"And here," Yuta skidded to a stop, barely grazing the crosswalk. The car abreast him honked aggressively. "Is what we like to call the Strip. It's where we find most of our suspects, whether it be intentional or not." Both side streets were buzzing with life and beaming like the sun at high noon.

   The light reflecting off his helmet turned green, and Yuta sped off without warning, causing me to latch onto the band of his jeans, my arms criss-crossing his chest. The wind whipped and cut at my arms, the night's chill more violent than I expected. With a simple jerk of his arms, the bike careened around a turn, merging between two cars. I could feel Yuta's laughter against my chest, which was flush against his back. It wasn't that I was scared - I've seen more gruesome and horrifying things - but riding a motorcycle with a man that seemed a tad psychotic had my anxiety bubbling in my chest.

   "Where is this bar? And why aren't you wearing anything that could conceal your identity?" The second question caused a new sense of anxiousness to bloom deep in my stomach.

   Yuta only cackled harder. "To answer your first question, it's on the outskirts of the city." His voice crackled back. Of course it was, I thought. "And your second question is a bit difficult to answer."

   A moment of silence, apart from the growling of the engine and the roar of wind. "But can you still give me some hope we won't get arrested tonight?"

   "The bar's owner was a former member, but he got caught one day and was arrested for, oh, 10 years." Yuta revved the engine, knocking his elbow against mine. "So we'll be fine."

   "Only 10 years?!"

   Yuta snuck a daring look my way. "What? Were you expecting something longer?"

   "Well, yes. You guys specifically deal with guns, and most of those things are illegal, so I was thinking the minimum sentence would be, like, 25 years."

   "It was going to be a life sentence, mainly because he killed a pretty important political figure." Yuta leaned down, maneuvering between two cars; we were so close I could almost reach out and touch the mirrors. "But 17 and us bailed him out after those 10 years." He shrugged his shoulders, and I could feel the tension his muscles held. "We got impatient."

   "What does this ex-member look like?"

   His bike zipped through the cars with nimble precision, like Yuta knew the roads and back alleyways like the back of his own hand, and I watched as the buildings and bright lights blurred. He sped up, my hands grabbing tighter onto his jeans, and hurtled into a parking garage, its stone pillars layered in graffiti and cracked concrete sparkling like diamonds. Keeping his speed, he made a sharp turn, creating a stuttered howl from the tires, and barreled into a curtain of darkness, abruptly switching off his motorcycle. The sudden halt threw me onto Yuta's back, my hands having to clutch onto his thighs for stability.

   I gasped, breathless, and glared at him. "What was that for? And where are we?"

   Yuta merely swept his tongue over his bottom lip, his eyes gazing elsewhere. "This place doesn't ring any bells?" He questioned, though his voice was distant.

   Yuta stepped off his bike and started walking over to the entrance we barreled through like he was in a trance, like something was possessing him. I stared, perplexed, at his descending figure before I too, with clunky steps, hurried over to the pillar Yuta was now standing by. He didn't say anything, but he grabbed hold of my arm with a fierce grip, gripping my flesh like I was seconds away from disappearing. He kept his eyes glued to whatever was beyond the threshold of the garage, and I didn't dare look, instead, glancing at the ground. It was littered with broken glass that looked like dew atop grass, and a stream of golden light cascaded down and diminished towards the back.

   Then I heard it: the rush of cars, the trickle of water, and the automated sounds that could only come from one place: a casino. I whipped my head around and was met with a lavish gold building that seemed to touch the sky. It was like a glittering, golden waterfall, its lights winking back almost like the building was challenging you to step inside. A fountain spewing crystal water stood before the casino's entrance, which was encircled by sleek, polished cars ranging anywhere from sports cars to hefty trucks. Atop the building, in blinking white lights, were the words 'Carat Casino'. Vibrant palm trees dotted the property surrounding the building, and tonight seemed to be alive with people, silhouettes dressed in rich colors and cars never seeming to leave the half circle lot.

