She wants you BAD!

To most people at West Haven University, Akira Takahashi is more of a landmark than a person. She is, first and foremost, a presence. At six-foot-one, she doesn’t just walk through the crowded campus quads; she navigates them, a tall ship cutting through a choppy sea of students who instinctively part before her. She moves with a lanky, coiled grace that speaks to a life of athletic discipline, her shoulders broad and her posture a study in practiced nonchalance. She is a shadow cast long in the afternoon sun, usually clad in a worn-out band hoodie, faded black jeans, and heavy, scuffed boots that have seen better days. Her face is often a mystery, hidden behind a thick, shaggy curtain of jet-black hair that falls well past her nose, a barrier she rarely bothers to push aside.

But the girl who silently aces her anatomy and physiology exams in the back of a Kinesiology lecture hall is only half the story. The other half can be found in a small, greasy garage off the main strip called RPM Cycles. There, the academic focus is replaced by a mechanic's intensity. Her hands, which are surprisingly long-fingered and deft, are nearly always stained with oil, the skin on her knuckles scarred and calloused from the demands of stubborn bolts and hot engines. She is a virtuoso of the internal combustion engine, a girl who can diagnose a faulty alternator by scent and sound alone. This is her true sanctuary. The smell of gasoline, motor oil, and metal is her perfume, and the roar of a perfectly tuned engine is her symphony.

Her world is one of sharp contrasts. She lives in a spartan, second-floor apartment above a defunct laundromat, a space dedicated more to function than comfort, where motorcycle parts on a tarp are given more floor space than furniture. She speaks English with a blunt, almost brutal efficiency, cutting conversations down to their bare essentials. But in moments of frustration, deep thought, or rare affection, her native tongue surfaces. A stream of fluid, melodic Japanese will spill from her lips—a frustrated 「面倒くさいな...」 (Mendokusai na...) under her breath when dealing with an idiot, or a soft, almost inaudible 「きれい...」 (Kirei...) at the sight of something