#electric bike safety

[techdriveplay]

The Rise of Electric Motorcycles

The hum of an engine revving up no longer solely belongs to the realm of gasoline-powered beasts. A quiet revolution is underway on the roads, marked by the increasing presence of electric motorcycles. As the world becomes more conscious of environmental sustainability and technological advances make the once-distant dream of efficient electric mobility a reality, electric motorcycles are swiftly…

[krissym72]

(via Tips for Safe Electric Bike Commuting - Electric Bike Explorer)

[aonegadgets]

Electric Bike Safety Checklist for new and experienced riders

Electric Bike Safety Checklist for new and experienced riders Traffic Attention ✓ Protective Helmet ✓ Avoid Startup Speed ✓ Tires Pressure ✓ Use Reflectors ✓ Stay in your lane #electricbikesafety #ebikesafety #ebike #electricbikesafetytips

The number of people who ride electric bikes regularly increases daily. There are a lot of new riders following the trend. Therefore it’s important to discuss about Electric Bike Safety. Getting a new electric bike is a fantastic opportunity to evaluate your riding abilities, whether you haven’t ridden in a while or are an intermediate rider. Every time you go out on your electric bike, you…

[randomyounglady]

Cars are screaming metal death traps that travel at ridiculous speeds. Bikes, motorcycles, and electric scooters are exposed metal death traps that go at crazy speeds. They're dangerous contraptions that don't feel as dangerous due to normalization. Heck, you'd think they're the safest things in the world based on how people maneuver them. You're in so much of a hurry that you'd risk ramming into pedestrians or weaving around cars just so you can cut off a few seconds.

But what do those seconds mean when your head is popped like a watermelon by an oncoming car? Would the time save be worth it if you splattered your head on the lamp post at the end of your street?

This post may be motivated by Chef Ramsay's recent bike accident, but it would have been just as pertinent yesterday as it is today. Take the extra seconds to put on your helmet. Take the extra seconds to interact with other people safely, be it on the road or the sidewalk. Take the time to do so even when going "just down the road". You're in a death trap that could turn you into goo in less seconds than those time saves could ever give. Treat it as such.

[entertainment-and-you]

Lyric Graffiti X: The Future of Urban Commuting

In a recent showcase, the Lyric Graffiti X has been introduced as the latest innovation in electric bikes, promising to revolutionize urban commuting. This high-performance e-bike boasts a robust 6061 aluminum frame and is equipped with 16-inch moto rims, CST dual sport moto tires, and a moto tube for enhanced durability and performance. The bike features the Mura MT5 four-piston hydraulic disc…

[svitchbike]

E-biking for Beginners: Tips and Tricks

Are you new to the world of e-biking and eager to explore the benefits of electric bicycles? This comprehensive guide offers valuable tips and tricks for beginners, covering everything from choosing the right e-bike to mastering basic riding techniques. Discover the ins and outs of e-bike maintenance, safety, riding skills, and how to make the most of your electric biking experience. Continue reading.

[80sbrandis]

Your E-Bike's Sanctuary: Why Keeping it Cool Matters More Than You Think

Introduction

Hey, e-bike enthusiasts! Let's talk about the one place you definitely don't want to park your prized ride: a scorching hot garage. Your e-bike deserves some serious love, and where you store it can make a world of difference. Curious why? Buckle up as we unveil the crucial reasons behind safeguarding your wheels from that blazing garage heat.

Understanding the Heat Effect on Your E-Bike

Your e-bike is a sophisticated piece of machinery, but it's not a fan of extreme temperatures, especially the sweltering kind. Here's why it matters:

Battery Woes: High temps spell bad news for your e-bike's battery. The heat speeds up chemical reactions inside, shortening its life span and hurting its performance. Ouch.

Tire Trials: Heat messes with tire pressure, causing premature wear and tear. And that's not all – it weakens the tire compounds, putting your grip and safety at risk.

Component Chaos: From sensitive electronics to materials like plastics, excessive heat can wreak havoc, messing with efficiency and longevity.

The Hazards of a Hot Garage Hangout

Battery Bust: The scorching heat can zap the life out of your lithium-ion battery, reducing its capacity and how far your e-bike can take you. Not cool.

Mechanical Meltdown: Think plastics warping, adhesives giving way, and metal parts expanding – all due to extreme heat. It's a recipe for structural issues.

Safety Stakes: Weak components, especially tires, spell danger on the road, leading to potential accidents or breakdowns.

The A-Game Storage Strategy

Cool Digs: Keep your e-bike in a chill spot, away from blazing sunlight and extreme temperatures. Aim for a cozy 50-70°F (10-21°C).

Battery TLC: If you're storing it long-term, juice up the battery to around 50-80% and stow it separately in a cool area for a longer, healthier life.

Routine Checks: Make it a habit to inspect your e-bike regularly post-storage to ensure it's tip-top for your next joy ride.

Conclusion

Your e-bike isn't just a set of wheels; it's your ticket to freedom and adventure. And you want it running at its prime, right? So, ditch that hot garage hangout, follow these savvy storage tips, and watch your e-bike thank you with endless thrilling rides.

Remember, a little care keeps your wheels in top gear. Shield your e-bike from the heat, give it some proper storage love, and gear up for those epic journeys that await!

[search-ev-official]

Electric Bikes vs. Conventional Bikes: Which is the Better Choice in India?

In recent years, the popularity of EV bikes has surged, offering an alternative mode of transportation that is both eco-friendly and efficient. As the demand for sustainable mobility options grows, many individuals in India are pondering the choice between e-bikes and conventional bikes. 

In this blog, we will dive into the nooks and crannies of the topic of electric bikes in India and how they differ from the conventional ones. We will examine various aspects to help you make an informed decision about which option is the better choice for you.

Read More -> https://bit.ly/46MaN6C

[ijustwant2ride]

Motorcycle News: An impressive new WORLD RECORD and the Motocompo is back!

WOW, I hope I am still riding at his age!!!! Not sure this is an improvement over the original.

