Chương 179: 68. Starport 1

By late morning, a kind of fragile peace had settled over the first-floor living room at No. 22. Not because anyone in Unit 144 had suddenly discovered the meaning of "civilized coexistence," and definitely not because we'd all grown up overnight. The real reason was simple: Jess's output system was still glitching from last night's friendly fire, which meant the ambient noise had dropped by a solid thirty percent. A blessing for the whole house. Especially for me.

Because every time I glanced at her, my brain replayed Maki's "Are you lonely too?" —the precision strike that sent Jess up the stairs, face flushed and logic circuits fried. And whenever Jess looked at me, she probably remembered her own hasty, red-eared retreat, so all morning she hovered in this state of wanting to launch an attack but with her targeting module installed backwards. Absolutely worth monitoring.

I sat at the dining table, delivery confirmation open on my terminal—supposedly reviewing paperwork, actually devoting half my bandwidth to atmospheric surveillance. In other words: waiting. Waiting for Maki to come down. Waiting for the delivery crew. Waiting for the bike that, as of yesterday, had finally evolved from a paper plan into something that would literally be parked in front of me. Just thinking about it made my pulse quicken like an idiot. Pathetic, but fair. Because it wasn't just a bike.

It was the first time in my life I'd managed to get my hands on a real vehicle— Okay, fine. A real vehicle, plus Maki's low-profile acquisition scheme engineered with surgical precision, Harvey's technical consulting that sounded like hostile witness testimony, and the Kushima family's resource net so dense it could double as infrastructure. Saying all that makes "by myself" sound less pure, but the point stands. Footsteps on the stairs. I looked up.

Maki was coming down, dressed simpler than yesterday, hair tied back, terminal in hand. She looked like she just happened to pass through, just happened to sit down, just happened to double-check someone's delivery details. By now, I didn't trust her "just happened to"s for a second. Experience showed that a disturbing percentage of Maki Kushima's coincidences turned out to be calculated to the decimal point.

She pulled out the chair next to me and sat—smooth, easy, as if yesterday afternoon's two hand-holding incidents had never happened, or at least weren't important enough to deserve a separate file in her memory. Goddamn it. Where do you learn to be that unbothered? I pretended to focus on the data, but my mouth slipped:"Morning." She glanced at me.

"It's almost noon."

"…I know, it's just a greeting."

"Morning, then." Completely deadpan. No trace of a smile. As if you said morning, so I say morning was a perfectly logical protocol. I almost laughed. Sometimes I can't tell if she's humoring me on purpose or if she genuinely believes in conversational symmetry. Either way, you lose. She set her terminal on the table and got straight to the point.

"Tech division should be here in about twenty minutes."

"That precise?"

"I just got the confirmation." She turned her screen so I could see: Vehicle ID, transport code, handover staff, accessory kit, provisional operating permit—all there. I looked at the list and couldn't help it.

"You really do sound like some kind of personal logistics officer."

"Just confirming the process."

"You said yesterday this wasn't for you."

"It's not for me today, either." Perfectly calm.

"But if you sign off without checking the insurance activation, I'm the one who'll have to listen to you complain later."

"I wouldn't complain."

"Oh?" She looked at me.

"What would you do?"

"I'd handle it calmly."

"As calmly as you handled last night?" I choked. How the hell did she know I hadn't been calm? She didn't. She was just talking. I was the one with a guilty conscience. I ducked my head back to the screen.

"I was perfectly normal last night."

"Were you."

"Very normal."

"Good." That was it. No follow-up, no poking holes, not even a twitch at the corner of her mouth. But somehow, that "good" sounded a lot like I don't believe you, but I'll let it slide. And every word had an audience. Jess was sprawled on the sofa behind us, terminal in hand, legs crossed in a way that screamed I could not care less, head down. But her ears were basically standing at attention.

Some people are so bad at pretending not to care, you almost want to tell them: You might want to re-route your emotional broadcast. Maki noticed too—her gaze flicked over. Jess immediately ducked her head, swiping at her screen with the desperation of someone drafting a peace treaty under deadline. I bit back a laugh, kept my voice steady, and asked Maki:"So at handover, what am I actually supposed to check?" She switched to the priority page.

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"First, confirm the chassis and serial numbers. Second, battery module health and factory calibration. Third, all accessories must match what we reviewed yesterday—don't let the promo package slip you a downgrade. Fourth—" She reached over and nudged my terminal a little to the left. Tiny movement. But her fingers grazed my knuckles, and my brain shorted out for half a beat. Goddamn it. Just a brush, but all I could think of was yesterday at the crosswalk. If this kept up, I was going to die.

