The alley smelled like rust and old rain.
Vincent walked through it with his hood up, earbuds in, steps steady and unhurried. The cracked pavement stretched ahead of him in uneven lines, dumpsters looming on either side like silent witnesses. A streetlight flickered overhead, buzzing softly, throwing shadows that shifted just enough to make most people uneasy.
Vincent didn't flinch.
He'd walked this route dozens of times. Alone. Quiet. Thinking.
Music pulsed low in his ears, but his mind was louder—replaying drills from practice, arguments from home, words he never said out loud. Control was supposed to come from discipline. From precision. From staying sharp.
That was the theory.
Footsteps scraped behind him.
He slowed, just a fraction.
Three figures peeled away from the darkness near the dumpsters—older students, broad shoulders, loose uniforms, confidence that came from numbers rather than skill. North Division. He recognized the look immediately.
One of them grinned.
"Heard the Courtyard Crew been running their mouths," the guy said, voice thick with mockery. "That you, 'Quiet Wolf'?"
Vincent pulled one earbud free.
"You've been hearing things wrong," he said flatly.
The answer seemed to amuse them.
The first thug lunged without warning.
Vincent pivoted, body moving before thought could catch up. He caught the guy's wrist, drove an elbow into his ribs, then used the momentum to flip him hard onto the pavement. The impact echoed down the alley.
The second swung a metal pipe.
Vincent raised his forearm just in time. Pain shot up his arm, sharp and hot, but he didn't cry out. He gritted his teeth, stepped in—
—and a familiar voice cut through the tension.
"You always walk home through alleys," Akira said, calm and almost bored, "or you just like bad odds?"
Vincent glanced sideways.
Akira stood under the streetlight, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes sharp, posture loose in that dangerous way that meant he was already calculating how this would end.
"I didn't ask for backup," Vincent said.
Akira shrugged. "Good thing I'm not asking permission."
The thugs hesitated for half a second.
It was the last mistake they made.
They rushed together.
Vincent moved first—clean strikes, precise angles, disabling joints and balance. Akira followed with raw force, driving punches that rattled bone and sent bodies stumbling into brick walls. They weren't perfectly in sync, but they didn't clash either. Each filled the space the other left open.
In less than a minute, the alley fell quiet.
One thug groaned near the dumpster. Another clutched his ribs and staggered away. The third didn't get back up at all.
Vincent flexed his arm, wincing slightly.
Akira glanced at him. "You fight like you're calculating every outcome."
Vincent wiped blood from his lip. "You fight like you're trying to destroy the floor."
A pause hung between them.
Not hostile. Not friendly.
Something new.
"Come by the shop tomorrow," Akira said. "I'll patch that arm up."
Vincent hesitated. Then nodded once. "We'll see."
They parted ways under the buzzing streetlight, the alley swallowing their footsteps like it always did.
Ashworks Garage was alive in a way the alley never was.
Metal clanked. Tools rattled. An old radio spat out distorted rock music between bursts of static. Sunlight streamed through the open bay door, catching dust motes in the air.
Nikki sat on a workbench, legs swinging, scrolling through her phone with a smirk already loaded and ready.
Kenji was halfway inside a car trunk, muttering curses as he rewired speakers that probably didn't need fixing.
Akira leaned over an engine, tightening bolts, grease streaked across his forearms.
The bell above the door jingled.
Vincent stepped inside, arm wrapped in a rough bandage.
Nikki looked up first. "Well, damn. Look who survived the night."
"World got too loud," Vincent replied. "Heard the boss does repairs."
Akira didn't look up. "Depends. You paying?"
"You wish."
Kenji popped his head out of the trunk. "Didn't think I'd see you two in the same room without fists flying."
Akira tossed Vincent a rag. "Give it time."
Vincent smirked. "He'd lose."
Nikki laughed—real laughter, not sharp or performative. The sound filled the garage, bouncing off the walls like it belonged there.
They worked in quiet for a while. Akira and Vincent focused on a cracked bike part, passing tools without asking, movements gradually syncing without conscious effort.
It felt… easy.
Too easy.
The lunchroom didn't stay quiet for long.
Whispers spread fast—North Division was on campus. Eyes followed the four of them like shadows.
Kenji finished his food and leaned back. "Here we go again."
Nikki sighed. "Didn't even get dessert."
A freshman burst through the doors, breathless. "They're outside. Said they're calling you out."
Akira stood, calm as ever. "Let's get this over with."
They walked out together.
Not rushed. Not hesitant.
Together.
At the school gates, five upperclassmen waited, grinning like they already owned the outcome.
"So these are the new tough guys?" their leader sneered.
Akira met his gaze. "Not tough. Just done running."
The first punch flew.
This fight was different.
Akira and Vincent covered each other's blind spots. Kenji blocked swings with a trash bin lid, laughing like chaos fueled him. Nikki moved with sharp timing, tripping opponents and striking clean when openings appeared.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was progress.
When it ended, the North Division crew backed off, pride bruised worse than their bodies.
Later, in the courtyard, students whispered from a distance.
Kenji wiped sweat from his brow. "Now that felt right."
"Don't get cocky," Nikki said, though she was smiling.
Vincent adjusted his bandage. "Still sloppy. But better."
Akira looked at them—bruised, stubborn, standing together without question.
"We're getting somewhere," he said quietly.
They walked back toward the school, footsteps echoing in sync.
No music. No spectacle.
Just four people beginning to understand who was beside them—and why that mattered.