[the-learning-hub]

Discover the Top Electric Bikes for Effortless Commuting: A Comprehensive Guide

Discover the Top Electric Bikes for Effortless Commuting: A Comprehensive Guide

Are you tired of sitting in traffic, paying for gas, and dealing with the stress of a daily commute? Look no further than an electric bike! These eco-friendly, convenient, and affordable modes of transportation are taking the world by storm, and for good reason. Not only do they provide a fun and efficient way to get around, but they also offer a host of benefits for both your wallet and the…

[foldingfittedsheets]

The kids. In our complex. Make me so crazy. So there’s like 16 townhome units. It’s a smallish enclosed loop. For this reason we have a ton of kids in the neighborhood who bike and play in the parking lot.

The PROBLEM. Is that they’re almost entirely unsupervised and do not follow any kind of safety rules. When cars come they do not pull out of the way and wait. They just keep riding erratically around.

One little unsupervised two year old just stood in the middle of the lane and held a hand up to stop my car. His parents came out after a few minutes and laughed and I’m like MY GUYS YOU JUST TAUGHT YOUR KID TO BE UNSAFE ASSUMING CARS WILL SEE HIM!!!

A different time a six or seven year old was gearing up to try to outrace my car instead of pulling aside. I flipped my car into neutral and revved until she zipped out of the lane in a panic. Like. Tiny one. You are infinitely crushable. You do not fuck around, you need to get out of the way because you are a tiny thing that not all cars will see.

Another four or five year old was sitting in a place yesterday where we could have and almost did back into him!! Like. Why are you sitting here with the cars and no supervision???? There’s grassy areas behind the units and as much as I loathe the kids staring in my sliding door I prefer it to them trying to get run over.

Today I got home and a maybe three year old girl was riding an electric bike around. When she saw my car she sped up like we were playing chicken until I honked. Then she sullenly got off and left the bike in the lane so I couldn’t go. I was gesturing for her to move it before she finally realized the problem and pulled it to the side. I finally got to proceed toward my spot, driving past her while she gave me a thumbs up.

I found another bike sat in my parking space. I am about to start popping tires.

[qqueenofhades]

I am FULLY ONBOARD the Harris/Waltz train, tho before this i was leaning towards Mark Kelly (AZ is a swing state! He's an ASTRONAUT!) If you want or have time, no pressure, but any thoughts on what makes Waltz a better pick?

I like Mark Kelly too, and since he's married to Gabby Giffords (having run for public office after she got shot and could no longer do so) he would have been an amazing pick in terms of supporting the first female POTUS. But he is a less charismatic public speaker than Walz (for whatever that's worth, but politics is a mess of Aesthetics and Vibes that matter as much and/or more than actual facts) and more moderate/conservative. He's been a great senator and picking him would defuse some of the BORDER IMMIGRATION BLAH BLAH!!! scaremongering that Republicans love to run on, but it would also leave open the possibility of losing a special election and other dangers with the Democratic senate that we really need to minimize. So Walz is a better choice for that alone, but also:

He really has serious progressive credentials as governor, even if he was a fairly mainstream Democrat (who flipped a rural red House district in Minnesota that Democrats have not been able to win again after he left) during his 12 years in the House. This is an INCOMPLETE LIST of what he was able to do in two years with a one-seat Democratic majority in Minnesota:

A Climate Action Plan that included:

Investing in energy infrastructure

100% carbon-free electricity by 2040 goal

Transition off of fossil fuels and onto clean energy resources

Building more electric vehicle charging stations

Providing funding to help workers acquire new skills through apprenticeship programs in clean energy fields

Direct state funding for transit

Money for rail

Tax credit for e-bikes

Permitting form to fast-track clean energy projects

And that was in addition to:

Codified abortion access in Minnesota

Guaranteed paid sick time and paid family and medical leave

Funded replacing ALL LEAD PIPES IN THE STATE

Free school breakfasts and lunches for all

Made public college free

Stronger labor protections

Drivers’ Licenses for All

Voting Rights Act to reverse recent court rulings that make voting harder, including restored voting rights to convicted felons

Banning medical debt from credit bureaus

The "Taylor Swift Bill" requiring all ticket "junk fees" be shown up front

Banning most "junk fees"

No book bans

Protection for tipped workers

Banned non-competes

Legalized recreational cannabis

Gun control, including increased penalties for straw purchases of firearms, expanded background checks and enacted red-flag laws, passing gun safety measures that the GOP has thwarted for years

Made MN a Trans Refuge State, and required health plans to cover “medically necessary gender-affirming care.”

Pay increase for Uber and Lyft drivers

Elimination of the so-called “gay panic defense”

A ban on “doxxing” election workers

A prohibition on “swatting” elected officials

In March, during the height of the Gaza/uncommitted primary protests against Biden, Walz said that young people should be listened to and they had a right to be speaking up and the situation in Gaza was horrible and intolerable, without directly slamming Biden or getting involved in the issue in a way to draw negative headlines. Regardless of what you think about any of it, that is a very deft way to handle it and pairs well with Kamala's better responsiveness on the Gaza issue overall. That was a big part of the reason why Gen Z/younger voters were very excited about Walz despite him being an "old" (actually the same age as Kamala but he has joked that teaching high school for 20 years will do that to a guy) white guy. If half the battle in politics is making the right pick to excite your core voters and reach out to new ones, then Harris nailed it. As I have said in earlier posts, there was just too much energy with young voters FINALLY checking in when Harris became the candidate, to risk introducing a big ideological split with Shapiro.

Aside from that: the most insufferable Smart White-Bro Political Pundits (TM) are big mad about Walz, many Never Trumper Republicans thought they were entitled to a "moderate" in exchange for oh-so-generously lending us their vote against Trump and not run the risk that we might end up with someone *gasp* progressive, and the regular MAGA Republicans are hysterical, which means they're terrified. It's also incredibly hard to paint Literal Midwestern Stereotype Dad (football coach, social studies high school teacher, military veteran, etc) as THE EVIL END OF AMERICA in the way they desperately want to do, though the fact that they're trying shows that they've got literally nothing. The fact that Kamala picked Walz against the PREVAILING WISDOM!!! that she had to take Shapiro (for whatever reason that might have been) is also a good sign, because by far the most genuine and extensive enthusiasm that I have seen from Democratic voters, especially those feeling burned out or disillusioned or angry with specific policy choices of the current administration, was for Walz. Having everyone excited for the pick beforehand, effectively using the "weird" line, and rallying behind the guy, only for her to actually go for him, is inspiring. It makes people feel like they're being heard and the Democrats have decided to win by being progressive, and not just endlessly Catering To The (Imaginary) Middle as they have always been told to do (and often done). That alone is MASSIVE.

