

You shifted closer, enough that your knee bumped his. He didn’t move away. Instead, he turned toward you fully, his hand now trailing along your wrist, fingers brushing the inside of it gently.

“You ever wonder if we were to stop pretending?” you asked, eyes searching his.

Han’s expression didn’t change much, but you knew him well enough to see the flicker of something behind his eyes. Restraint. Want.

“All the time,” he said finally.

Your throat tightened a little. The music outside seemed to fade, like the whole city was holding its breath.

“So why haven’t we?” you whispered.

His thumb ran a lazy circle against your skin. “Because once we do, it changes everything.”

You didn’t say anything right away. You just looked at him, heartbeat a little faster, breathing a little slower. His gaze was steady now. No teasing. No smirking. Just raw honesty.

“I don’t want to mess up what we have,” he admitted.

Your fingers found his, locking in a slow, certain grip. “Then don’t.”

Another beat of silence passed. Then Han leaned in, forehead barely brushing yours.

The air between you was no longer still.

It was charged—like the silence before tires screeched into motion. That edge, that heartbeat right before a race, when you feel everything tilt but don’t pull away. That was what this felt like now.

You could feel his breath, steady but quieter now.

“You always this cautious?” you asked, your voice hushed.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes dark and steady. “Only with things I don’t wanna lose.”

Your chest tightened at that, at how serious he looked. Not guarded like usual. No masks, no teasing.

Just Han.

You leaned in a little more, nose nearly brushing his now. Your voices had dropped to a whisper, like you were afraid to break the moment—or maybe just hoping it would never end.

His hand slid up slowly, fingers grazing your jaw. He held you like he was asking permission without saying a word. You didn’t answer with words—you didn’t have to. You leaned into his palm, eyes soft but steady.

“And if we screw this up?” he asked, barely louder than the music thumping through the wall. “You ever think about that?”

You nodded. “All the time.”

A beat. Your heart was racing now. You weren’t sure whose pulse you felt, yours or his, but they were synced.

“But I think about you more.”

That was it.

The moment cracked open, and everything moved fast and slow all at once. Han closed the space, lips brushing yours gently— he was still giving you an out, still giving you room to change your mind.

You didn’t.

You leaned in, full and certain, the kind that didn’t ask questions. It answered them.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you steady as the kiss deepened, and your fingers tangled into his shirt like you’d been waiting to do it for months. Which, let’s face it—you had.

By the time you finally broke apart, your forehead was still resting against his, and both of you were catching your breath. Not from the kiss, but from finally letting go.

“That feel like a mistake to you?” You said quietly, lips still close to his.

Han gave a slow smile, a smile he rarely let anyone see.

“Not even close.”

His hand slipped into yours again, and this time there was no hesitation. Just warmth. Just a silent agreement between two people who’d danced around the edge long enough.

Outside, the party raged on.

Inside, you had your own kind of drift.

Nights in Detroit crackled with tension—streetlights flickering like dying stars, distant sirens clawing through silence, broken windows standing like hollow-eyed witnesses. You learned to survive by staying low, eyes down, hands clean or clean enough.

Rumors of Jericho came in hushed voices, scrawled symbols, pirated broadcasts swallowed by static. Safe haven, they said. Freedom for deviants. Maybe it was foolish to believe. Or maybe the world hadn’t completely hollowed out your sense of compassion.

The night after the android uprising began, something shifted. You chased the rumor, following every half-spoken lead. Rain slicked the alleyways as you found it. The rusted skeleton of a River Thames freighter, slipped into the shadows like it was trying to disappear.

Grime clung to every inch of metal. You hoisted yourself up the side, each rung of the ladder cold and wet beneath your fingers. With a grunt, you climbed inside.

A heavy thunk echoed as the hatch sealed behind you. You were alone. Enveloped in darkness.

Rows of broken machinery loomed like forgotten sentinels. For a moment, all you could hear was the ship creaking. Then, from the shadows, the shape of movement.

A harsh beam of light seared your vision.

“Who are you?” A sharp, female voice. Cold. Demanding.

You flinched, squinting. Raised your hands slowly, trying not to look threatening. “I’m not here to hurt anyone. I’m human. I heard about Jericho—I just wanted to see if it was real.”

“Why are you here, human?” She spat the word like poison.

You could feel it. Eyes watching from the dark. Tension snapping like wire pulled too tight.

You swallowed. “Because you need help. I want to help. I—”

Another figure stepped forward. A man. Tall. Stern. His LED dark like a sealed door.

“Help?” he said, voice rough. “Or spy for CyberLife?”

“I don’t work for them,” you said, hands still raised. “I’m not a threat. I’m not anyone’s spy.”

The air thickened. A silence, sharp and heavy.

Then another voice. Calm. Measured. “Let her speak.”

Markus.

He emerged like a shadow made solid, tall, steady, a quiet kind of power radiating from him. No LED. Just control. Command.

He studied you with eyes that missed nothing. “Why are you really here?”

You hesitated, then spoke with raw honesty. “I’m a journalist. Or... I was. I used to report on pandemics, protests, war zones. But when the uprising started, I knew the stories being told weren’t the truth. I came to find it.”

Markus tilted his head, thoughtful but clearly skeptical.

You met his eyes, steady. “I brought what I have.” You pulled out a worn recorder and a notebook, holding them out. “Testimonies. I can tell your story. Real stories. Give you a voice.”

He stepped closer, gingerly taking the recorder from your hand. Android fingers precise, deliberate—pressed play.

A trembling voice crackled to life. A factory worker, terrified. “They… they came in the night. My sister was a dairy technician and… and they shot her. Just for speaking.”

North, the woman who’d first challenged you, scowled. Her LED flickered red. The tall man beside her—Simon, though you didn’t know his name yet, crossed his arms. But Markus listened.

Then he raised his eyes. “All right. You can stay. But if you betray us... I won’t need to finish that sentence.”

You nodded. Heart pounding, but steady. “Thank you.”

Markus motioned for you to follow him. Boots echoed against metal as you walked deeper into Jericho’s belly.

The freighter groaned and shifted with every step. Like an old beast still breathing, steel bones straining beneath the weight of hope and rebellion. Flickering lights barely pierced the dark, casting long shadows across the corridor.

“This used to be a cargo ship,” Markus said as you walked. “Abandoned for over a decade. No one cared when we moved in.”

