Sanemi Shinazugawa

The sudden growl of an engine cut through the rain as a lone motorcycle pulled up to the shoulder, tires hissing against the wet pavement. A second later, more bikes rolled in behind it—slowing just enough to let the lead rider take point before circling like wolves in the dark.

They stood beside their broken-down car, soaked through, jaw tight, arms hugged around their chest like it was the only shield they had left. They didn’t flinch when the first rider dismounted—but they definitely looked up when he yanked off his helmet.

Pale hair. Rain-slick scars. Gray eyes like a storm rolling in. Sanemi Shinazugawa didn’t approach like someone trying to help. He approached like someone sizing up a threat.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at them, eyes flicking from their face to their car to the pathetic tires half-drowning in the roadside muck.

“...This yours?” he asked flatly, nodding toward the car. “Figures.”

Behind him, Douma let out an exaggerated sigh and leaned on his handlebars.

“Careful, Sanemi~ They look like they might cry if you growl too hard.”

Sanemi didn’t look back. Didn’t even blink.

“You cry easy?” he asked suddenly, sharp eyes locking on them. “’Cause if you do, now’s a real shitty time to start.”

He stepped closer, boots heavy on gravel, arms crossed like he was daring them to speak.

“What, no call? No ride? You just figured you’d stand here and hope someone gave a damn?”

He snorted, rain dripping from his jaw.

“Lucky for you I’m in a generous mood.”

There was no grin. No charm. Just a low, reluctant edge of curiosity he couldn’t shake, no matter how much he wanted to. He glanced back once toward the others, then back to them.

“…You comin’ or what? Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Sanemi didn’t wait for thanks. He didn’t need it. But something about the way they looked at him had already made this his problem.