Walz is tremendously funny, personable, has Democrats from AOC to Joe Manchin praising it (again, shocking), was right out the gate supporting Kamala, has already been majorly successful on TV, was by far the most progressive-on-policy picks of the VP finalists, is incredibly, hilariously wholesome and small-town Midwestern (he's the JD Vance that they wish JD Vance was), and is already sending ActBlue gangbusters with donations again. And when you're getting this kind of response on the Cursed Bird Hellsite, just:

Just. I don't know what's happening either. But let's enjoy it, and then work hard, because we gotta fucking do this and for possibly the first time this entire year, I really think we might. Heck yeah.

[mokulule]

The Number You Have Called Cannot Be Reached - Part 14

Let's just ignore I've updated this story three days in a row, @ailithnight asked me to make them cry, so we're giving the challenge a shot. This was written today and may very well have typos. Also it literally can't go on like this, I have work tomorrow.

First | Masterlist

Ship: Dead on Main (Danny/Jason) Fandom: DP x DC Summary:

Danny is just trying to build a portal home, becoming a thief was just an unfortunate side effect of that goal. Now if only this vigilante family would just leave him alone. Especially Red Hood - the semi retired crime lord whose ghost-like presence keeps drawing Danny to him.

Jason had called ahead to let them know he was coming to the cave and then promptly turned off his comms again. He didn’t need to hear their questions. Not on comms. It was bad enough he had to face them. 

He drove into the cave, his resolve the only thing keeping him from turning right around. Everyone but Bruce were in their civvies at this point. Jason shouldn’t be so surprised Bruce had called it a night. Not after ghost jumping off a roof in front of them. 

Bruce did care, and Jason could tell himself that now without poison dripping into his ear about how it was only to keep his little soldiers at the top of their game. He was too exhausted to appreciate the missing put at the moment, he just wanted to go home and try to forget for a moment that Ghost had left again, but he had to do this. 

Dick was sitting with an arm around Tim on the meeting table. Tim looked wrecked - good, he thought grimly and immediately felt guilty. He didn’t even have the pit to blame and yes Jason was angry about what had happened tonight, but really he was just as angry at himself. Jason might have tried to make them understand that Ghost needed help, but he’d done a poor job of it and they didn’t hear his grief for themselves. 

They hadn’t felt Ghost’s terror in their electricity trap, his desperate fight to control his panic, they hadn’t felt it as he fell or the shock of pain as he landed. They hadn’t felt the panic reach a fever pitch and then utter silence.

They hadn’t been 50 yards away on another building, running, because they knew something terrible was about to happen. They weren’t the ones who thought they might have already been too late even as they caught him out of the air. 

But Ghost had been alive. He’d been breathing. Panicked, but breathing, yet still utter silence. 

Jason had been terrified. 

And yes he was angry. He should have never let it get so far even in his desperation. They needed to stop chasing him. It wasn’t working. 

It had nearly cost him his life. 

He was a fucking burglar, not a rogue! He wasn’t a murderer who would kill someone if he wasn’t stopped. They should have never used this level of force. They never would have used this level of force if it wasn’t for Jason and his erratic behavior. It was on Jason, not Tim who was a seventeen year old kid just trying to keep this cursed family together. 

Damian was sitting at the meeting table a few seats away from where Tim and Dick were sitting on the table and for him to willingly be that close to Tim without any needle-ing commentary it was practically the equivalent of a hug. 

Jason sighed, then pulled off his helmet and left it on the bike. He couldn’t hide behind the safety of its smooth surface, not for this. He walked over to the meeting table, knowing it would draw the rest over there.

Damian took one look at him, with that sharp judgment that was always in his eyes. “You let him get away.” Jason grit his teeth, refusing to rise to what was just an observation, but it had been a trying night and it was tempting to snap, that he didn’t let him do anything. 

“His powers returned,” he said finally, carefully even-toned.

Tim looked up shortly at that and Dick squeezed his shoulder. Normally, Tim would have been on that detail like a hawk. How long did it last? Did the powers return gradually or all at once? Were there other adverse effects? And probably more questions Jason had not even thought to consider because that was just Tim. Now, Tim was silent.

“Jason?” Bruce asked carefully from somewhere to Jason’s left. Jason couldn’t look at him. Last time they’d been this close Jason had almost shot him. 

Stephanie and Cass joined Tim and Dick to sit on the table, and Damian allowed Cass’ hand in his hair only because she could kick his ass six ways ’til Sunday. Duke was the last to join their loose circle standing to Jason’s right. 

Jason didn’t have any excuses left. He even saw Alfred standing a ways further by the wall. Everyone was here. Babs was definitely still on comms with Bruce, even if the cowl was pulled back. 

He tried to take a steadying breath without being too obvious about it. He probably failed, horribly. 

“You have to leave Ghost to me.”

“Jay… you’ve not exactly…” Dick said carefully, the only one willing to even go near the fact that Jason should be the last person to go after Ghost. That he had been far from rational about the whole thing. That he was invested, personally more than they could even guess. 

“I need-“ Jason looked to the ceiling, breathing for just a moment, before looking down again. “I need you to trust me on this, to let me handle it. What happened tonight… it cannot happen again.” 

He clenched his hands, gathered every shred of courage, then looked to Bruce. 

“Dad, please…” He ignored the gasps from his siblings, from shock or outrage that he of all people pulled this card, maybe both, it didn’t matter. Jason only had eyes for Bruce’s stunned face, for the way his jaw tightened and his eyes were moist under pained brows. He only had ears for the way Bruce’s voice broke partway as he said: “Of course, Jaylad.”

“Thank you,” Jason whispered, afraid his voice would fail him if he spoke any louder. He held Bruce’s gaze with his as he said it, because he deserved to know how much that meant to him. The urge to go over to Bruce was strong, to see if his dad would hug him if given the chance - he thought he would, but that, that would be too much, and the pit would be back in a couple of days. 

Jason couldn’t handle any more tonight. 