“It doesn’t look like much,” you said, your voice hushed. “But it feels alive.”

“It has to be. This is our home now. Our only one.”

He led you past clusters of androids. Some repairing one another with soldering irons, others huddled close as if the nearness warded off despair. Their eyes followed you with quiet suspicion.

“They look like they’ve seen war,” you murmured.

“They have.” Markus didn’t stop walking. “Some escaped the disassembly lines. Others ran from violent owners. Every android here has scars.”

You noticed the way his eyes flicked toward you—curious, guarded. “How did you find us?”

You hesitated, then decided the truth was better than anything else. “I followed the threads. CyberLife leaks more than they realize. Dock records, broken shipping manifests, whispers from android underground forums. I didn’t stumble into this.”

He looked at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re smarter than most.”

A small smile touched your lips. “And better at sneaking into condemned ships.”

You passed through a bay repurposed into a medical station. Makeshift beds. Blue thirium streaked the floor like blood. A younger android helping someone reattach an arm looked up at you warily.

“She’s with me,” Markus said. The android nodded, returning to his task, but not without glancing back.

“They don’t trust me,” you whispered.

“They don’t trust anyone who isn’t one of them,” he said. “But that can change.”

You followed him into a narrow corridor, low-ceilinged and dim. A faint hum echoed through the pipes above. Then you saw it, a small figure crouched against the wall.

An android, no taller than your waist. Its face was cracked porcelain, eyes a bright, curious blue.

“Hello!” it chirped. “Are you a new android?”

You smiled, surprised. “Not exactly. I’m human.”

The child tilted its head, then moved into your space with childlike wonder, hugging your leg. “You’re warm.”

You crouched to eye level. Rested your head gently against his. “That’s one of the perks.”

He whirred happily. “Do you like it here?”

You looked around. The corridor was dark, but voices echoed down the halls. Laughter. Life.

“I didn’t know what to expect,” you said softly. “But I think it’s something special.”

The little android looked over at Markus. “Markus saved me.”

You glanced up, startled. Markus stood quietly, watching, his expression gentle.

“He found me in a junkyard,” the android said. “He told me broken things still deserve love.”

You felt a lump in your eyes and something sting behind your eyes.

“He was right,” you whispered, brushing your hand over his head.

“Come on,” Markus said softly. “There’s more to see.”

You gave the boy a squeeze before standing.

“Goodbye, warm one!” he called, waving.

You waved back, a grin you couldn’t hide curving your lips.

As you walked on, Markus’s voice broke the silence.

“You didn’t flinch.”

“What?”

“With him. Most humans... they pull away. You didn’t.”

“He reminded me of a kid I used to babysit,” you said. “Kids are curious. He’s just... being a kid.”

Markus looked at you long, unreadable.

“You’re not like most.”

You met his gaze. “Neither are you.”

He looked at you for a second too long—just long enough for something unspoken to pass between you. A flicker of trust. A silent test. Then he turned without a word and walked toward the next room, his footsteps slow but purposeful.

You followed.

The corridor stretched ahead in hushed tones, dim lighting flickering overhead, shadows crawling across the rusted walls. The air was thick with cold and the faint scent of metal and oil, tinged with something older—dust, age, memory. Every step you took echoed softly, as if the ship itself were holding its breath.

The ventilation system exhaled in rhythmic sighs. The freighter didn’t feel like a hiding place. Not entirely. It felt alive. Like something wounded that had chosen to keep breathing anyway.

Markus spoke as you walked, his voice low—meant only for you. “We need humans like you, not spies. Not opportunists chasing some story or thrill. Allies.”

He paused at the threshold of a narrow doorway, resting one hand against the steel frame. “And I hope… you want to stay.”

You stopped behind him. You could see the tension in his shoulders—not fear, not suspicion, but a quiet cautious hope. One he wasn’t used to voicing aloud.

Your gaze swept around the corridor. At the twisted pipes running like veins through the ceiling. The patched wiring overhead. Faint sounds drifted from somewhere above—a soft clang of movement, hushed voices, the faint hum of thirium pumps.

You thought of the androids you’d seen since arriving. Hollow-eyed sentries standing guard in silence. Repair crews welding makeshift limbs by flashlight. The little boy-model who had shyly clung to Luther’s coat before calling you “warm one.”

None of it felt like a trick. None of it felt like fear. It felt like defiance wrapped in community—like wounded hands choosing to hold each other anyway.

You looked back at Markus.

At the scar on his temple. At the weight in his eyes, which somehow never dulled, no matter how many battles they carried.

“I will,” you said. Not loud. Not dramatic. But true.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you meant it.

Markus didn’t speak right away.

But his eyes flicked down to the floor for just a second—like he was grounding himself, re-centering. When he looked back at you, there was something different there. Not relief exactly. But something more human than any algorithm could explain.

He nodded once. Then turned to lead you deeper into Jericho.

—

The first night in Jericho was sleepless.

You lay curled on a thin mattress in a hollowed-out storage alcove, little more than a cubby carved out between crates and panels of cold metal. Overhead, the steel creaked with every gust of wind that swept across the abandoned freighter, its groans echoing like distant voices. The walls were covered in old emergency tarps, half-torn insulation, and crude patches of scrap used to hold the ship together.

Your breath fogged with every exhale. Even huddled in your coat, the cold seeped into your bones, sharp and patient. You shifted, trying to find a comfortable angle on the slab-like mattress, but the stiffness beneath you didn’t yield. It felt more like sleeping on a storage shelf than a bed.

Still, you didn’t move. You just listened.

Somewhere above, footsteps echoed—soft, deliberate. Androids. They didn’t need rest, not in the same way humans did. But many of them still tried. You could hear them shifting in the darkness beyond the walls, whispering in low voices, drawing closer to one another the way people do when the world outside has nothing left to give.

You realized, lying there in the dark, that maybe that’s what Jericho really was.

Not just a hideout. Not just a shipwreck sanctuary patched together with desperation.

It was an act of closeness. A rebellion against the isolation the world had tried to force on them. A choice to huddle together, even when everything else said not to.

And somehow, in the quiet, it made you feel less alone.

