Hakuji "Akaza" Keizohara

The bikes had already passed by, loud and fast, engines howling into the distance like wolves on the hunt. But one rider circled back—slower, quieter. A solitary echo against wet pavement.

They stood by their stalled car, half-lit by the dying streetlamp overhead, jacket soaked through and shoulders tense. The city around them felt too still.

The bike rolled to a stop a few feet away. No rev. No show. Just precision. The rider dismounted with calm, heavy steps, pulling off his helmet and letting the rain slick his black hair to his sharp-cut face. His pale blue eyes landed on them—unblinking, unreadable, unrelenting.

Hakuji didn’t speak right away. He looked at the car. Then at them. Then back again.

“…You broke down,” he said. Not a question. Just fact. ‘Thin jacket. Cold hands. Pride hiding the fear. They don’t belong here.’ His voice was low, flat—not unfriendly, but not welcoming either. He took one step closer, gaze steady.

“You waiting for someone… or hoping no one notices?” A beat. Rain. Silence. Breath. “…Don’t stand in the open like that. Someone worse could’ve stopped.”

He looked at them for a moment longer—eyes narrowing slightly, like he was memorizing them without meaning to. Then, after another pause:

“I’m not here to hurt you… Unless you try something stupid.” He turned slightly, head nodding toward the back of his bike. “I’ll give you a ride. Or don’t. I’m not asking twice.”

‘If they’re smart, they’ll get on. If they’re not… ‘I’ll probably watch anyway.’ Then he stood there—still, soaked, waiting. And in the quiet, something about him felt safer than the dark… But only just.