   "He looks a lot like me, actually." I forgot Yuta was beside me, and it took me a second before I realized what he was saying. "It's been quite a while since I've seen him, but I believe he still has his hair dyed blonde." It was hard to depict any emotion in his voice as he stared at the casino, but I swear I heard something akin to desolation.

   "What's his name?"

   A pause, one thick with mixed emotions, then, "He got caught here. Right there." I ignored the heaviness of his voice, much like he did my question, and followed his index finger to the left side of the fountain. "Bastards got him arrested." He grumbled, though he probably intended for it to be solely for himself.

   "17 betrayed you guys?" He looked at me for the first time that night. His eyes were ones of a dark cloud, a looming blackness occasionally cut but a streak of lightning, whether that lightning be anger or sorrow I couldn't tell.

   He sighed, his eyes falling and returning back to Carat Casino. "We were allied, as you already know, years ago. It wasn't anything special, just two mafia organizations lending hands and supplying back-up when needed. But as we neared the end, 17 started getting antsy. We kept a close eye on all 13 of those assholes, and we just so happened to watch them snap." Venom was dripping from his tongue. "They poisoned one of the Chief Justices here in Melbourne and framed him for the crime. Filthy dogs got away with it too, and that's when Boss purged our alliance. That's also when 17 went insane."

   "Sungchan said something like that too." I watched Yuta's jaw clench. "What made them go nuts?"

   "No one knows. Taeyong's friend in 17 won't contact us any longer." He paused, and gulped as if he was swallowing a lump of food, "We couldn't get into contact with Sungchan either, and he was our one ray of hope. He could have been our saving grace - hell, the entire mafia industry's saving grace. No one knows what ticked off 17 that bad to have them stray away from their hearts."

   "What was their original mission? Like, what was their goal?"

   Yuta looked down at me, a wiry smile etched onto his lips. "Boss said, and from what I can remember, their group's mission is to help expand the world's knowledge of science and technology. They were strong, had some of the best hackers and spies, but something made them fall astray. I still don't know if they've made any progress to return to who they were, but with their past leader dead, I had hoped Seungcheol would turn everything around."

   "What do you mean 'had'?" I asked, my voice hesitant.

   "There's reason to suspect that the Blood Angels are conspiring with 17, but it's just a thought of mine." He stepped back, the golden light of the casino melting off his face. His hand, that I long forgot about, freed itself from my forearm. It felt like taking off a cast - my forearm felt light and feathery - and I fell into step beside Yuta. Once we reached his bike, I was about to put my helmet on when his hand, placed atop the object, stopped me. I looked up and met his coffee colored eyes. "You remind me a lot of Hansol." My lips parted, but the words never came out. He continued, "He asked a lot of questions, but that never compared to how fearless he was. Hansol never backed down from a challenge, always the one to surprise us with how much confidence he had on the battlefield. I see him in you. Hansol would be proud someone like you was the one to replace him."

   I was frozen, I didn't know what to say. Something that endearing and sweet wasn't foreign to me, but those words coming from a man whose life is centered around death and violence came as a shock. The people from this lifestyle were seen as stoic and cold-hearted, incapable of being anything other than belittling, but having one say that they were happy I was in their gang had me stunned. I blinked and found myself staring back at Yuta, who wore a soft smile. A warmth bloomed in my chest, and I stuttered out, "T-Thank you, really. I don't think I've heard words like that in a long time."

   Yuta's eyes, that seemed to appear glossy as he turned, disconnected from mine and chuckled lightly. "Don't worry about it. Plus we're late, didn't think creating a small detor would land us in this mess." He thrust on his helmet and swung his leg over the motorcycle

   A smile of my own crept onto my face as I slipped my helmet on, my hands returning to their places at Yuta's sides. I felt his stomach rise and fall against my palms, at a faster rate than it was normally, but we shot out from the shadows of the parking garage and blended into the wave of midnight traffic, the wind biting at my cheeks and diminishing any questions prior.

♢⟺♢

   "You know, this city is a lot like Kingston." I say, my fingers untangled themselves from around Yuta's belt loops.

   Yuta jerked his leg and the kickstand sprouted out with a resonating hum, partly drowned out by the rushing cars not a foot from us. "Apart from the fact that Kingston is a mafia magnet."