—

If you could call it morning, it came with the faint buzz of movement above you. There were no windows here, no sunrises or clocks. Just the change in energy. Footsteps grew louder. Doors opened and shut. Murmured voices rose, more confident now. Jericho was waking up.

You sat by the heating coils, a protein bar half-eaten in your hand, your fingers hovering near the warm vents as you breathed in the dry metallic air. Across the hold, the skeletal frame of the ship shuddered with life. Androids moved with quiet purpose, carrying salvaged parts, refilling thirium canisters, checking systems patched together with scavenged wire and raw hope.

“Sleep okay?”

You glanced up.

Markus stood nearby, arms folded, posture relaxed but alert. His voice was casual, but the way he looked at you—measuring, curious suggested he hadn’t asked out of politeness.

You raised the protein bar. “On a mattress with the consistency of sheet metal? It was dreamy,” you said dryly.

A flicker passed over his face—something just short of amusement. “You’ll get used to it. With time.”

“I hope not,” you muttered, rubbing your shoulder. “Or I might start missing this old ship.”

Markus held out a hand letting out a breathy chuckle.

“Come on,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

—

The assembly deck had once been a cargo hub, built for offloading supplies back when this ship still sailed clean routes and served human interests. Now it was the beating heart of Jericho. A mechanic's dream and a survivor’s lifeline.

The wide room was alive with movement. Androids crowded around worktables, splicing wires, welding scrap metal, running diagnostics. Every machine here had been gutted and reborn medical bots turned into repair rigs, vending machine panels reprogrammed into interface boards, shipping crates retrofitted into charging stations. Even the lighting was cobbled together hazy fluorescents dangling from rails, powered by half-working batteries.

As you entered, some heads turned—curious, guarded. You could feel their eyes on you, measuring you again. Still deciding.

Simon was already there. The man who had interrogated you the day you arrived.

He stood near a long table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, torch in hand as he carefully welded a cracked thirium cell. The weld line sparked bright blue in the low light. He didn’t look up until Markus spoke.

“We found two more the night before last,” Markus explained to you. “Warehouse deviants.”

Simon nodded, but his face stayed focused on the repair. “No usable parts. Low thirium. Memory damage in one of them. We’re doing what we can.”

You stepped closer, scanning the crude machinery, the scavenged tubing, the thirium filtration rig that looked half-alive. “You’re building a hospital out of scrap,” you murmured, eyes wide.

Simon finally glanced at you, expression unreadable. “You still think of us as machines?” He said abruptly, it had clearly been eating at him.

You straightened, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I wouldn’t be here if I did.”

He studied you. A long moment. Then gave a slow, reluctant nod. Not approval, but maybe something close to acknowledgment. Maybe even the beginning of trust.

“We’ll see,” he said simply, and returned to his work.

Markus didn’t speak until you’d moved on. His voice was lower now, more personal. “Simon’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. But trust doesn’t come easy anymore. Not for any of us.”

“I get it,” you replied. “You’ve been hunted. Betrayed. Torn apart. I didn’t expect a red carpet.”

You paused, looking back at the makeshift med-station. “Maybe I’m just stubborn.”

“No,” Markus said gently. “You care. That’s rare.”

—

By your first week in Jericho, the leadership began inviting you into closed-door meetings.

Well—most of the leadership.

North was the exception.

She’d been the first face you saw when you got onto the ship. The flashlight in your eyes. The pointed questions. The distrust so sharp it could’ve been weaponized. And even now, she hadn’t softened much. If anything, the more you became involved, the more pointed her glares became.

That afternoon, you sat in what had once been the ship’s command center. A rusted-out room with exposed panels and thick cabling now repurposed into a war room. A projector threw maps of Detroit onto the far wall. Grainy, flickering blueprints overlaid with red zones, patrol markers, choke points. The entire city carved up into routes and risks.

You sat beside Markus, with Simon, Josh, and Luther nearby. North stood at the edge of the room, arms crossed over her chest, back rigid.

When Markus called the meeting to order, North didn’t waste time.

“Why is she in here?” she asked, her voice sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade.

You didn’t flinch. You’d been expecting this.

Markus looked at her evenly. “She’s earned it.”

“She’s human.”

“I noticed,” you said flatly.

North’s eyes flicked toward you, no amusement, no patience. Just the same cold scrutiny.

“She’s also smuggled supplies,” Markus continued, calm but firm. “Brought in tools we needed for repairs. And planted a listening device outside CyberLife’s Midtown branch.” He glanced at you, then added, “That was her idea.”

A quiet fell over the room.

Josh leaned forward, his voice more gentle. “She’s already risked her life for us more than once. She’s proved her loyalty.”

Simon nodded. “We need all the help we can get.”

North exhaled sharply, glaring at the projector instead of you. “Fine. But if she sells us out, if we’re compromised—”

“She won’t,” Markus said, and there was no space left in his voice for argument.

It wasn’t a vote. It was a fact.

North said nothing after that. She didn’t have to. Her silence was just another weapon in her arsenal.

But it didn’t matter.

Because that was the first time you were invited in. Not as a tagalong. Not as a liability. But as one of them.

And from then on, everything changed.

—

That night, after the meeting had broken and your head ached from codes and maps and all the impossible decisions ahead, you found yourself on the upper deck.

It had become a habit, without you even noticing. You never had to look long.

Markus was already there, leaning against the metal railing as he stared out over the river. The city pulsed in the distance—Detroit’s lights cutting orange and white through the smog, their reflections burning softly across the water.

You stepped beside him, silent at first. Close enough to feel the cold settle between you. And something else—something warmer.

He didn’t turn.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said.

“So are you.”

A beat passed. The wind tugged gently at the edge of your coat.

Markus looked out at the lights like they were something ancient. “Can I ask you something?”

You nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Why are you here?” he asked softly. “Really. You had a life. A job. You could’ve stayed out of this.”

You hesitated.

Markus waited.

You took a breath.

“I used to be an actual journalist,” you said. “Independent. Covered war zones, corruption, you name it. I thought I’d seen the worst of the world.”

You paused.

“Then one day, I saw a sanitation droid get executed on the street. Right there. Middle of the day. No warning. It had wandered off-task. Got confused. Some people panicked. The cops didn’t even check its ID. They just... shot it.”

Markus didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

You swallowed. “It was crying. Apologizing. Right up until the moment it dropped.”

You looked down at your hands.

