Departure

The sky was already bright, the kind of deep, cloudless blue that only late summer seemed to conjure. The heat clung to the cobblestones like breath, the city not yet bustling but stretching, yawning, slowly waking up.

I stood beside Sylvie and Renzo in front of the shuttered osteria, duffel bag handles warm in my hand. Renzo was pacing again, muttering something about timing. I wasn’t really listening. My mind was running its own laps.

Would he come? Would this really happen?

Then we heard it.

Not the usual whine of a scooter or the grumble of an old Fiat—no.

This was something else.

A clean, low purr that rolled through the alley like distant thunder.

Sylvie tilted her head. “That’s not a Fiat.”

And then he appeared.

Black and chrome, sleek and perfect. The Honda CBR cut through the alleyway light like a blade. It stopped with the quiet confidence of someone who never rushed because they were never late.

Ryōji.

He pulled off his helmet, and for a moment I felt like the world dropped a beat. Tousled black hair, dark eyes that swept over us with a calm, clinical precision.

I couldn’t tell if he looked through me or into me—but either way, I was already caught.

He wore a leather riding suit that looked more like it was grown than sewn onto him, just unzipped enough to suggest purpose, not vanity. There was road dust on him, and somehow that only made him more vivid, more real.

Sylvie let out a half-breath. “Sweet God in a gearbox.”

Renzo blinked. “Is this guy in a movie or…?”

But I wasn’t listening. My fingers clenched tighter around my duffel bag.

For a second, I thought about turning around. About telling Sylvie this was too fast. That I’d changed my mind. That it was a mistake.

But then Ryōji looked at me. Calm. Unshaken.

And the doubt fell away like stage lights going black.

“You’re on time,” he said, voice smooth in Italian, looking at Renzo.

Renzo nodded. “She’s ready.”

Ryōji turned to me, and my spine straightened before I could stop it.

“Blue suits you,” he said. “Let’s hope you packed light.”

“I always do,” I managed, a little too fast.

“Good,” he replied, with the faintest ghost of a smile.

Sylvie raised an eyebrow. “You’re taking her on that?”

Ryōji glanced at her. “Would you prefer I called a taxi?”

She lifted both hands. “No judgment. Just… good luck.”

Renzo stepped forward, still holding onto some thread of control. “No contract. No paperwork. How are we paying you?”

Ryōji’s gaze stayed steady. “You’ll receive them soon. Then, when the work is done—I’ll come to collect.”

Sylvie’s eyes narrowed slightly. She didn’t trust him. Not fully. And maybe she was right. Maybe I shouldn’t either.

He didn’t ask for money. That was worse.

Ryōji gestured toward my bag.

“That’s it, huh?”

“Essentials only,” I said, and handed it to him.

He strapped it behind the seat like he’d done it a hundred times. Then he turned back and held out a gloved hand, palm open.

I didn’t hesitate.

His voice dropped low. “Helmet’s here. Put it on tight. We don’t want to repaint Verona.”

Sylvie snorted. “That’s one way to say goodbye.”

I climbed on, arms around his waist, my heart pounding.

What was I doing?

Living, maybe, a part of me whispered timidly.

Ryōji glanced back just enough. “Next stop, Venice Airport.”

The engine came to life, smooth and strong beneath us.

Renzo stared after us. “She’s insane.”

Sylvie crossed her arms, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “She’s chasing something. And maybe, for once, it’s not running away from her.”

And just like that, we were gone—swallowed by the stone alley, the hum of the waking city already fading behind.

And they stood there, two friends on a quiet street, watching the blur of black disappear into the light.