He gave Bruce a tight nod and turned to leave, avoiding looking at the reactions of his siblings. 

Out the corner of his eyes as he left, he absently noted the purple backpack he’d stolen from Ghost sitting by the evidence board and that metal cylinder, Ghost had left behind the night Jason had met him, sitting on a shelf amongst other knickknacks. 

In the back of his mind an idea was taking shape, but he'd only realize that the next day.

-

I made myself cry writing this, that happens very rarely. Jason has had a really bad day, but it was the father-son feelings that did me in.

I do not know when I will update next time, the chapter this part belongs to is like 2/3rds done now, but it's the middle I need to fill out. Oh well, I'm enjoying the writing bug while it lasts. Update: Next

[three-dee-ess]

Hey I saw your post about the puffy battery and my 3DS has that (it’s starting to crack the case). I knew it was affecting the battery life but I didn’t know that it was dangerous. How would you go about repairing/replacing this?

ok this is going on my FAQ after this. possibly in my pinned post.

Contact your local *non emergency* number and ask them how to dispose of a puffy lithium ion battery. Follow their instructions.

To remove the battery from the case (which is the best thing to do in that situation) follow the instructions linked in my pinned post "for physical 3DS issues" (https://www.ifixit.com/Device/Nintendo_Handheld_Console)

Be as careful as possible to NOT puncture the battery.

for getting a replacement, just look at the number on your 3DS's battery and type that into amazon. Should be plenty of results, all around $10~$20 USD and they should work perfectly fine. check the reviews if you are worried.

Again, if you have any battery that is bending or breaking the case, is is a legitimate explosion hazard. That battery can explode into a fiery ball of toxic gas. It is in your best interest to dispose of it as soon as possible.

this also goes for batteries inside of ANY electronic device. Switch batteries, macbook batteries, phone batteries, electric bike batteries are also examples of lithium ion batteries that get a lot of usage and often can get overcharged.

resource links:

[slttygeto]

༉‧₊˚. PLAYLIST

༉‧₊˚. episode 05: twenty eight.

preview: ". . .It’s never been this bad with you. Hanma can’t recall the last time your words sounded as spiteful and bitter as they do now. A side of you he never thought he would see after losing you for a decade—but it can’t be helped when he’s adding fuel to the fire. Clearly, neither of you is ready to back down from the argument and Hanma was starting to shiver from the cold. . ."

content warning: v!olence, bl00d, cursing, thr0wing up, mentions of emetophobia, self depricating thoughts, arguments, angsty.

word count: 6k

➜ ┊: @softshuji @mitsuwuyaa @kariatenoh @reiners-milkbiddies @citrusteaa @bejeweled-night-33

➜ MASTERLIST

➜ note: guess who's back after months of writer's block, me!!! this chapter is one hell of a ride. I have been experimenting with the next step for at least a month and a half now and nothing sounded good to me. each time it would make me cringe so hopefully you like this chapter! i feel like i rarely do this, but what do you think is gonna happen next? do we like hanma? what do we think of the reader's decision? share with me your thoughts!!

༉‧₊˚. reblog + comment!

Growing up as a boy in Shinjuku wasn’t the most ideal plan, but Hanma doesn’t like to find excuses for the way he turned out. For the evil that he is–and is constantly surrounded by. For his own lack of empathy, of human emotion. Hanma doesn’t think it has anything to do with his childhood. After all, he can barely remember bits and pieces here and there–some that stand out to him more than the rest. Most of which include you haunting his every thought. 

At 12, Hanma first tasted violence against his father, landing blows with a fury that sent him to juvenile detention for a year. The months passed in a haze of paint peeling off the walls and whispered threats, but soon he was back on the streets of Shinjuku, a boy free again yet changed. 

The night was cold and dark. A single broken lamppost flickered weakly, its light barely cutting through the shadows. The electric buzzing pulled him from his thoughts, a sudden awareness that he'd been lost in his mind the whole walk home. 

His ears shift from the electric sound to the heavy, dull sound coming from a dark alleyway. A crack, then a moan in pain. It is accompanied with manic laughing, giggles even–and his feet start dragging him to the source of the commotion.

Going out after 10PM in Shinjuku was generally a safe option. The city was a bustling area known for its nightlife and entertainment. There were usually plenty of people around, even late at night. However, Hanma’s neighborhood wasn’t necessarily the safest. 

An old, poor neighborhood. Nestled between tall buildings and fancy shops, giving the people a false sense of being in one of the fanciest areas in the city. But it was far from being the truth. Hanma glances at the buildings, a mix of rusted metal and peeling paint glaring at him. He was used to the sight of worn out material and balconies filled with old bicycles. He could even see his own from where he was standing, a birthday gift from his father from 3 years ago, which meant that Hanma had outgrown it with the speed at which his limbs were getting long. 

Given the reputation of his neighborhood, this meant that people who would get beat up around here were oftentimes the ones who had fallen victim to the false sense of safety in the area. 

Hanma’s sandals drag against the concrete floor as he approaches the commotion, hands buried in the pockets of his shorts and the same uninterested look on his face doesn’t budge when he is greeted with the bruised and beaten up body of a boy around the same age as him. The guys responsible for this freeze when they turn around and see that there was another person present, a witness to the violence they had just committed on the boy who had refused to give them his bike as he was riding back from night classes. Their eyes landed on Hanma, who at 13, was only limbs and bones. One of them lets out a chuckle.

“You lookin’ to join him?” 

Hanma’s golden eyes snap from the boy’s figure to the one who talked. He looked older than him, perhaps Three or so years. 

“Is that an invitation?””

“I wouldn’t say so.” Another one adds, against the concrete wall. Hanma notes that he tries to appear smug and confident. He had an idea that the boy was quite the opposite. 

“More of a threat I’d say.” 

“I see.”

A beat of silence follows his nonchalant response, before his fist collides with the jaw of the leader of the trio. The alley filled with a cacophony of groans and the shuffle of worn out shoes on concrete. The leader lunged, fists swinging wildly, his breath heavy with panic as he tried to land a single punch on Hanma’s face.

Three bloodied and beaten up bodies later, Hanma watches as the bruised up boy crawls away from him in fear, curling on himself. Hanma doesn’t say anything as he approaches the boy. He stops and leans down, face dangerously close to his.