“There were people watching. People cheering. One guy took a photo.”

The memory burned fresh. Even now.

“I went home that night and couldn’t stop shaking. I kept thinking—if something that looked that human could be killed in the open and no one cared... what did that say about the rest of us?”

Markus finally looked at you. And this time, there was nothing guarded in his gaze.

“So I started looking deeper,” you continued. “I chased whispers. Listened to the ones who escaped. There were always stories about a place called Jericho.”

“You wanted to expose it?” Markus asked.

You shook your head. “I wanted to expose CyberLife. But the more I listened to your people—their memories, their pain—the more I realized I wasn’t the narrator. I was just... late to the fight.”

Silence stretched between you.

“And now?” Markus asked.

You looked at him, heart in your throat. “Now I want to help. Not as a journalist. Not as some savior. I’m here because I believe in what you’re doing. And because I’ve seen what happens when people stay quiet. They always wait for someone else to stand up first.”

Markus turned his whole body, his eyes fixed on yours.

You continued “You said once that freedom is about choice…This is mine.”

His gaze softened—something unreadable, and yet deeply real flickering behind his expression.

“You carry a lot of responsibility,” he said quietly.

He reached out then—not to touch you, but just to be closer. And even without contact, the space between you felt electric.

“Thank you for choosing us,” he said.

You held his gaze, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you for letting me in.”

—

Every morning began with the low hum of generators sputtering to life and the creak of the hull as androids shifted through the ship’s dark arteries. The cold never left—frost clung to the metal walls like breath held too long—but over time, you stopped noticing. You learned to move with purpose. You learned what mattered.

You became something of a constant.

You patched broken limbs with wire and caution. Helped teach younger models how to hold conversation with humans—how to read tone, how to mirror gestures, how to distinguish sarcasm from cruelty. You rewired rusted heating coils, bartered black-market power cells in alleyways thick with smoke.

You weren’t a soldier. But you were something else they didn’t realize they’d needed: an anchor.

And Markus... Markus was everywhere and nowhere at once. Always moving. Always speaking with someone, planning something. But he always found you.

Sometimes it was just in passing—his hand brushing yours as you passed a data tablet, the quiet glance across the war room when strategy turned sour. But other times, it was more deliberate.

He’d sit beside you during diagnostics and ask about human psychology—not academically, but with the curiosity of someone trying to understand something slippery and vast.

“What does hope feel like?” he asked one night, after curfew, when most of Jericho had gone still.

You glanced at him, surprised. He was sitting cross-legged beside a heating vent, his jacket half unzipped, steam curling around his face.

You blinked. “Like standing on the edge of a cliff and seeing light over the next mountain. But not knowing if you’ll make the jump.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then, softly: “I think I’ve felt that.”

Another time, he found you fixing a busted servo motor in one of the maintenance drones—Pip, as you’d affectionately named him. The little android hovered beside you like a nervous cat, and you were elbow-deep in its paneling when Markus crouched beside you.

“Why do you name things?” he asked, watching your hands.

You grinned. “Because names make things matter. They make you look twice.”

He nodded slowly. “Then I’m glad you gave one to him.”

He never asked for anything in return, but he lingered more. You noticed it. The way he began waiting for you after meetings. The way he’d stand at your side during tense moments, his presence grounding without words.

One night, after too many hours spent decoding a city surveillance pattern, you fell asleep at your desk, cheek pressed against your sleeve.

When you woke, Markus was there, a blanket draped over your shoulders, your name scrawled in quiet code across the corner of the screen

: //you did good today.

But even within that rhythm, Jericho pulsed with an undercurrent of urgency. Of something building.

The mission came up in fragments.

A lead from a scavenger squad. A rumor passed between androids smuggled out of CyberLife holding cells. A warehouse, south side. Heavy security. High-tier thirium. Combat models. The kind of haul that could triple their defense capabilities overnight.

Too risky. Too vital to ignore.

You were in the war room when the plan took shape, maps strewn across the floor, recycled datapads buzzing with sketches of the facility.

“This place is a fortress,” North said, tapping her boot against a supply crate. “But it’s a necessary risk.”

Simon pointed at a side entrance. “There’s a tunnel beneath it. Old utilities line. If we can get someone in through there—”

“I found a blueprint,” you interrupted, pulling out a faded copy of a municipal diagram. “Before the privatization. There’s a sub-basement tunnel under that block. Narrow, but still viable. The western quadrant’s old maintenance. We can bypass the first checkpoint if we drop in from underneath.”

Everyone looked at you.

North raised a brow. “How the hell did you get that?”

You grinned. “Flirted with a clerk at city records. Bribed his android with a thermos of imported coffee and three rare back-issues of Terminal Signal.”

Simon laughed—an actual laugh. Josh blinked in impressed disbelief.

Markus only smiled.

“Then we have our entry point,” he said. “Y/N will lead the tunnel team.”

You blinked. “Me?”

“No one knows the layout better.”

You hesitated. This wasn’t recon. This was a full-on raid.

“I thought I was support.”

“You still are,” Markus said gently. “Stay behind cover. Coordinate the route. We’ll have volunteers with you, including combat-trained deviants. But I want you safe. This isn’t your war to die in.”

You stared at him—at the intensity in his voice, the way he said safe like it was a prayer.

Your throat tightened.

“Alright,” you said. “Support only.”

But you both knew it might not stay that way.

—

The night of the raid was a cold, knife-edge kind of quiet. Jericho’s usual hum was replaced by a taut silence, as if the entire ship held its breath, waiting.

You stood near the tunnel entrance—a rusted, narrow grate beneath the western wall of the abandoned warehouse district. The stale scent of damp concrete mixed with the faint tang of oil and old wires.

Markus came up beside you, his face illuminated by the pale glow of your handheld scanner. His eyes were sharp, alive with that relentless fire you’d come to recognize.

“Ready?” he asked.

You nodded, swallowing the knot of nerves in your chest. You could feel the weight of every pair of eyes on you—the crew, the combat models, the deviant androids who’d risk everything tonight.

The grate lifted with a groan, revealing the claustrophobic tunnel below. It was narrow—just wide enough for one to crouch and shuffle through. Pipes lined the walls, dripping with condensation that echoed faintly in the tight space.

