The warm neon of the arcade flickered behind them, casting glows of red and green over the cracked pavement. Takemichi stepped out into the night with his friends, laughter still bubbling between them, high on the sugar rush of victory and too many coin games.
Akkun was showing off a plastic toy gun he'd won, spinning it on his finger like some low-rank yakuza.
"You're gonna shoot your eye out with that thing," Takuya snorted, elbowing him.
"Jealousy is ugly, Takuya," Yamagishi said, but he was also glaring at Akkun.
Makoto stretched like a cat. "We should've gone for another round. I almost had that capsule with the phone charm…"
Takemichi chuckled, just enough to feel like he belonged. These nights, these small, dumb victories—they had become precious in the short time he'd been here.
His phone buzzed. He glanced down.
Dad: Kusakabe will swing by tomorrow. Don't forget the soy sauce. And eat something green today, not just ramen.
Takemichi exhaled sharply through his nose—a quiet huff of amusement.
Of course he remembered the soy sauce. Dad was always worried about his health, so it didn't surprise him. He always sent Kusakabe all Mondays afternoons after school to have him help him with the groceries and to check he bought healthy food.
His dad was still playing mother hen from a continent away.
He typed back a quick "Yeah, okay," then pocketed the phone, ignoring the sudden tug in his chest.
Four months. It had been four whole months since he left Italy for Japan. It still didn't feel real, not entirely. Some days, the world here felt small compared to the Vongola compound. No sweeping estate, no constant security details, no Papa yelling at Dad to stop babying him. Just cracked sidewalks, vending machines, and boys who thought being a delinquent meant you were invincible.
He glanced at his friends—Makoto grinning like an idiot, Akkun pretending to be a badass, Yamagishi spouting half-facts about gang legends like he'd been there himself, while Takuya promised next time he will win a prize.
They weren't family. Not yet. But something about them felt...possible.
He missed home, missed them—his Papa's sharp voice, his Dad's soft sighs. But more than missing them, he wanted to prove something to himself. That he could do this. That he could grow into someone on his own. Someone worthy of the legacy he carried and the one he wanted to create.
"Takemichi, you spacing out?" Yamagishi asked, poking his arm.
Takemichi blinked and smiled, shaking his head. "Nah, just thinking about what I'm gonna eat later."
"Probably instant ramen," Akkun drawled.
"Hey—don't diss ramen, but no, maybe I'll cook today," Takemichi said, laughing softly. "See you guys tomorrow?"
"Same place, same time!" Makoto called, already turning down his street, while Takuya grumbled about how the place and time was school, so of course they will see each other.
They then broke off one by one, peeling into the darkness with casual waves and lazy goodbyes. Takemichi lifted a hand and watched them go. When he was finally alone, he exhaled slowly, tipping his head back to look at the sky. The stars were faint, hidden behind city haze. But he still felt something there—pulling.
A quiet buzz under his skin.
He was walking to the direction of his apartment, but it was then that it hit him. A chill—subtle but unmistakable—ran through his spine. His vision sharpened at the edges, and the world grew just a little quieter. He stopped walking.
He started running.
The streets blurred past him, familiar in layout but unfamiliar in mood. Everything felt just a touch off. The lamps buzzed a little louder. The air tasted different. The silence didn't sit right.
Hyper Intuition.
It wasn't like his Dad's, sharp and clear like a spotlight cutting through smoke. His Dad, Tsunayoshi, had once said it was like hearing the whispers of the future if you stood very, very still. Even his older brother—always so composed, so Vongola—had it honed into something tactical. He could smell danger before it arrived, feel the numbers behind deals, threats, power plays.
But Takemichi? His Hyper Intuition was different.
Stronger, maybe. At least, that's what Papà, Reborn, had told him once, with a rare flicker of something like caution in his voice. But vaguer. Fuzzier around the edges. Like listening to a song underwater. He didn't get visions or battle foresight. He didn't always know what was about to happen. Just that it would matter. Just that he would regret it deeply if he didn't act.
Sometimes that was enough.
Other times, it wasn't.
He skidded to a stop as a narrow street opened in front of him. His eyes flicked up—an old shop with a weathered sign:
S.S. MOTOR SHOP
"Seriously?" he murmured, breath catching in his throat. "Here?"
He stared at the storefront for a moment, squinting like he could see the reason his gut had dragged him out here. A closed-up shop. Faint light inside. Nothing seemed out of place. But then a voice. Distant, muffled. Sharp with scolding.
Takemichi crept forward, hugging the wall as he approached the open garage.