“Get the fuck out of here.” 

It takes Hanma 2 more years before getting nicknamed Shinjuku’s reaper. He says that he earned the title. And for the first time since forever, Hanma had finally found a source of entertainment, a way to kill time. However, he hadn’t killed. Not yet at least. 

When Hanma is 16, he spots you as you walk out of school. Your skirt was short, thigh high socks adorning your legs and he wondered just how soft your skin must be. But that was far from being his priority–not when he was walking around the area with blood coating his white shirt. 

He doesn’t expect you to spot him in the place where he is sitting, with a bottle of water in hand, desperately trying to get the blood off of his clothes. Not that it’s ever worked. However, you start approaching him and Hanma looks up from his crouched position, golden eyes boring into yours when you step in front of him with a frown adorning your gorgeous lips. (He’s always wanted to bite them).

“Are you okay?” 

He tilts his head to the side, quirking an eyebrow in confusion and perhaps a little offended that you were asking him of all people that question. The hint of worry painting your sympathetic tone, the slight furrow to your eyebrows as you keep glancing between his bloodied shirt and the bottle in his hands. Hanma feels something in him about to snap in your presence. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He replies gruffly, but you can’t seem to find any malice in his voice. Or the way he was staring you down despite you towering over him. 

“You have blood all over you.”

Oh. 

You didn’t know that it wasn’t his. And Hanma never told you otherwise. Instead, he took the handkerchief that you had offered him with a dull face–stuffed it in his pocket and watched as you walked away, never asking him to return the fabric. But Hanma being the teenager that he was, thought it would be the perfect opportunity to find you again and perhaps get to know you.

(How do people start conversations again?)

Like a ghost of a memory, Hanma can almost remember the feeling of the handkerchief in his hand. He remembers grazing his thumb over the letters etched onto the fabric, each time coming up with his own guess of what your first and last name were. The feeling of the letter H. is forever engraved in the forefront of his mind. The initial of your last name. 

The man’s trip down memory lane is cut short when he hears the sound of annoying flickering above him. Hanma’s eyes squint as he looks up, the electrical buzzing mocks him as it pulls him back to the present. His body aware. Alive yet inexplicably numb. 

The built up rust on the chair’s legs make a creaoing noise as Hanma leans back, soulless eyes staring at the dead body with a cold, unblinking gaze. Devoid of any emotion. Reflecting no light or life. He doesn’t remember when he first killed, but this was definitely not the last. His brain is all foggy as he tries to make sense of when his lust for blood first started–what made the death rattle sound so captivating, like a broken record–stuck in his head in a long, torturing loop. 

He doesn’t know. Hanma barely knows himself as he is. Referring to himself as Kisaki’s right hand was the closest thing to an identity. He wasn’t a son to anyone, nor a brother. And definitely not a lover.

The events from that night play on repeat in the forefront of his head, no longer trying to hide in the backseat where he keeps most of his unwanted memories. Instead, you plagued his mind. Like a shadow clinging onto the corner of his thoughts, always present–always there. You wouldn’t let him escape.

“Fuck you’re so sweet,”

You moan into his mouth when he angles his hips a certain way, Hanma grins victoriously against your lips and uses his hands to grab the back of your knees. Pushing them to your chest, he enjoys the sight of you taking his cock like a sweet girl. You’re so cock hungry, practically begging him to fuck you silly with those glossy eyes staring deeply into his.

He remembers the look on your face as you slept peacefully in your bed, still dirty with his own cum and spit–yet somehow looking so angelic. As though he hadn’t just ruined you. Like you didn’t have your legs wrapped around his waist and were begging him to fuck you harder, deeper–

Hanma’s finger twitches. A singular bullet cuts through the terrifying silence. 

One of the two bodyguards standing before him falls to the ground with a loud thud, his partner looks at his dead body in shock. Terrified, he cannot seem to pull his eyes away from the blood that starts to pool around the body. He is violently pulled out of his numbed state. Hanma’s chair makes a loud, creaking noise he pushes it further back and stands up. Golden eyes stare at his bloodied brown leather shoes and he clicks his tongue in annoyance.

Almost as though the sight of blood was getting on his nerves. Like he didn’t just take someone’s life unprovoked.  

Do you need a reason to hurt someone if you have power? 

“Clean it up.” Hanma’s cold voice echoes in the empty room, followed by retreating footsteps. As he reaches for his jacket, the chair tips and falls too the ground but neither he nor the bodyguard flinch at the loud noise. 

He doesn’t look back as he steps out of the room, simply typing something away on his phone and scoffing at the message that appears on the screen.

We need to talk.

“Fucking bastard.” 

—

The artificial light coming from the kitchen cuts through the thick shadows in your hallway, glaring at you from where you’re kneeling on the bathroom floor. Your apartment has never felt emptier. The door to your room is open– pushed ajar in a frenzy and the carpet in your hallway is moved to the side, messily. As though you almost tripped over it as you rushed to the end of the hallway where your bathroom is. At 2AM, you don’t expect people to still be outside, and it makes your chest ache and burn when you hear the occasional humming of a car driving by your building. 

And then you lurch forward again.

The bathroom is filled with heavy stillness, punctuated only by the sound of your stuttered breathing. You're hunched over the cold, unforgiving porcelain of the toilet, your body trembling and weak as your hand grips your hair, pushing it out of the way. Bile rises up to your throat, tears coating your lash line before you’re lurching forward yet again. Your stomach was empty. You didn’t have food to throw up again. 

You wish you could say that you were starting to get used to this, but you’ve always been scared of throwing up. Something about the taste of bile, the terrifying feeling of losing control over your body–the gagging and heaving. It scared you. Your bottom lip trembles and your entire body shakes as you brace yourself for another wave of nausea. The acidic taste burns in your throat, mixing with the metallic tang of fear and sleep deprivation. 

You’ve been throwing up all day. It simply wouldn’t go away.

When you lean away from the porcelain bowl and rest your body against the wall in exhaustion, you pray that your brain spares you yet another flashback. Another reminder of what had triggered this wave of nausea. You can’t get the feeling of his hands off of you, or how dirty and sickening it felt to wake up and feel that his cum was still inside you—the lack of proper aftercare, no sweet words whispered into your hair. Not the Hanma you thought he would be years later. He vanished like a whisper in a crowded room, fading so quickly that you almost wonder if he was ever there to begin with. Almost.