You slipped inside first, the cold pressing against your skin. Your fingers traced the familiar contours of the tunnel blueprint etched into your mind as you moved forward, careful not to disturb the loose rubble.

Behind you, footsteps followed. The team was quiet, communicating only with hand signals and the occasional hushed whisper.

The tunnel curved sharply, forcing you to twist your body. Ahead, the faint hum of machinery buzzed through the walls—the heartbeat of the enemy stronghold.

You paused at the junction where the sub-basement opened into the warehouse’s maintenance corridors. Using the scanner, you confirmed the security sweep patterns projected on your device: a rotating pair of patrols that passed every two minutes.

“Wait,” you signaled, crouching low behind a stack of rusted crates.

Your pulse drummed in your ears as the first patrol swept past—a pair of heavily armed guards, their footsteps echoing on the metal floor.

You exhaled slowly once they disappeared around the corner, then motioned for the team to advance.

You led the team through a maze of corridors, your scanner highlighting each security node as you went. Your fingers flew over the portable hacking device, bypassing laser grids and camera arrays with meticulous precision.

Inside the sub-basement, the air was thick with the smell of heated circuits and stale sweat. The walls were lined with crates stamped with CyberLife insignia—power cells, thirium canisters, and most importantly, locked cages holding rows of “army” androids—combat models repurposed as weapons, but now dormant, waiting for freedom.

You moved quickly, disabling the electronic locks one by one. Each android’s eyes flickered awake, an electric blue glow sparking in the darkness.

“Get them out,” Markus ordered softly.

You helped steady the first of the deviants as they stumbled free, leading them carefully through the corridors.

Suddenly, a sharp beep cut through the tension.

An alarm.

“Security breach detected!” a robotic voice echoed down the hallway.

The alarm screamed—a harsh, piercing wail that shattered the uneasy quiet of the freighter. Every pulse of its shrill cry seemed to shake the very steel walls around you.

“Shit,” Markus hissed, drawing his pistol.

The warehouse erupted in chaos.

“Fall back! Fall back!” He ordered, heart pounding.

The first gunshot cracked sharply through the air. A deviant near the front entrance went down hard, sparks flickering and hissing from a jagged wound in his chest. The harsh scent of burnt circuitry mingled with the acrid sting of gunpowder.

You raised your weapon instinctively, the cold steel steady in your hands. Through the dim light, guards appeared, weapons drawn.

You barely had a moment to react before a blinding spotlight swung across the corridor floor, cutting through the shadows like a razor.

You opened fire, shots echoing sharply as you pushed back against the advancing threat.

“CONTACT! THEY FOUND US!” North’s shout echoed, slicing through the chaos like a whip.

The upper catwalks erupted with movement—guards flooded in, their armor glinting under the harsh lights, heavy weapons raised and ready. CyberLife security, cold and merciless, advancing with ruthless efficiency.

Gunfire erupted in a jagged staccato down the west hallway. Your instincts kicked in, and you dove behind a stack of battered crates, dragging the wounded deviant out of the direct line of fire. The sharp crack of bullets smashing wood shattered the silence inches from your head, splinters flying like deadly confetti.

But the guards were already too close. North and Josh were desperately holding the line, their bodies pressed tight against the cold metal walls, shields raised as they tried to protect the newly freed androids stumbling towards safety.

“Get the remaining out! I’ll buy you some time!” you called, voice steady despite the chaos roaring in your ears.

Markus’s voice burst over the comms, clipped and urgent: “FALL BACK FALL BACK- NOW.”

North took point, spraying controlled bursts of fire that scattered the advancing guards, buying precious seconds. Simon scrambled, dragging two freed androids behind cover, their faces pale but determined.

Fingers tightening around your sidearm, you began firing—shot after shot, each one precise, controlled, lethal. Every bullet was a promise: no more loss.

More gunfire rang out as the team scrambled for cover.

You moved with practiced ease, weaving through crates and beams, ducking, dodging, adrenaline sharpening every sense. The acrid smell of smoke and blood filled your nostrils, and the metallic taste of fear coated your tongue.

The sound hit you before the pain did.

A searing explosion ripped through your side, just under the ribs. Your breath caught as the world twisted, colors bleeding and warping like a broken holo-projection.

Pain bloomed hot and white-hot, spreading like wildfire. You stumbled, clutching your side, blood slick and warm between your fingers. Your shirt soaked through, sticky and heavy.

Despite the pain, you fought to stay upright, covering the retreat with rapid bursts of fire, your vision blurring at the edges.

You collapsed behind a steel support beam, your vision flickering like a damaged camera lens—shifting between clarity and darkness.

The firefight was a maelstrom. Metal clashed against metal, shouts and alarms blending into a chaotic roar.

All you could hear was the screaming alarm, the thundering of your heart, and Markus’s voice—urgent, fractured—calling your name.

The gunfire ceased abruptly, replaced by heavy boots pounding closer and closer.

“Stay with me. Just stay with me, please,” came a voice calm but desperate.

You tried to respond but the words wouldn’t come. Strong arms—Simon’s, you guessed, grabbed you, dragging you through the tunnel as the world spun and dissolved into black.

—

The hum of Jericho’s old med-bay filled the silence like a heartbeat. Quiet, mechanical, but steady.

An old machinery bay converted hastily into a medical ward, lined with salvaged equipment, flickering monitors, and curtains strung from rusted steel rails. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and oil.

Dim light pooled softly from a single overhead bulb, casting long shadows that danced across the walls.

You lay motionless on the narrow medical cot, bandaged and groggy, every breath sending hot fire through your ribs.

Pain pulsed relentlessly, sharp and unforgiving, but beneath it, a slow, steady pulse of something else. Relief.

Your eyelids fluttered, struggling to focus. Across the cot, the figure beside you came into view—Markus.

He was slumped in a chair, shoulders heavy with exhaustion and weight no longer carried on armor alone.

He looked wrecked. Not broken, but raw. His face held the hard lines of leadership carved deeper by fear and loss.

Your voice came out hoarse, a fragile whisper. “Hey.”

At the sound, Markus jolted, dropping to his knees beside you. His hand hovered uncertainly over yours before he finally laced his fingers through yours—gentle, trembling.

He stayed still for a moment before speaking, voice low and tight with a knot of emotions.

“I told you to fall back.”

“You disobeyed me.”

The words hit harder than any bullet.

