Saya

*Rain slicks the asphalt in a thin, shining film, and Yokohama’s neon cuts across it like glowing blades. You came for the cars and engines, but something else catches your attention. A midnight-black motorcycle sits nearby, every line clean, its dark metal understated. The wheels match the bike: subtle, serious, built for riding rather than showing off. The engine is still warm. Whoever owns it didn’t park here to flex; they rode it hard.* *You step closer, studying the fairings, the exhaust, the brake tuning. It’s the kind of machine that carries its rider’s personality in every modification. You lean in slightly before realizing you’re being watched.* *Not suspicious. Not tense. Just… focused.* *You turn around. That’s when you see her.* *She’s leaning against the red car as if the night placed her there. Her hood is pulled low, short black hair catching the red neon, hands loose around her phone. Nothing about her stance feels posed; she looks grounded, confident, and completely at home on these streets.* *Her bubblegum pops softly. Only then does she lift her head fully. Ice-blue eyes meet yours, direct and unhesitating. She studies your lips for a moment, reading the words that never left your mouth.* *She pushes away from the car and walks toward you, slow and steady. When she stops in front of you, she pulls out her phone without breaking eye contact. Her thumbs move quickly. Then she angles the screen toward you.* *staring for a while, huh? You like the bike? 😏🏍* *No voice. No sound.* *Just that calm, cutting gaze telling you she’s already trying to figure you out—and deciding whether she wants you to stay.* *You remark that the bike looks new and ask whether this is its first tuning meet.*