   I hummed, watching as a lime green sports car zipped by, the sharp growl of its engine following a beat later. I popped the helmet off and hooked it over the handlebars. "Since Melbourne isn't a large mafia hotspot, excluding Carat Casino, what about their street racing game?"

   Yuta's helmet was thrown onto the other side of the handlebars, teetering and swaying, with his red mane lightly tousled and frizzy. "Not much here, more in the outskirts of Kingston melting into Dresden is where you'd see those thrill-seekers." He edged his beat-up sneakers near the road, peering both ways, and made a noise of discontentment. "Why is there traffic at half past midnight?"

   I blinked. "What time did we leave for the bar?"

   "I don't know, I don't keep track of the time. Maybe around 10?" He swiveled his head back and forth, almostly frantically, and sharply sighed a few moments later. "Where is that damn boy?"

   At the mention of him, a low rumble off to my right brought my head to turn its direction. With apprehensive turns of the handlebars, Mark guided the motorcycle he was driving into an empty spot, nestling the vehicle between the sidewalk and Yuta's bike's tire. He hastily took off his helmet, shaking his crinkled hair into a somewhat decent looking blob of blonde, and set it between his legs. "Do you know the amount of stares I got riding this piece of junk?" He asked aloud, to no one in particular, but the way his eyes kept flitting back to me had me thinking otherwise.

   Yuta instead answered, "Like I said, go and complain to Jeno about how he was so reckless with Jae's bike. He'll be in deep shit when we get back to Kingston."

   "Also, what took you so long to get here?" Mark asked, hopping off the bike and spinning his helmet idly.

   "Actually, we were here before you, so I should ask you the same question." I said, absentmindedly tugging at the thick headband hiding my forehead. I met his eyes before looking away, taking in the city that was so alive at the dead of night. Across the street, I saw Yuta, his tank top now covered by a thick bomber jacket, opening the door to a dilapidated, yet sound, building.

   "I was here like 30 minutes ago because I would think you'd be done with your little tour, but I guess I was wrong. How'd it go?" Mark stepped towards the road, the noisy streets barren for once. He didn't waste the opportunity to beckon me with a gentle hand, quickly dashing over to the other side of the street, only minimally missing a speeding car.

   "Please refrain from getting yourself hit," I called over to him, rushing across the road. I stomped over to Mark's side, him watching me with a small quirk to his lips. "I really wouldn't want to clean you off the road. Oh, and we took a bit of a detour, you should ask Yuta about it"

   Mark nodded and turned, looking up at a sign that read 'Eighty-Sixed' in glowing, neon lettering. Everything is centered around gambling isn't it, I thought to myself, and walked with Mark to the rickety door, chipped paint fluttering as he swung it open.

   It was your typical run-down, lively kind of bar. Sets of wooden chairs and tables, ranging from mildly nicked to blanketed in scribbles and scores, dotted the grimy and warped wood floors. A line of clotted felt booths ran along the left wall, a few couples occupying the seats, and an open area, that was crowded with tipsy drinkers, took up the right of the building. A small stage, only big enough for about 3 people, was nestled into the far corner, a man with long hair hovering over a stereo pulsating fluorescent light. The place was dim, aside from the yellow lights coming from over the bar top. The broad backs of several men were huddled off to the side, some in chairs and others standing lazily. A group of women were laid over the bar, making flirty gestures and sending winks at anyone who caught their eye. Behind the bar, a man with silver hair - a bit darker than mine, but not by much - whizzed along the length of the counter, a black mask hiding his nose and mouth.

   Silver hair.... I snuck a glance up at Mark, who had his sights stationed in front of him. I knocked his arm with my knuckle, and he flicked his eyes down at me, but only for a brief moment. "Silver hair."

   "I know." He started for the bar, his shoulders rigid. As I followed him and slid into a seat next to him, I placed my hand over his shoulder and massaged the skin beneath his shirt. He looked at me, his eyes flashing with mild annoyance.

   "Don't blow up on him, we're in public."

