Chapter 17: Kawasaki Rika (4).

“Alright, alright, quit dawdling—stand up, let Boss get a good look at you.”

A-Hui’s face beamed with boastful flattery, ignoring her boyfriend’s pleading, tear-filled gaze.

She shoved the cowering boy from her arms, nearly toppling him.

Gripping his trembling shoulders, she forced him to face Rika’s sofa—under harsh ceiling lights and everyone’s curious, amused stares.

Bending slightly, simpering:

“Boss, you’re too good for our leftovers—dirty. Look at this one. Untouched, clean, still a virgin!”

The pretty, youthful boy froze in shock.

Eyes wide—once clear, now stunned disbelief—face drained white, lips parting soundlessly.

Days ago, this girlfriend whispered sweet nothings in honeymoon bliss. Now, she tossed him like old rags to another woman—humiliatingly.

Something pure he’d guarded shattered—crack—into dust.

His teenage dreams of true love crushed by cold betrayal.

“Wah…”

Grief, fear, heartbreak breached—soft sobs, tears streaming down pale cheeks.

“Stop crying!”

A-Hui’s face fell—embarrassed before Boss and sisters.

Brows furrowed, she twisted his arm hard, hissing:

“Swallow those tears! Ruin Boss’s mood, and I’ll deal with you later!”

“Enough!”

Rika’s ears rang with the boy’s annoying cries and A-Hui’s shrieks—irritation boiling.

Eyes flashed cold steel; voice low but piercing, absolute:

Room plunged into graveyard silence—someone killed the music.

Rika’s gaze swept the shaking, teary boy, then A-Hui—tense, breathless—waving dismissively:

“Let him go.”

To the girls, warning clear:

“Play with men however—I don’t care. Keep it clean. No force, no turning good boys into whores. Don’t bring me trouble!”

The boy—expecting doom—couldn’t believe: freedom?

Head snapped up, blurry eyes on her—salvation’s warmth flooding numb limbs, near collapse.

Post-trauma, viewing the athletic woman on the sofa shifted subtly.

Against chaos and betrayal, her “coldness” with limits felt… different. Gratitude mixed with curiosity—complex.

Teens think simply, “purely stupid.”

They crave dramatic romance—drawn to “badass,” “domineering,” “redemptive” figures, even in darkness.

In his naive lens: tale rewrote.

Gang boss Rika—seemingly ruthless—saved him from girlfriend’s sellout and humiliation.

Plus, undeniably: stunning wild beauty, commanding aura—unlike any girl he knew…

Rika neither knew nor cared about his self-directed “hero saves beauty” drama.

Boring, troublesome.

Phone buzzed in her pocket.

She stood, long strides ignoring stares, entered a quiet room, shut door, answered.

“Yeah, Grandpa?”

“Got it, I’ll help.”

“Bye.”

Grandpa wanted evening help at the izakaya.

Unlike money-dumping, near-estranged parents, Rika—mostly raised by grandparents—shared warm bonds with the elder Kawasakis.

She rarely refused.

After a few orders, helmet in hand, she pushed out into the night.

Cool breeze tousled rebellious blonde strands.

At her sleek bike, leg swung over, seated expertly.

Helmet on, buckle clicked, right hand on throttle—ready to roar from this cesspool.

Then, timid boyish voice behind:

“Um… for earlier… thank you…”

The pretty boy—fresh from villa, tear-streaked, pale—had followed.

Seeing her leave, courage or fantasy spurred him—he jogged up, halting steps away.

Fidgeted with uniform hem, eyes hopeful.

Rika glanced back once—throttled. Engine roared.

She vanished into night, leaving the schoolboy lost in place.