"Fourth," Maki continued, completely unaffected, "don't just accept freebies." I managed to pull myself back.

"Do I look like someone who'd lose their mind over two free cupholders?"

"Not standard freebies, no." Her eyes were steady.

"But if they throw in premium maintenance, port access packages, or anything tied to the Kushima system, you might say yes before you realize what you're agreeing to." I considered.

"That's probably true."

"Which is why I'll be there." She said it like it was obvious. So obvious it was dangerous. Because what that sentence meant, in plain language, was: You don't have to worry. I'll be watching. From behind us came a faint, pointed "tch." We both turned. Jess was still staring at her terminal, head down, voice stiff:"Who's eavesdropping on your incredibly boring handover details anyway." I rested my chin on my hand and looked at her.

"I didn't say you were."

"Your eyes did."

"So you read my eyes pretty well."

"Disgusting."

"Is that the only attack word you have left today?" Jess finally glared up at me.

"Hoshino, you are so annoying lately."

"Lately?"

"…Today!"

"Oh."

"And don't act like having someone stand by you at handover is such a big deal. It's just a bike, not a major life event—""It is, for me." I said it honestly. Jess froze. She'd probably prepped a whole barrage of snark, but the direct hit left her next round firing into empty air, echoing with a lonely pop. Maki landed a soft kill shot:"You cared a lot yesterday, though." Jess spun around.

"I did not care!"

"You asked a lot of questions."

"That was because—" She flailed for two seconds before latching onto the world's least convincing excuse: "Because I didn't want you bringing home something so ugly it ruined No. 22's aesthetics!" I laughed.

"So you have design standards for my bike?"

"Who has standards for you!"

"Then don't worry about it."

"I'm going to worry!" Good. Still missing every shot, but the heat was real. Watching her flush and dig her heels in, I felt something strange. Not just amusement, but—this scene was almost too loud. Too alive. Maki and I were already enough of a problem. With Jess in the mix, the air itself turned restless. She kept lobbing insults, but every one drifted closer; Maki kept it technical, but every small gesture or tilt of the head nudged the dynamic into stranger territory.

And me, stuck in the middle, half laughing, half aware that if we kept laying this fuse, it was going to blow up into something complicated later. But that was a problem for future me. The doorbell rang. Not the lazy neighbor ring, not the impatient food delivery jab. This was precise, professional, with the rhythm of people who knew exactly when to show up. Maki checked the time.

"They're here." My chest jumped. They were really here. When the door opened, three people stood outside. Uniforms crisp, terminals in hand, a van with Kushima Technical Industries branding parked behind them. Not a military convoy, but definitely not a regular courier. Even the chassis looked so clean you'd think they'd waxed the tires. The lead tech spotted Maki and stiffened.

"Miss Kushima." Here we go. Every time I heard that tone, I understood the Kushima family's reach a little better. Not flashy, not for show—just a hierarchy wired into other people's reflexes. Maki nodded.

"This is Hoshino's bike today. Standard handover. No extras."

"Understood." One word, and I felt relief settle in. Simple: as long as Maki was here, no "extras" were getting near me. Favors, special access, disgustingly generous promo packages—she'd block them all. All I had to do was be a normal owner. That sounds useless, but it was actually priceless. When the van doors opened, I couldn't help stepping forward. The bike sat inside, deep grey bodywork catching the daylight in a cold metallic sheen.

Clean lines, low center of gravity, wide tires, a forward lean—like some animal forced into a legal costume. Not the original Narukami's I can dismantle a city wall menace, but every inch Kushima: steady, cold, disciplined, dangerous in restraint. One look and I was sunk. Even better than it looked on paper. Harvey had been right. This kind of bike makes you think you can ride. Just standing in front of it, you instinctively believe: If I get on this, the world will make more sense.

It rarely does, but you can't help it. The formal handover process was a lesson in what Kushima Tech means by "standard": Chassis ID. Battery module calibration. Factory and prep records. Showroom mileage. Maintenance cycle. Spare key and digital authentication. Accessory kit. Warranty activation. Every box checked, like they were afraid I'd sign myself away without reading the contract. Maki stood beside me the whole time.