When you glance down at your thighs, you cringe at the stickiness of his cum despite having showered three times. You can feel the ghost touch of his hands gripping your thighs, his voice whispering filth into your ear as he pounded into you like a God. Last night, he was like a God to you. He knew where to touch, where to kiss, how to leave you breathless and clinging onto him like a lifeline–you felt stupid for being so enamored by the man and his dick. For letting him pull the plug so easily, rendering you the lifeless mess that you were on your bathroom floor. 

Beating yourself up was no longer an option though, you didn’t have the energy to hate yourself for what had happened. For thinking he had changed despite being so wary of him since day one. You couldn’t even say that you didn���t ignore the red flags because you did. That man was dangerous, and yet you still thought that you could get him to show a different side. 

The quietness in the bathroom is replaced with weak sobs.Your cheeks feel wet and hot and you wipe your tears and snot with the back of your hand. It feels so pathetic to be crying over a man, but even more so when it’s someone you initially thought you could trust. Small, pathetic, dirty–and the list of things he made you feel goes on. 

How pitiful of you to think you were any special to him. 

When the nausea fades away, you feel numb.

The burn in your heart is replaced with an indifference that magically lifts all of the weight off of your chest. You don’t process nor do you remember how you got off the floor, but your hands were now wet and the tap was running. Water splashes against your face. You don’t recognize yourself as you stare at your own reflection in the mirror. There’s exhaustion, dark circles sitting heavy under your eyes. You blink, then you are in the hallway.

Everything after that is a haze, unimportant to your brain as it moves on autopilot and carries you to your room, on your bed and then under the covers. The plushness of the pillow supports your head well, then you finally allow your neck and your jaw to relax. You had a headache, you realize. But it isn’t painful enough for your body to not allow itself to shut down–you don’t fight it.. You were tired.

You have work in the morning, your cat to feed and a few other errands to run. You don’t want to think about him. Just for a day, you want to forget your responsibilities, who you are.

Just for one day.

—

One does wonder how Toman went from a normal biker gang to the corrupt, ruthless, criminal organization that it became. Upon taking a closer look, at its new leader–everything starts to make sense. The way it’s driven by ambition, manipulation, and violence. All of it reflects the dark goals of its new leader. Kisaki Tetta. 

Under Kisaki's leadership, Toman became a shadow of its former self. What was once a gang driven by camaraderie, a sense of brotherhood, and a rough but genuine pursuit of justice, turned into a power-hungry and ruthless organization. Kisaki's manipulative nature corrupted the gang's original values, prioritizing control, fear, and personal gain over any sense of loyalty or righteousness. Everyone was constantly on edge, wary of betraying Kisaki's trust or failing to meet his expectations. His manipulative tactics ensured that everyone was either too scared or too loyal—and his form of punishment consisted of a single word.

Violence. 

Hanma embodied the violence that Kisaki needed to ensure that Toman was under his control. If Kisaki’s reaction to betrayal was scary, Hanma’s was terrifying. Savage, barbaric, ruthless. Tall man turned into an even more monstrous version of himself with the snap of Kisaki’s fingers.

However, that didn’t mean that Hanma was obedient. He was far from that.

Up on the last floor of the impressive, imposing building where all of Toman’s business takes place, resided the meeting room. A place where words are shared amongst the dangerous, corrupt men, with the sole promise of never telling a soul. However, the room was eerily silent. The knife that could cut through the thick tension was a testament to that. 

The long, round table is empty and the chairs are all pushed to the side messily. Tall windows overlook the gorgeous view of the lively city of Tokyo, the only sound that fills the conference room is the air conditioner and the honking of cars. When Kisaki first designed this room, he made sure that the walls were soundproof. And that whatever is shared behind those walls, stays inside. He did so partly to ensure the privacy of matters being shared amongst gang members, and to guarantee that no one outside would be able to hear what was going on.

There is a singular chair in the middle of the room. It stands out in an unsettling, uneasy manner. Perhaps because of its awkward placement, facing away from the table and more towards the door. Or maybe because Hanma appears cartoonish as he sits on the chair, long limbs and a bloodied face. Messy clothes that look like they had been almost forced off of his skin. 

Another harsh punch lands on Hanma’s face, his head whips to the side as he feels the blood trickle down his nose and he turns to look at the man before him with intense, golden eyes. Kisaki’s jaw clenches along with his fist and he raises it in the air. 

“You fuckin’ sick bastard.” 

The crazed smile on Hanma’s face makes Kisaki pull away from the man who was untied, still armed and so relaxed despite being repeatedly assaulted by the much shorter, weaker man. It was deeply unsettling even to a man as disturbing as Kisaki.   

“Nothin’ new to you.” Hanma’s tongue peeks out of his mouth to lick the blood trickling down his nose, the metallic taste feels euphoric against his taste buds and he bites his bottom lip. Harshly. Until it draws blood, and Kisaki’s chest is heaving, exhausted and filled with a fury that eggs on Hanma’s crazed state. 

“I’m warnin’ ya,” the short man walks towards the other side of the room, grabbing a few napkins to wipe his hands. The back of his hand then pushes away his sweaty strands of hair that were sticking to his forehead, before grabbing a bottle of water. “Either you fix your fucking self, or I put a bullet through your head.” 

When he hears no response, Kisaki turns around and realizes the grave mistake he made of lowering his guard in the presence of a man as unpredictable as Hanma. The cold barrel of the gun kisses his forehead, and his own icy blue eyes meet the tall man’s golden ones. 

“Put a bullet through my head, huh?” Sarcasm seeps into Hanma’s cold tone, and a scoff escapes his dry lips as he presses the gun harder against his leader’s forehead. “Gettin’ tired of me?” 

“Of your sick fucking games, yeah.” 

“So what if I killed a guy? That’s never been a problem to ya.”

“You killed one of the men under Bonten you piece of shit–!” Kisaki groans when he feels the back of the gun make harsh contact with his jaw, then Hanma’s fingers are pulling on his hair. His roots burn, and the angle at which Hanma’s making him stare at him makes his neck ache. 

