The neon lights of Tokyo blurred past the car window, streaks of red and white smeared across the inky canvas of night. Sasaki Kenjiro tightened his grip on the steering wheel, knuckles paling as the tires gripped the slick asphalt with a snarl. The hum of the engine filled the cabin, low and steady, like a growl in his chest.
Beside him, Takashi slouched in the passenger seat, his long legs sprawled out and one arm resting lazily on the window ledge. He let out a low whistle as they passed another red light that had barely turned yellow.
"Hey, slow down, man," he said, shooting Kenjiro a sideways glance. "You trying to get us killed tonight?"
Kenjiro's lips curled into a smirk, eyes flicking toward him for the briefest moment. "What's the matter? Scared?"
Takashi snorted and ran a hand through his messy brown hair. "Nah, just don't wanna explain to your sister why her idiot brother went full Fast & Furious on Tokyo streets and wrapped us around a pole."
Kenjiro laughed—a short, bitter sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Relax. I know what I'm doing."
Takashi eyed him, frowning now. "You sure about that?"
Kenjiro's gaze returned to the road. "Yeah."
But he didn't. Not really. His boss's voice still echoed in his mind from earlier that day.
"You're reckless, Kenjiro. You think life's just a game. But one day—one day, it's going to cost you. And not just you."
The words had stung more than he let on.
"I mean it, Kenji," Takashi continued, his tone gentler now. "You've been off all night. Even back at the bar, you barely touched your drink. You good?"
Kenjiro's jaw tightened. He nodded once. "Just needed to clear my head."
"By drag-racing through the city?" Takashi gestured toward the dash. "Your phone's been buzzing nonstop. You gonna check that?"
Kenjiro glanced at the cupholder. His sister again. Probably asking where he was, if he was okay, when he'd be home.
He ignored it.
Takashi sighed and leaned back, folding his arms. "Whatever it is, man... just talk to me, alright? You're my best friend. You don't gotta keep it all bottled up."
Kenjiro opened his mouth to respond—then—
A sudden flash of headlights.
Too bright.
Too close.
From the opposite lane, a delivery truck swerved, its horn blaring like a scream.
Kenjiro's heart lurched. He yanked the wheel hard—but it was too late.
Impact.
The world exploded in a symphony of metal tearing, glass shattering, the shriek of something ancient and violent. The cabin twisted. The windows burst. Gravity flipped sideways.
And then—
Silence.
---
Takashi groaned as awareness returned in painful fragments. The airbag had knocked the wind out of him. Every breath hurt. The scent of burning rubber and leaking gasoline filled his lungs.
"Kenjiro?" His voice was hoarse.
No response.
He turned his head, vision swimming. Kenjiro was slumped over the wheel, blood trailing from a cut on his forehead. His chest rose—barely.
"Kenjiro!" Takashi fumbled with his seatbelt, coughing. "Hey—come on, man, don't do this."
The metal frame creaked dangerously as he shoved at the door. It wouldn't budge.
Outside, people were shouting. Footsteps pounded.
A man appeared at the passenger window, eyes wide. "Oh my god—hold on! I'm calling for help!"
Takashi barely heard him. He reached out with trembling fingers, pressing them to Kenjiro's neck.
A pulse.
Weak.
Fading.
"Stay with me, you bastard," he whispered, choking on a sob. "You don't get to check out like this."
The man outside opened the door and reached in. "We need to get you out—can you move?"
Takashi nodded. "H-He's hurt bad. My friend—he's—"
More voices joined. A woman gasped. Another person knelt beside the car, trying to speak calmly.
A child nearby asked, "Mommy, is that man dead?"
"Don't look, sweetheart," the mother said, guiding the child away.
Sirens wailed in the distance, still too far.
Kenjiro's breathing grew shallower.
Takashi squeezed his hand. "Hang on, Kenji. You're gonna be fine. The ambulance is coming, alright? Just hang in there."
Kenjiro's lips moved.
Takashi leaned closer.
"...Sorry…"
And then—his chest stilled.
"No—no, no!" Takashi shouted, panic roaring through him. "Stay with me! Don't you dare, Kenjiro! You promised you'd drive me to Okinawa this summer, remember?! You promised!"
People were crowding now. Lights bathed the wreck in harsh red and blue.
Paramedics swarmed the scene.
"Out of the way!"
They pulled Kenjiro out first. Compressions. Shouts. Static from radios.
Takashi stood numbly, hands covered in his friend's blood, barely registering as someone wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.
Minutes passed.
Then a sheet was drawn over Kenjiro's face.
Takashi couldn't breathe.
---
Later, as the flashing lights faded and the chaos died down, Takashi sat on the curb. His hands trembled in his lap.
A detective approached. Mid-forties, weary eyes. He pulled out a notepad.
"Sir, I'm Detective Murakami. I need you to tell me what happened tonight."
Takashi stared at the pavement.
"Take your time," the detective said gently.
He opened his mouth, but it was like the words were trapped behind glass.
An elderly woman, who had watched the crash from her balcony, stepped closer. "That boy… the driver… he looked so young."
Another man, a gas station clerk, nodded. "I saw them fly past the red light. He was going too fast. Must've been pushing 100…"
Takashi finally looked up, his voice raw.
"He was angry. Stressed. His boss gave him hell today. And he didn't wanna go home and talk to his sister…"
Murakami nodded slowly. "Did he drink tonight?"
"No. He didn't even finish one beer." Takashi swallowed. "I think… I think he just wanted to feel in control. Or maybe just… forget."
Murakami scribbled something down. "You said his sister? Does she live nearby?"
Takashi gave a small nod. "She's… she's all he had left."
The detective sighed. "We'll need to inform her."
"I'll do it," Takashi said suddenly. "She should hear it from me."
---
Later that night, Takashi stood in front of a small apartment door, fist raised but unmoving.
He finally knocked.
It opened to reveal a young woman, her eyes red-rimmed, phone still in her hand.
"I've been calling him all night," she said.
Takashi's throat closed. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.
Her face crumpled. "No…"
Takashi caught her as she collapsed into sobs.
---
In the days that followed, Kenjiro's name appeared in news blurbs: Tokyo Man Killed in High-Speed Collision.
But the headlines didn't say who he really was. They didn't mention his laugh, or the way he always walked Takashi's drunk ass home from the bar. Or the way he protected his sister like a lion, or how he wanted to start his own car shop one day.
They didn't say how Takashi sat by his grave every evening after work, whispering apologies to the wind.
And they didn't say how, every time a car sped past a red light, someone remembered the night neon lights blurred into tragedy—and a young man's life ended too soon.