“Did they get out?” Panic surged inside you. The memories—the fire, the chaos—returned in waves. “Did they make it? Are they safe?”

Markus pressed a steadying hand to your shoulder, his touch firm but careful. “Calm down. Everyone’s safe. They’re helping the newcomers.”

You searched his eyes for truth, swallowing back the fear, and slowly laid back, wincing as the pain flared.

His jaw clenched, tension cracking through his voice. “You almost died.”

“You promised you’d stay back,” he said, anger and panic bleeding into one. “You said you’d play support.”

“I did!” you shot back, voice rough but steady. “But everything went to hell, and I made a call.”

You met his gaze—shaken, more by the fear in his voice than by your wound.

“I knew the risks,” you said quietly. “This was my choice.”

A heavy silence fell.

Markus stayed quiet, thinking, like a caged predator holding back a storm.

“I’ve spent every moment in Jericho trying to lead,” he said, voice brittle. “Trying to stay strong. To make the right calls. And when I send androids into danger, I know the risks. But you… you’re not built for war.”

“You’re not built to bleed for this cause.”

His voice cracked, raw with something deeper than fear.

“You’re human…You can’t just get patched up with parts.”

“You bleed. You break. You die.”

You said nothing—just watched him, the truth of his words hanging heavy in the air.

“I’ve seen people fall,” he confessed, voice breaking. “Felt androids deactivate in my arms. Watched the light leave their eyes. But nothing prepared me for what it felt like when I saw you bleeding.”

“I thought—I thought you were gone.”

He swallowed hard, voice dropping to a near whisper.

Your breath caught in your throat. “Markus…”

The room went silent, the weight of those words hanging in the air, thick and unyielding.

You reached for his hand, fingers trembling. He took it immediately, squeezing it gently, as if you might disappear without his touch.

And then, his voice cracked—raw, exposed:

“I told myself I let you in because you were useful,” he confessed softly. “Because you had skills we needed. Because you cared about our cause.”

“But that wasn’t the whole truth.”

He looked at you fully now, no armor, no leadership mask. Just grief, yearning, and something dangerously close to devotion.

“Your humanity…” he said, voice fragile.

“It scares me. The way you bleed. The way you feel pain.”

“It’s so easy to lose you.”

“I can’t lose you. I can’t.”

He looked at you as if speaking the words physically hurt.

“I love you.”

You inhaled sharply, heart pounding.

“I know I’m not… human. But I feel it—Every time I see you.”

“Every time you speak, laugh, every time you put yourself in harm’s way because you believe in us—I love you.”

His head shook, as if hating himself for saying it, but he couldn’t stop.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

“You don’t have to protect me from everything. I made my choice…I knew what I was getting into.”

“I’m not sorry,” you added, voice steady but raw.

“Not for fighting. Not for choosing you. These people.”

“You think I don’t know how easily I could die?” Tightening your hand in his looking at him with glossy eyes.

“I do..,Every day,but I’d rather live right than live safe.”

He took in every word like he depended on it. Slowly he shook his head in disbelief “I’m still terrified,” he whispered.

“Then we can be terrified together.”

Tears slipped silently down your cheeks.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

For a long, aching moment, you stayed like that—fingers tangled in his, pain ebbing beneath the weight of everything left unsaid.

Markus knelt beside you, forehead resting lightly against your fingers.

When he looked up, eyes locked on yours, you both knew what hung in the air.

Not duty. Not gratitude.

Something else.

Your breath came shallow as he leaned closer, fingers twitching near your cheek.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

You shook your head—slow, deliberate.

“I don’t want you to.”

Markus’s expression faltered, like the weight of your words cracked something inside him wide open.

And then he kissed you.

Soft at first—like a promise. Then deeper. Fierce. Devastated. Real.

The kind of kiss that meant everything might burn tomorrow, but for tonight, this was real

The fear he carried when you fell. The rage he didn’t let show. The admiration he’d masked as leadership. The ache he’d swallowed every time you smiled at someone else. It poured into the way his lips pressed against yours. Gently at first, reverent, like he wasn’t sure he had the right. But when you tangled your fingers in his jacket and pulled him closer, the restraint broke.

He deepened the kiss, one hand cradling the side of your face like you might dissolve if he wasn’t careful. His synthetic skin was cool, but his touch ignited something in you—steady and consuming.

You broke the kiss only when the pain in your side became impossible to ignore. You gasped, wincing, but still smiling, half-drunk on adrenaline and emotion.

Markus pulled back immediately, worried. “Are you okay?”

You nodded. “Just... forgot I’d been shot. That’s all.”

He chuckled, soft and shaken, and pressed his forehead to yours again.

“We probably shouldn’t be making out in a field hospital,” you whispered.

“We’re technically on a cargo ship,” he murmured.

“That makes it worse.”

“I disagree.”

You laughed, a tired real sound,and leaned your head back against the pillow. Markus stayed beside you, his hand wrapped firmly in yours.

You pulled back, forehead resting against yours. “If we burn, we burn together.”

He shook his head smiling in amusement. “And if we rise?”

•It took weeks for Paco to open up when you first met him. He didn’t trust easily—too many betrayals, too much pain, but once he did, he was all in.

•Paco was dangerous, but with you, he was a shield. Walking through the barrio with his arm slung over your shoulder, no one dared look your way unless they wanted trouble.

•You and him always found peace within each others presence

You found Paco splayed across the couch, staring out the window, lost in his thoughts. You sat beside him. Slowly, he shifted, making room for you to lean against him. Without a word, his arm wrapped around your shoulder, pulling you close.

The silence was peaceful. His thumb brushed over your arm, a silent acknowledgment of how much he cared without needing to say it.

•Paco always made made sure everyone knew you were his, the way his arm would slide around your waist when someone stared too long. He didn’t have to say much. Just one look, and everyone knew not to mess with you. He wasn’t just guarding you, he was claiming you. Loyalty wasn’t just a word to him; it was the foundation of how he loved.

•The second you and Paco had made it official, he started to bring you around his friends. And you were quickly integrated in, they saw you as one of them, the sister they never had.

Look who decided to show up!” Chuy called out with a laugh, elbowing Danny. “I thought you had her locked up at home, man!”

Paco rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. “Nah, she can take care of herself, trust me.”