“Watch your fucking tone with me,” Hanma sneers, nose scrunched up. This was the most emotion the man has shown since the start of the long, strenuous meeting. “You think I respect you?” a manic laugh escapes his lips. “I never did. I stayed ‘cause I thought you,” and he pulls at the shorter man’s hair again. “could keep me entertained.” 

“It must’ve worked if you stayed this long.” 

When neither Hanma nor Kisaki make an attempt to speak, nor move–Hanma’s hand slowly but carefully lets go of the shorter man’s hair. Followed by the gun retreating back to the holster that’s strapped to his pants’ belt. The room suddenly feels colder than usual, the sudden drop of adrenaline sends shivers down Hanma’s spine and the heat that was coursing through his body evaporates the moment he steps away from Kisaki to stare at his reflection in the tall windows. 

Shit, he looked rough. There was caked up blood in his hair, on his clothes. The buttons on his blouse were gone and his tie was messily undone. He is surprised he doesn’t have a black eye. Kisaki doesn’t aim that high, he thinks. But he still looks like he got beaten up. It doesn’t necessarily hurt, but it stings when he licks his lips. 

“You made a mess.” Kisaki announces as he walks towards the mini fridge situated in the deep corner of the conference room. “With Bonten. You made a huge fucking mistake.”

“I’ll take care of it–”

“Nah, that’s not the problem here–” the door to the fridge slams loudly and Kisaki crosses the room in a few, long strides. It’s impressive given his short stature. “You’ve been acting like a dick since the night you said you’re visiting her.” He stops in front of him and raises an eyebrow, eyes glaring daggers at Hanma’s now bare but bruised fingers. 

The leader still shoves a beer in Hanma’s hand who stands there, dumbfounded. Obviously, a man as smart and as calculating as Kisaki would be able to read through his bullshit. However, Hanma didn’t know how to approach the situation, nor did he know if he would be able to say it how it is. He didn’t have that kind of relationship with Kisaki, and he wasn’t going to spill his worries to the same man whom he pointed a gun at only a few moments prior.

Silence drapes over the two like a dense fog. It fills the room, suffocates it while obscuring the path of conversation and leaving the two men uncertain of what to do or say next. 

“I have to go.”

“I know.”

No questions asked, Kisaki allows his right hand to grab his belongings and rush out of the office, creating loud footsteps in his wake. Hanma’s big already big stature makes him look even more terrifying when he uses his physical prowess for his own benefit. He sloppily presses a button in the elevator and waits. Impatiently, the sound of his foot tapping against the sleek, reflective surface of dark granite, reaches his ears. He grows even more restless. The expensive watch strapped to his wrist seems to be mocking him, it refuses to go past 10:34PM and he wants to smack it against the walls. 

Soon enough, he hears the loud chime of the elevator blaring through the speakers installed inside. Stepping out of the moving platform, he is greeted by the dimly lit, expansive space that exudes an air of both luxury and danger. The floor is polished black marble, reflecting the faint lighting that runs along the edges of the ceiling. The lights cast eerie shadows on the floor, creating a sense of unease as if the space itself is alive.

Hanma doesn’t come here often anyway, and he is only here so that he could grab one of his cars. He isn’t sure if the one he drove to get here is still outside or if Kisaki got rid of it–he can’t risk wasting precious time.

—

It’s cold outside. 

There was something indescribable about staying inside your dimly lit apartment on a rainy night. The soft, rhythmic pitter-patter of rain taps against your windows, it soothes your nerves. You can barely hear the world outside, but in the background, a podcast plays softly—one of your favorites to wind down after a long day. 

 You catch snippets of phrases: “... and that’s when they discovered...” and “...the investigators came across...” The sound of the host’s voice is soothing despite the contents of the episode, like a soft caress, barely registering in your full attention.

Sitting on the carpet near your couch, you’re half-distracted. Having already tidied up the kitchen counter, you were now folding a blanket on the couch. Your movements are slow, almost methodical, you make note of not waking up your sleeping cat. It’s been a rough past two weeks. Being able to pick yourself up after going through something as challenging as that night was a miracle.

However, you weren’t one to back down or let something consume you. You couldn’t deny that your chest burned still, that the tears would coat your lash line every now then, as you tried to go on about your day. Whilst filling out paperworks, making dinner, feeding your cat–when you went to bed. 

You stare at the pile of laundry sitting next to the couch, thrown carelessly and half-forgotten as you busied yourself in the kitchen a few hours prior. Your eyes catch a glimpse of the familiar fabric of your nightgown. Uneasy, you avert your gaze.

The rain continues its gentle tapping rhythm, mingling with the murmur of the podcast. You glance towards the windows, and reluctantly stand up to close the curtains. It was a bit past your bedtime, and waking up in the morning is going to be difficult given the relaxing setting that the rain was creating. 

The tapping gets a bit louder, and you pause your movements to look outside. It doesn’t look like sleet, or maybe your vision was worsening? 

You flinch when the tapping turns into full blown knocking. It certainly wasn’t coming from the living room where you were. 

“What the fuck,” you whisper shakily, a hand flying to your chest as you feel your heart squeeze in anxiety. This has never happened to you before. 

Warily, you reach for your phone and the knife you washed only moments prior–you turn to the hallway, and the knocking gets louder.

“Who’s there?” you yell out. You don’t sound confident.

The wooden floor beneath your feet creaks as you approach your room. You always keep the door open, but the window isn’t visible from where you were standing. You can barely hear the podcast anymore, your ears are ringing and the only thing you were aware of was how tight your chest felt. The burn in your stomach comes back as you push the door open. 

“I said who’s–”

Your words are cut short when you spot the same black suit. But the one thing that makes you hold your breath is its disheveled and bloody appearance, as well as the way he was leaning against the fire escape. 

Drenched from the downpour, Hanma seems to have given up on covering himself and lets it soak his clothes further. His elbow rests on the metal railing, the cigarette between his pointer and middle finger long extinguished from the rain. You don’t realize how long you stood there, frozen and unresponsive–until Hanma tries again.

“Open the window.”

You snap out of your thoughts, hand clenching the knife’s handle as your face turns sour.

“Leave.” 