"…You think you can just take whatever you want? What are you, a thief now?"
He leaned in, eyes narrowing.
Inside the garage, a man stood beside a sleek black bike, one hand on his hip, the other pointing at a teen who couldn't have been older than fifteen or sixteen. The teen's hands were clenched into fists, his jaw tight, but his face—angry, proud—was clearly that of someone trying not to look guilty.
Takemichi's breath caught. The man was tall, older, with kind eyes and a loose, mechanic's uniform half-zipped. Something about him radiated calm, even while he was clearly trying to scold without escalating. The teen had wild, long black hair that fell into his eyes. His form was lean and sturdy, not that noticeable with the too defensive posture he had.
He didn't look like kind of teen who'd steal a bike not for money, but because he needed to prove he could.
Takemichi didn't know either of them.
But his bones did.
Something was going to happen here. Something heavy.
He stepped forward, heart already thudding, Hyper Intuition pulling at his spine like a leash and just as the older man sighed and began to turn away—movement. From the shadows, another figure rushed forward. Blunt metal caught the light.
Takemichi's mouth opened—"LOOK OUT!!"
The wrench grazed at the shop owner's head, with the force of it sinking onto his shoulder instead. However, there still was a sickening crunch coming from his head, followed by a sharp thud as he crumpled to the ground.
Takemichi was already moving.
The two teenagers—shadows in motion—stumbled back in shock. One shouted the other's name, but Takemichi didn't hear the details. They ran, panicked feet slapping against the pavement, disappearing into the dark. He dropped to his knees beside the fallen man. Blood was already soaking through the collar of his coveralls. His breathing was ragged. The cut on his temple wasn't deep, but it was bleeding heavily, and the way his shoulder hung—dislocated? Fractured? Worse?—made Takemichi's gut twist.
Takemichi yanked his flip phone from his pocket with slight shaky fingers that soon became calm as he flipped it open. His thumb jabbed the emergency number on muscle memory, like his Papà taught him.
Ring. Ring. Click.
"Emergency services, what's your situation?"
At the same time, Takemichi pressed his free hand gently to the man's forehead, fingers glowing with the faint, golden warmth of Sun Flames. It was instinctive, like breathing. He focused on the bleeding. Just stop the worst of it. Stabilize him until help gets here.
"Hi—yes—uh, I'm in Shibuya, near a place called S.S. Motor Shop," he said, forcing calm into his voice. "I just saw two guys try to steal from someone. One had a pipe or a wrench. He—he hit the man. I think he's the owner? He's unconscious, maybe concussed. Shoulder's bad too."
His eyes flicked to the shop sign again, as if anchoring himself.
"He's still breathing, but it's shallow."
The flames danced between his fingers, coaxing blood vessels to close, soothing the bruised tissue of the man's skull. It wasn't a perfect fix, but it would hold for now. His own forehead beaded with sweat from the effort—it was always harder when he was panicked.
The operator's voice crackled in his ear.
"We're dispatching an ambulance now. Stay on the line. What's your name?"
Takemichi hesitated. For a heartbeat, his real name hovered on his tongue.
His Hyper Intuition pulled tight in his chest, like a hand grabbing his shirt.
"…Hanagaki. Hanagaki Takemichi."
There was a pause on the other end. Just a breath.
"Alright, Hanagaki-san. Help is on the way. Keep pressure on the wound and don't move him."
"Got it."
His eyes dropped back to the man. He looked too peaceful for someone who'd almost died.
Takemichi swallowed thickly.
He didn't know who those boys were—yet. Their names hadn't reached his ears and their faces were blurry. But something about them rang weird. His intuition curled uncomfortably at the base of his spine. Their faces, blurry as they were, burned into his memory: the wild guilt in the long-haired one, the icy fire in the other with some yellow streaks on his hair.
This wasn't over.
And somehow, even without knowing how deep the threads went, he knew this moment mattered.
.
.
So I've been diving into the Tokyo Revengers Fandom for a while now and thanks to GenuineSarcasm I've gotten into the KHR fandom once again, so I thought, why not write a crossover between them? Maybe I can get into the groove of writing KHR again and while it's a low possibility I'll continue 'Bandaged Hand', maybe I can continue '\Backslash'.
This one is a self-indulgent fic, so for the moment, I'll only post it only on AO3.
I admit I had lots of fun while writing this new fic as I've been stressed lately. I've got a couple of chapters written but the updates will be slow after a while. It all depends on the love I receive from comments and kudos, those give me motivation, after all.
Title based on the song 'Burn the House Down' by AJR