The night air was sharp, cold enough that it bit at the fingertips and made the neon glow of old izakayas and convenience stores shimmer through a faint fog. Tokyo’s quieter corners always felt different after the sun set, more honest, more human. The hum of an ancient vending machine was the only witness to the clumsy shape of a man stumbling out from an alleyway, half-lit by the dying fluorescent overhang of a laundromat.
He looked like he’d lost a fight with gravity. The biker swayed, boots scraping the curb, and muttered something about
“women with fast hands” while trying to dust off his grimy leather vest. His knuckles were red, his breath reeked of whiskey and regret, and his body language screamed belligerent exhaustion, the kind of drunk who couldn’t decide if he wanted a cigarette or a new enemy. The street was otherwise quiet, save for the occasional passing car whose headlights briefly painted him in pity.
He reached into his pocket and fumbled with a bent lighter.
Click. Click. The flame refused him. On the next try, the lighter sparked, right before his shoulder slammed into someone else’s chest.
The drunk staggered back, dropping his cigarette to the damp pavement.
"Hey- watch it!" he barked, voice slurred but angry enough to fake strength.
The other man blinked, momentarily surprised before softening into an apologetic smile.
"My bad, hermano. Didn’t see you there." He leaned forward and brushed a few stray soggy napkins off the biker’s vest, courteous, casual. The gesture only made the biker angrier.
"You tryna start somethin’?" the man snapped, leaning forward, chin jutting out like a territorial dog.
"Nah," the stranger replied, calm as still water, leaning away with hands raised in half-surrender.
"Seems like you’ve had your fill of somethin’ tonight, my friend. Not looking to cause you more problems."
Up close, the details came into focus — worn leather jacket, scuffed jeans, an old T-shirt with foreign writing scrawled across the chest beneath a half-zipped hoodie. His hood hung loose behind him, wind teasing a lock of messy brown hair. He looked like someone built from patience, broad-shouldered, steady, the kind of guy who could probably knock your teeth in but would rather talk you down first. To the biker though, all he saw was another foreigner, on his streets… well, sidewalk.
The biker scoffed, swaying.
"You talk too pretty for a fucker who just walked into me."
The stranger’s lips twitched, head tilting as he took a moment to take in the situation. Despite himself, he spoke back in a low tone.
"And you reek of a man who drank too much to be standing, but here we are."
The tension hung in the cool air, until a voice cut in from down the sidewalk.
"Everything good here?"
The convenience store chimed as a small cluster of younger wrestlers came walking out, joking amongst each other until they had stepped into the scene. Three men and two women, fresh-faced and young but carrying themselves with the unmistakable discipline of trainees. Matching LAW-branded track jackets glimmered under the lights, unzipped over casual gymwear. They looked comfortable, in mid swing of a night of celebration.
The biker’s bloodshot eyes darted toward them.
"None of your fucking business, get lost."
The stranger exhaled, rubbing a hand across his jaw as if weighing whether to keep this peaceful.
"Listen, you’ve had a rough night. Best you wander home and sleep it off."
The biker sneered, squaring up with the faint stagger of a man trying to remember which way was up.
"Don’t tell me what to do." He reached out, sluggishly, grasping the lapels of the stranger’s jacket tightly. The foreigner made no effort to stop him, seemingly accepting his fate.
"And you cheer squad punks, get lost or you’re next."
"You might want to reconsider," Mateo interrupted softly, tilting his head just enough that the streetlight caught the faint scar near his brow.
"’Cause the ‘cheer squad’? They’re with me."
The drunk hesitated, his smirk faltering.
"They’re what?"
---------------
A metallic CLANG! rang out from the alley. A dented dumpster quivered in protest before settling again, the lid bouncing once for comedic effect over the new denizen that had been tossed into it. After bending the biker into knots and giving him the front row treatment, the Young Lions and Lionesses made their way back out to the street.
One of the young lions brushed his hands off, grinning from ear to ear.
"Pretty sure you could have taken that guy yourself."
Mateo rolled his shoulders, glancing down the street before replying.
"We’re off the clock. No reason to throw hands if it can be avoided."
The lioness beside him zipped her jacket halfway up, stifling a laugh.
"’Cause it’s fun?"
"Well, I didn't stop you. I’m just a tag-along to the festivities." Mateo smirked, turning toward the glow of the bar sign in the distance.
"C’mon, before you all get in any more trouble." He paused, adjusting his jacket as a gust of wind rattled a nearby sign.
The group’s laughter still lingered down the alley as they rounded the corner back toward the bar, the air thick with the kind of post-mischief satisfaction that made everyone a little lighter on their feet.
Mateo held the door for the group as they filed in, the bell above the frame chiming softly. The young lions peeled off toward the long corner booth they’d claimed from previous visits to this place, slapping shoulders and talking over one another about the match, the near-fall, the chant that still echoed in their heads.
"Mateo, c’mon, sit with us!" one of them called back, grinning wide.
Mateo shook his head, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.
"Nah. Tonight’s for you lot. You earned it."
"Aw, come on," one of the lionesses chimed in, tugging playfully at her sleeve.
"Who else will keep Gio’s ego in check after tonight?"
He chuckled, running a hand through his hair as he took a half-step back.
"Think that falls on all of you to keep him humble. I’m not about to play third wheel to the victory lap. Go make some memories before training eats you alive again tomorrow."
They groaned, exchanging knowing looks and exaggerated sighs, but their smiles gave them away.
"Fine," one finally conceded.
"But we’re telling everyone you bailed on us."
"Make it sound dramatic," Mateo said, nodding toward the bar with mock seriousness.
"Something about me walking into the sunset… or a shark ate me."
Their laughter followed him as he crossed the floor, boots thudding softly on the old hardwood. The bar was half full, regulars murmuring to one another, a few heads turning briefly as the group’s youthful energy contrasted the otherwise mellow night.
Mateo slid onto a stool near the corner, the kind of spot a man chose when he wanted to observe rather than intrude. He lifted a hand lightly to catch the bartender’s attention, posture relaxed but his eyes taking in the familiar space with quiet appreciation. He had never been here before, but he knew many like it. Even through the haze of his younger days, it felt like coming home to a familiar place — good memories left to sour with time and perspective. He instinctively reached into his jacket, feeling the outline of a small coin in his locket as a way to ground himself.
When she approached, he offered a courteous nod, his tone low and smooth.
"Evenin’. The first round for that table of loud ones in the corner? Put it on my tab." He gestured with a thumb toward the laughing cluster of LAW-branded jackets.
"They’re celebrating."
He paused, then added with an easy grin,
"As for me… just a cranberry juice, if you’ve got it. On the rocks."
He leaned his elbows onto the bar, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips as he looked toward the group again, the kind of proud, quiet expression that said he’d been exactly where they were once, and didn’t mind being the man watching over them now.