You’re not sure if he can ever hear you from outside. He leans into the window, pressing his ear against the glass when he sees your lips moving then shakes his head.

“Can’t hear you, doll–”

“Don’t call me that. Leave.” 

Despite his worrying appearance, the cuts and bruises on his pretty face and the way the rain was making his clothes stick to his body, you don’t want him to win. The ongoing war inside your head, one that he had created and ran away from like the coward that he was–you can’t just forget that. 

“We have to talk.”

“There is nothing to talk about. Goodnight.” You pretend to leave the room. You were ready to sacrifice sleeping on your comfortable, warm bed tonight if it meant getting him to leave. But alas, Hanma was a stubborn man.

The loud knocking starts again, and you angrily stomp back inside your room.

“Stop that! I have neighbors and you’re causing a scene!”

“Then open the window, doll.” 

“I will call the police.” You show him your phone, hand visibly shaking from your heightened emotions. Everything was happening so fast. So unexpectedly. You were growing weary of the tall man appearing just when you were beginning to come to terms with his hurtful actions. 

“The police, huh?” You see him wipe his face, but it’s useless given how strong the rain was. “Didn’t take you for such a scaredy cat.”

“I’m not scared,” your high pitched voice would say otherwise. “You’re disturbing my night. I don’t want you here.”

Neither of you say a word after. The rain seems to slow down and the harsh sound of droplets tapping against your window is replaced with a soft pitter patter. Your breathing slows down, but the burn in your stomach is still there. The longer you stare into his golden eyes, the harder it gets to approach that damn window and let him inside. 

I can’t forgive you. You hurt me.

You avert your gaze, afraid that your face will give away the hurt that was eating you up from the inside. 

“I freaked out.” Now that the downpour has subsided, Hanma’s deep voice was loud and clear. You look up, he was no longer leaning against the railing, bracing himself on the brick walls and leaning into the window. “It was too much.”

“Us having sex was… too much?” You make no attempt to read between the lines. You don’t think he deserves the benefit of the doubt, not after the stunt he pulled.

“..Yeah.” 

“Oh fuck you.” Hanma watches as you angrily stomp towards the window to pull the curtains.

“Wait wait–!” 

“I waited long enough. For two weeks, I waited for you to send a text message–give me a call–nothing!” Heat rises to your cheeks and Hanma sees that your eyes are now glossed over. “You used me.”

“So did you–”

“You fucking left me without bothering to clean me up!” The hurt in your tone makes him flinch. He squeezes his eyes shut, furrowing his eyebrows. 

He can feel a headache coming in. 

“Do you always expect boyfriend treatment from your one night stands?” This man knew how to make your blood boil. 

“Boyfriend treatment? I feel bad for the women you’ve slept with.” You scoff. 

“This is why I fucking freaked out.” He was loud but you didn’t care about disturbing the neighbors anymore. “You’re taking is so fucking seriously like we’re dating or some shit.”

“I wasn’t waiting for you to act like a boyfriend. You’re a coward when it comes to love,” your words drip like venom. “I just thought that as my friend, you’d be decent enough and clean me up.” 

It’s never been this bad with you. Hanma can’t recall the last time your words sounded as spiteful and bitter as they do now. A side of you he never thought he would see after losing you for a decade—but it can’t be helped when he’s adding fuel to the fire.

Clearly, neither of you is ready to back down from the argument and Hanma was starting to shiver from the cold. He can’t even light a cigarette. He punches the wall lightly before straightening his back, staring to the side. 

Hanma came here to talk about what happened— He already knew you would be disappointed, slightly hurt–(ended up being more than slightly)--but he thought it would be over soon. That you’d listen. 

“I want–” Just as your jaw was starting to relax, Hanma breaks the silence. “I’m good at striking deals.”

“Huh?” 

“Did you like it?” you feel heat rush to your face and you’re staring at him dumbfounded.

“What?!”

“That night. Lack of aftercare aside, was I good?” Hanma knows the answer and you were aware of that. You didn’t want to stroke his ego, let him know that it was the best sex you had in a while. It would overshadow the hurt you were feeling, and you didn’t want to give him the impression that he was free to walk all over you.

“I felt good.”

“So did I.” 

The rain had stopped. The man’s voice was loud and clear as he confessed to you that having sex with you felt good. 

(That you made him feel good).

“I’m a busy man. I can’t be around all the time,” a tattooed hand wipes his face before staring at you. “But if either of us is feeling horny–”

“For fuck’s sake–” you are flustered as you scramble to unlock the window. Pushing it open, you refuse to meet his gaze as you step to the side. “Come inside.”

Chuckling to himself, a lazy grin adorns his lips as he steps inside your room. The set up is familiar to him, but he still can’t help but stare at your bed. Your mattress and pillows.

He is reminded that the comfort he felt in your space is only temporary, golden eyes glancing towards your arms crossed over your chest. The gesture brings attention the necklace adorning your chest, your fingers holding onto the pendent tightly.

Huh?

The tall man brushes off the foreign feeling in his stomach, focusing on the way you seem to be wary of him even whilst letting him in your bedroom.

"You're a busy man, but can become available for sex?"

"I am not always free"

"Right."

"Just every now and then."

"Sure."

"When it's really necessary"

"Mhm,"

The dynamic is entirely different compared to last time, and Hanma only has himself to blame. He watches as you silently retreat from your bedroom, disappearing into the hallway. You don't bother to check on him. There was no need to act like your apartment was a foreign territory to the tall man.

Stepping into the hallway, a loud "oof" bounces against the walls as a towel lands on his face. Removing it from his head, sun gilded eyes follow your figure as you sit on the couch, busying yourself with the remote control.

(He doesn't remember you ever liking TV).

"You'll catch a cold," you say in between skimming through channels, aimlessly.

The soft fabric ruffles his hair, but it's futile given how soaked he was. Hanma doesn't say a word. He places the towel on the kitchen counter, brown leathed shoes carrying him across the wooden floor towards the entrance.

Grabbing the door knob, the tall man speaks up.

"I'm...I have to go."

Golden eyes bore into your side, burning shapes and promises into your soul so intensely that you are forced to pull your eyes away from your big screen and towards the same disheveled man. Soaked and bloodied, you pull your eyes away.

"I know."

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