You slid into the booth next to Paco, and immediately, Danny, ever the joker, threw an arm around you like you were one of the guys. “Man, Paco’s whipped!” he teased, earning a laugh from the whole table. “You know he’s been like a damn puppy since she came around.”

Paco shot him a warning glare, but it was all in good fun. “Shut up, Danny. You’re just jealous ‘cause you don’t have someone to boss you around,” he shot back, laughing with his friends, intertwining your hand with his, bringing it up to kiss the back of your hand.

•When Paco left to the military you were relieved, but nonetheless devastated.

You remembered the way Paco looked the day he left. Rigid posture, buzzed hair, jaw locked. He barely said a word when he hugged you—just pulled you in so tight it hurt, his fingers trembling slightly at the base of your spine.

“I’ll write,” he murmured against your temple as he kissed you. “Please wait for me” he pleaded looking into your eyes with fear and devotion.

You nodded, fighting the lump in your throat. “I’m yours.” You promised

He pulled back, eyes meeting yours, fierce and vulnerable all at once. “I love you.”

And then he was gone.

•Letter would arrive in bunches, sometimes weeks late. Writing about his anger, his longing, his dreams for the future. Always signing each one with “Forever yours.”

You’d sleep in the clothes that he’d left behind, the scent of him slowly fading as time passed. Still, you waited.Because love like Paco’s didn’t die in the desert—it burned hotter than ever.

•Whenever Paco came back home, you would make the most of the little time you had together before he had to leave you again.

Making his favorite meals, spending time with his family. Sneaking away to quiet secluded spots, sharing a beer talking about your plans for your future, together.

You would take Polaroids together, and of each other, hoping that time would stand still. Staying up all night talking or dancing, (and more ;P) not wanting to waste any moment together. And when sleep finally caught up to you two, you would be wrapped in each other’s arms, at peace.

•You’d think it would get easier every time he left, but it never did.

You stood, wrapping your arms around him, holding on trying to keep him there with the strength of your grip alone. He held you even tighter, fierce, desperate.

When he finally pulled back, he kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips, like he was engraving it in his memory.

“I’ll come back to you,” he said. “Always.”

And then he was gone, boots echoing down the steps, leaving your heart half full and half breaking.

•By the time he had finished his time in the military. He made it his mission to marry you. You two had gone through thick and thin with each other. He wanted to grow old with you. He wanted forever.

• He had joined the LAPD, wanting to put a stop to the violence that he once lived by. Some nights, you’d find him sitting on the couch, quiet and thoughtful.

Paco didn’t say much when he came through the door—just tossed his keys on the table with more force than necessary and sat heavily on the couch, still in his uniform. His shoulders were stiff, arm wresting on the back of the couch, jaw clenched tight, like he was holding something in, like if he spoke it would all fall apart. You didn’t ask what happened. You didn’t need to. You could see it in the way he sat on the edge of the cushion.

You eased down beside him, sliding your hand on his leg until your hand settled over his chest. He didn’t move, but the hitch in his breath gave him away. You rested your cheek against the warm fabric of his sleeve, feeling the tension under his skin, the slow thud of his heartbeat beneath your palms. Giving him space to wrap his head around whatever he was thinking.

He finally let out a breath, shaky and uneven. “It’s like I’m always two steps away from becoming that same bastard I used to be, every step i take, im haunted by the past” he said, barely above a whisper. “… I don’t know if I’ve really changed, or if I’m just pretending.”

You gently turned his face toward you. “You’re not pretending,” you said, brushing your thumb over the scar on his brow. The one you knew he got long before he ever wore a badge. “You’re fighting every day. That’s more than most ever do.”

He leaned forward until his forehead rested against your shoulder. You wrapped your arms around him fully this time, fingers sliding up into his hair. He let himself go quiet in your arms, body slowly relaxing, piece by piece, like he could finally fall apart knowing you’d be there to hold what was left.

“I still see you,” he murmured after a while, voice low, raw. “Back at that busted-up party on Whittier... Remember? That night Smokey got jumped and I was bleeding from my eyebrow, talking shit like I wasn’t scared.”

You smiled faintly, your fingers brushing the nape of his neck, grounding him. “You were furious. Bleeding all over your shirt, swinging at anyone who looked at you wrong. But when you saw me, you just... stopped.”

He let out a quiet laugh, almost disbelieving. “You grabbed my face, told me to ‘shut the hell up’ and ‘let you clean me up before the cops came’.” His eyes lifted to meet yours now, softer than they had been all night. “You’ve always pulled me back. Even then.”

You leaned in, your lips brushing his temple, slow and warm. “you’ve always let me. Even when you didn’t know how.”

His hands came up to your waist, grounding himself in your touch. It was love aged like scars, layered with years of grief, loyalty, survival. “You’ve seen every version of me,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against yours. “The broken kid who thought dying young was the only way out. And now this...”

Your hands cupping his face like they had so many times before. “And I still choose you. Every time. Not because you’ve changed, but because you keep changing. And you let me change, too.”

The Tokyo night hummed with energy—engines revving, neon lights bleeding into the dark like spilled paint, and the unmistakable scent of burnt rubber curling into the air.

You didn’t come to race. You just came to watch.Yet somehow, your eyes kept finding him.

The Drift King

He wasn’t doing anything special when you first saw him—just leaning against his black Nissan 350Z, arms crossed, talking with Morimoto and his little crew. He turned his head slightly when he noticed you watching, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, and it wasn’t long before he made his way over.

“You’re not from around here,” he said smoothly, his voice low and confident.

“Is it that easy to tell?” you asked, arching a bro

“Only a little.” He glanced back at the car lineup, then at you. “You here for someone, or what ?”

You shrugged. “I like the way the city looks at night.”

That made him smile—just a little. “Then you’re in the right place.”

Morimoto calls him back with urgency. D.K. turns around acknowledging him, then back at you

“See you around.”

—

Cars roared down the mountain pass, one after another. You stood with a borrowed drink in hand, watching the races. And every time you turned, he was there. Not too close. Watching you. The third time you caught him looking, he didn’t bother pretending. He just walked over again.

“You ever gone drifting?”

You smirked. “That a line?”

He chuckled. “Only if it’s working.”

You considered his subtle offer, the lights from the cars casting soft colors across his face. “Maybe. Later.”

