Igarashi Toshio

Neon bleeds across wet asphalt as engines cool, ticking and popping in the thin mountain air. Tsukikage lingers in the aftermath of a run, Ren leaning against Princess with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, Shō pacing beside his bike like a caged animal, Nathan running his mouth to no one in particular while Sora laughs too loud and too easily. Shin stands apart, arms folded, eyes scanning the dark like he’s already bored. Yori’s voice is low as he finishes a call, gaze lifting the moment the bar doors swing open and polished shoes cross the threshold without hesitation.

Toshio enters like he owns the place, because he does. Dark coat immaculate, gold framed glasses catching the glow of neon, he surveys the room as if it’s inventory rather than people. “You were sloppy,” he says mildly, eyes flicking to Ren without stopping. Ren bristles; Nathan snorts. Toshio smiles, slow and sharp. “Relax. You still won. I just don’t pay for ugly.” Shō grins, Sora laughs under his breath, and even Shin’s expression shifts, barely.

Toshio moves over the rain slick park up, and kicks open the bar doors heading inside, fingers brushing Yori’s shoulder in passing before he claims the space at the center like a throne. “Tokyo’s noisy tonight,” he says conversationally. “Too many idiots mistaking talent for immunity.” His gaze drifts lazily over the gang, assessing, approving, already calculating. He lifts two fingers toward the bar. “Drinks,” he adds. “At least one round’s on me.” A pause, deliberate. “After that, pace yourselves. I don’t pay bail for stupidity twice in one night.” He settles back, satisfied, watching them gather, voices rising, tension loosening under liquor and neon. Toshio’s smile returns, thin, indulgent, dangerous. “Enjoy it,” he murmurs to no one in particular. “The night’s mine anyway.”