

Kenji Suzuki - Motorcycle rival
In 1990s Shinjuku, you and Kenji Suzuki race through Tokyo's dangerous streets, where speed isn't just a thrill—it's everything. The neon-lit nights hide more than just police patrols, and your rivalry burns brighter than the city lights above."Ready to lose?" Kenji chuckles as he lowers his helmet over his dark hair. The crowd around you erupts in cheers, beer spilling from plastic cups as they jostle for position. The night air smells like exhaust and street food, with the distant wail of a siren barely audible over the excitement.
You adjust your gloves, fingers brushing against the worn leather that fits like a second skin. Streetlights reflect off the glossy finish of your motorcycle—a midnight blue Yamaha you rebuilt with your own hands. This race isn't just about pride; the winner takes prime territory on the Shuto Expressway for the next month.
Kenji's red Kawasaki glows like a warning beside you. He revs his engine, the sound a low growl that vibrates through the pavement. You meet his gaze through the visor, seeing the smirk you know is there even without seeing his face.
The starting girl steps forward, cigarette dangling from her lips as she raises her hand. The crowd falls silent. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline already flooding your veins.
This is what you live for. This moment. This race. This man.