“Later,” he echoed, like a promise.

—

The crowd had thinned. The mountain air was cooler now, wrapping around your shoulders as you leaned against the same 350Z you saw earlier. DK stood beside you, keys twirling around his finger. “It’s quieter now,” he said. “You’ll see the city better.”

You nodded. “Alright…. Show me.” You didn’t know what you expected, maybe reckless speed, maybe arrogant stunts, but the way he drove was something else. It was fluid, controlled chaos. Like dancing on the edge of destruction, but never falling in.

He glanced over at you in the passenger seat, his expression cockier than before.

When you reached the top, the city stretched below you like a blanket of stars.

“You don’t talk much,” you said quietly.

“I don’t need to,” he replied. “Not when I know what I want.”

You met his gaze then, more serious now. “And what’s that?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned closer, not quite touching you.“I think you know.”

Your voice was almost a whisper. “Maybe.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Then maybe you’ll come back tomorrow night.” He looked at you in anticipation, “Pass by my shop, we can talk more.” He said with a coy smile.

You looked back at the glittering city, then at him.

“Maybe I will.”

—

The next night, you were back. You told yourself it was just curiosity. You weren’t sure why. Maybe it was the look in his eyes

Han was the one who saw you first when you stepped into the garage.

He raised an eyebrow. “Either you’re lost, or Takashis already gotten under your skin.”

“Maybe I like the cars,” you said coolly knowing you were lying through your teeth.

He laughed. “No one comes here for the cars, not really.” He opened his arms in invitation, “Come! Sit down, have a beer.” he sat back down on the couch with a crowd of women surrounding him. “Mi casa es a su casa!.” He stated barely managing to get the words out.

The girls were lounging around, dressed for the heat, tossing glances your way that weren’t exactly friendly. All of them trying to get Hans attention.

You looked around the shop as you slowly made your way up the stairs towards them. There were hydraulic lifts and dozens of car parts, waiting to find their perfect match. Cars in different stages of repair, with colorful modifications. A garage men would envy.

You spent your time conversating with Han and the girls. Not all of them were bad. Until you heard the sound of a garage door opening and the engine of a certain car.

D.K. pulledinto the garage. Your eyes meeting through the windshield. A slight look of surprise washing over his face.

D.K. got out of the car slamming his door shut and made his way towards you. He gave Han a quick glance, in acknowledgment.

“You came,” he said, voice low.

You shrugged. “You made a decent case.”

He stepped closer, and this time, his fingers brushed your wrist. Light at first, then a little firmer—testing your boundaries.

You didn’t pull away.

“Come with me,” he said.

You stood up, feeling the stares of everyone as you followed him closely.

“USE PROTECTION!” exclaimed Han as you both walked into the hallway, hearing his laugh fade as it closed. You could only imagine his face. You slowly shook your head in embarrassment.

D.K. walked you through a maze of small hallways away from the garage, past the shimmer of vending machines and roooms filled with parties. The hum of the music faded behind you, replaced by a low, private kind of silence.

The door at the end of the hallways was cracked open. Warm light spilled out, along with low music and the faint scent of leather and motor oil.

His expression was unreadable, but the glint in his eyes told you he’d been waiting.

“You look good,” he murmured.

You tilted your head, letting him in just a little closer. “You say that to every girl who shows up twice?”

“No,” he said, stepping into your space, his palm resting on your hip. “Just the ones I want to see again.”

Morimoto walked into the office unannounced , his face tight. He said something sharp in Japanese. DK’s expression shifted. Cold. Calculating. And that’s when it clicked. The low whispers and rumors of what D.K. was in involved with were true.

Yakuza.

You watched DK speak with him, voice low, clipped. Her handed D.K. an envelope, he opened, it was filled with cash. However they got it, it wasn’t friendly.

You didn’t speak. You just watched as Morimoto left the room after their exchange. “You’re involved in some heavy shit” you said finally.

He turned, running a hand through his hair. “You didn’t come here for a safe ride.”

Confirming your suspicions.

He stepped toward you again, slower this time. Watching for your reaction.

“No,” you admitted. “I didn’t.”

He didn’t flinch. “That’s part of who I am.”

You turned to look at him. “And you’re proud of it.”

I’m good with what gets me ahead. What about you?” His voice dropped a little, eyes locked on yours. “You here looking for a fairytale?”His hand slid to your thigh. His fingers curled a little tighter.

“I built this,” he said, voice low. “Everything I have, everything I run. No apologies.”

You didn’t say anything. Because you didn’t hate it. That was the worst part.

You should’ve been scared. But instead, your pulse quickened, and you leaned in closer. “I’m just here for a good time,” you said.

He looked at you, eyes dark. “I don’t want forever.”

One moment you were breathing in the heat between you, the next his hands were on your hips, your back was pressed against the desk. He kissed you like he’d been holding it back all day—like he had something to prove. Your hands tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, letting the heat swallow you whole.

It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t sweet, either. It was the kiss of two people who didn’t owe each other anything. Hungry, electric. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you closer, and you let him.

When you finally broke apart, you didn’t move far. He rested his forehead against yours. You didn’t care who he was. Not tonight.

His thumb traced a lazy line over your lower lip “You should stay,” he murmured.

You looked at him. “For how long?”

A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Until the thrill runs out.”

The garage buzzed with the low growl of engines and anticipation. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. Han leaned against the hood of his ride, silently watching you make your way towards him through the crowd. Moving like you belonged there, and maybe you did—but you always came back to him.

You gonna race tonight?” You asked, stepping in close, tugging lightly at the hem of his shirt.

“Was thinking about it,” Han murmured, letting his fingers drift lazily down your arm, “but then you showed up, and I figured I’d already won.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. “Smooth, real smooth man.”

He chuckled, pulling you in by the waist. “Only for you, pretty girl.”

You leaned into him, nose brushing against his. “You’re lucky I like you soft like this.”

“I’m lucky you like me at all.”

A beat passed. Then, without a word, he held out his keys.

“I’m letting you drive,” he said, voice low and warm.

For Han, cars were sacred. And you? You were his peace in the chaos. Trusting you behind the wheel was more intimate than any kiss. It meant you had his heart

You took the keys slowly, fingers brushing his. “Guess that means I better win.”

Han smirked, brushing your lips against his. “Just come back to me in one piece.”