She didn't answer for me or cut in, just jumped in when I hesitated, and whenever the techs tried to slip in a premium add-on, she shut it down with one "Not necessary." Jess, who had "no interest," was by the entryway five minutes in, mug in hand, at the exact distance between just passing through and I've been watching all along.

"These rims are… acceptable," she commented. I glanced at her.

"Thought you didn't care?"

"I don't. I just don't want you buying something so ugly it drags down the dorm's average."

"Right." The delivery team was the picture of professionalism, unfazed by our problem-child dynamic. When the last box was ticked and the e-signature flashed on my terminal, something shifted inside me. Not the urge to shout. More like: something finally moved from want to have. Quiet, but solid. I signed. For a second, the deep grey chassis seemed to flash in the sun. Just a reflection, but—pathetic as it is—I thought: Oh. It's really mine now.

D materialized at the entryway, studied the bike for two seconds, and delivered his verdict:"Rideable." Harvey came up from the basement, half-disassembled tool in hand, and opened with a cold laugh.

"No shit. Planning to use it as a vase?" Then he circled the bike, eyebrow ticking up.

"Prep work's cleaner than I expected. You really milked that connection."

"I know."

"Good. Don't dump it."

"Do you all think I'm made of glass?"

"Not glass," Harvey said.

"You just get overconfident when you're excited." Hard to argue with that. Technically, I should've taken a breath, familiarized myself with the controls, made sure I wasn't making stupid decisions on an adrenaline high. In practice, of course I wanted to ride. Call it human nature. Maki knew. She didn't stop me. Just said, as I reached for my helmet:"Stick to the local streets. Don't go far."

"Do I look like someone who'd take a new bike and bolt out of the city?" She looked at me. Said nothing. Just looked. That silence said more than any lecture. I buckled my strap.

"…Fine. Local streets." Maki gave a small nod.

"Keep your phone tracker on."

"Are you my mother?"

"No." Calm as ever.

"But if you vanish with the bike, I'm the one this house will drag out to find you first." Half my comeback died on the spot. I pulled on my gloves and swung a leg over. When the engine kicked in, I almost laughed—not loud, just that irrepressible rush in my chest. The frame was steadier than I expected, center of gravity beautifully low, launch clean, handling smoother than any of the public training bikes I'd used.

Not violent performance, but a dangerous kind of docility—so smooth you'd believe you and the machine were born for each other. Harvey's warning echoed: You'll think you're good. The bike's saving you. Yeah, yeah. I hear you. I'll be humble. But let me have this, just for now. I did as Maki said, stuck to the local grid. Perimeter of Platinum Bridge Street, a few main arteries, through the commercial zone, then slowly back through the residential maze.

The wind against my helmet made the world tilt a little—not from speed, but from that addictive feeling: I get to decide where I go. By the third intersection, my brain had already started to wander: Next time, if Maki was on the back… what would that feel like? … Stop. Too fast. Get a grip, Hoshino Shimo. You just got the bike and you're already casting the passenger seat? That's a completely unhinged escalation timeline. But I kept thinking about it anyway. And the more I tried not to, the worse it got.

By the time I finished the loop and rolled back to No. 22, my mood was too good to hide. Even I could tell my face was probably wearing exactly the kind of "disgustingly happy" expression Jess had been mocking yesterday. Dangerous territory. When people get too happy, they leak intel. I parked, pulled off my helmet, and the first thing I saw was Maki standing in the doorway. No idea how long she'd been waiting. She had my terminal in one hand, the other tucked in her pocket, expression flat as ever.

But her eyes swept from me to the bike and back—clearly running a systematic rider intact, vehicle intact check. I walked over. Before I could speak, she asked:"How is it?"

"Good."

"Just good?"

"Very good." I held the helmet against my chest, fighting down the urge to grin.

"Good enough that I can almost forgive that parade of Kushima corporate faces from yesterday." The corner of her mouth shifted—not quite a smile, just a small release of tension.

"Then it was the right choice."

"Yeah." I nodded, completely honest. Then, as naturally as breathing, she followed up:"Since the bike's here, when you have time—" Something jumped in my chest.

"Yeah?" She looked at me, tone as level as if she were scheduling a grocery run.

"We can go see the Yukikaze." I stood there with the helmet in my arms, feeling like someone had just lightly tapped the inside of my skull.

"So," I said, trying very hard not to sound like I was already running warm, "we do the same thing? Go separately and meet at the station?" Maki looked at me. This time she actually smiled. Brief, but unmistakable.

"No," she said.

"This time you can come pick me up."