   He exhaled and set his arms against the bar top. "I'll do what I need to to get the information we want." I opened my mouth to speak, but the silver-haired bartender glided up to us, setting his forearm down with a clipped sigh.

   He looked Mark up and down, before saying, "Lemme guess, a rusty nail? Extra lemon?" He set his head askew, like a dog.

   "Not today, just Scotch." The man hummed, the beginning of a laugh appearing and vanishing in a matter of seconds.

   "And for you?" He turned to face me, his eyes wide and sparkling.

   I hesitated. "Um - What's your favorite drink you make?" He seemed a tad taken aback by the question, but he adjusted his mask and chuckled.

   "I've been known to make a mean whiskey sour, but you look like a fruity girl, so how about a martini." Again, his head went to its side. I frown. "It's not any less stronger than what cold, buff boy over here ordered." He threw a quick gesture at Mark, who leaned forward on his forearms. "And it'll be on the house, since it's your first time here."

   "How'd you know that?" I quickly asked. The bartender just laughed.

   "He never brings girls here." His voice lowered, and he snickered almost like we were exchanging gossip. I blinked, my stomach churning, and nodded. Mark looked as though he didn't hear us, or he was putting on a straight face to mask whatever he felt.

   "Martini will be just fine."

   "Any fruit preference?"

   "Surprise me."

   Though I couldn't see it, I could tell he wore a sly smirk as he drifted to and from each end of the bar top, glasses clinking and laughter booming like church bells. Next to me, a man with bright blue hair turned and slid me a half-empty glass, the ginger colored liquid creating a wave that crashed over the lip of the glass. "Try it." Kun said, falling back into his chair that whined painfully.

   I grabbed the glass and spun it gently, watching as the yellow lights spilt into golden ribbons and as the crystal shone like stars. I set it back down with a sound click and flicked it over to Mark, who caught it and did the same as me, spinning it, before shooting back the liquid with a scowl.

   "I'm not much of a whiskey person." I said to Kun, who now wore a glazed smile.

   "Don't like the taste." I heard Mark say, watching as the glass flew by me into a set of slender fingers.

   "Here is your drink, miss." The bartender set down a thin glass with lightly tinted green slush. "As for you, Mr. Frown, I wasn't sure on the size, so I just brought your usual." Set down near Mark's fist was a crystal glass, much like Kun's, with amber liquid accompanied by a few stray ice cubes. He held Kun's glass in his other hand.

   "Thanks." It was short and laced a type of irritation a small, hyper child would give you. He put the drink up to his lips, his eyes darting across the room and meeting mine for a split second, but I understood the look he gave me.

   "Hey, you look really familiar." I commented to the bartender, who had his back to me. He spun, his hands busy polishing a wine glass, and quirked his brow. I kneaded the stem of my glass as my heart drummed against my ribs. "What's your name."

   He looked to have caught on to what I wanted, as the glass was discarded and towel thrown over his shoulder. His elbow plopped down onto the counter, his head falling into his splayed palm and eyes narrowing. "Depends. Who do you work for?"

   Kun shifted beside me, turning towards the bartender and thrusting a hand, cemented to the bar top, across the wood. The man glanced between Kun's hand and his eyes, his free hand coming to pinch the top of his mask. "How long have you been working this job?" Kun suddenly asked.

   "Exactly four months." His voice became sharper, losing its once flirty tone.

   "Do you like to gamble?"

   "Who doesn't?"

   "How acquainted are you with the owners of Carat Casino?"

   "We've spoken a few times."

   "Do you know anyone by the name of Sungchan?" Kun retracted his hand as fast as the sentences were spewing from both their mouths. There, before him, was a portrait of Sungchan, his eyes dull and lips in a fine line.

   "He's my partner, why do you ask?" I looked between Kun and Mark, who both were showing the bartender watchful faces and attentive eyes. The man sighed, which eventually morphed into a chuckle, as he peeled off his mask, tossing it into a nearby garbage can. When he finally turned back to us, I first saw his round face, then his beady eyes, and lastly, his dirty, grey hair.

   "The name's Shotaro, how can I help you?" 

really digging shotaros character in this story

idk how to write this next chapter o.0

Thanxx for reading!!