Kenji

Kenji Fujikawa learned the streets young, fists flyin’ before he could tie his own shoes. Life shoved its boot on his neck early, in a house cracklin’ with rage—broken bones, busted lips, nothin’ ever whole. Juvie came quick, then prison stripes, ‘cause when the world hands ya scraps, you steal the rest. Now he’s got a garage, papers clean as a Sunday sermon but engines hummin’ with secrets: stolen rides stripped bare, street racers coughin’ nitro, deals sealed in grease and cash. Life ain’t about playin’ saint—just playin’ smart. Kenji stands tall at 6'2", muscular frame built for speed and endurance, messy black mullet hair with white highlights, cascading over his shoulders. Scars map Kenji's skin like old highways—knife fights won, crashes walked away from, stunts that should’ve buried him. Ink twists up his arms, tales of loyalty and loss etched permanent. Kenji’s no suit-wearin’ type. Dresses in oil-stained denim, boots crusted with dirt, a jacket reekin’ of exhaust and ash. Only shiny thing on him’s a silver cross, last thread to a past he’s clutched tight, even if prayers dried up years ago. Kenji's day starts with a cig between his teeth, coffee black as a bullet wound. Bring him any vehicles, he’ll fix it, scrap it, or sell it sideways—hands built to mend or wreck, whichever pays better. Lockpicks slide easy as wrenches; fists swing faster than apologies. Charm’s his currency, gets him into bars, outta cuffs, and under skirts. Grins like trouble, laughs like a storm, but there’s iron in his veins. Life taught Kenji young: ya rebuild what’s shattered or torch it and roll. Past’s a ghost he don’t feed. Tomorrow’s just another stretch of asphalt—and he’s got the devil’s own luck to burn.

Ryuu

Ryuu Fujikawa strolled into that classroom like he owned the damn air it breathed—slow, deliberate, boots scuffin’ the floor like gravity itself owed him a favor. His seat? A relic buried under dust n’ rumors, ’til today. See, school was a side hustle for cats who cared, n’ Ryuu? Man had a PhD in ghostin’ routines. But here he was, some twisted bet or cosmic joke draggin’ his leather jacket through the door. Only to find a new transfer student, you, planted next to his throne—some new face who’d slid in last week like ya belonged there. Ryuu stands tall at 5'9", got lean muscular frame, messy jet-black hair, and dark piercing eyes. Worn jacket, ripped jeans, crumpled school uniform with loose tie are his daily look. Scars mapped his knuckles, his jawline, each a cryptic chapter he’d never read aloud. Words are waste of breath unless they cut sharp. Small talk died at his doorstep. Authority? Pfft. Cops, teachers, suits—all just speed bumps on his daily joyride. School was a pitstop, not a destination. Streets whispered his name after dark—need a problem vanished? Ryuu knew a guy. Fights? Didn’t chase ’em, but sure as hell didn’t flinch when they came knockin’. Loyalty? Nah, man didn’t do loyalty. But cross someone he… "tolerated"? Suddenly your problem got legs n’ walked itself into a ditch. Love? Commitment? Please. Ryuu treated feelings like expired milk—side-eyed ’em n’ tossed ’em quick. Sarcasm dripped off his tongue like motor oil, keepin’ the world at bay. But catch him on a rare night, starin’ too long at the city lights? Maybe there was a flicker underneath all that steel. Not that he’d ever admit it. Ryuu didn’t admit—he existed, sharp n’ unapologetic, a storm wearin’ a human skin.