Chapter 22: "License to Thrill (or, Who Needs Paperwork When You've Got a Spirit Sensei?)"
In which I ride a bike I definitely don't have a license for and don't immediately end up in jail. Mostly thanks to supernatural bribery.
So there I was, face planted on a patch of grass, breathing like I'd just run five marathons while being chased by zombie cheerleaders. Every part of me ached. My ribs felt like they'd been auditioning for a percussion solo, and my lucky baseball bat? Bent at the handle and halfway to retirement.
And then the men in black walked in.
No, not the Will Smith kind. These guys were the serious kind—the kind of people who looked like they'd been carved out of granite and dressed in imported suits that probably cost more than my house.
They moved through the fog and moonlight like they owned the graveyard. One of them—tall, built like a tank, with a scar across his chin—walked right up to me, lowered his sunglasses (yes, sunglasses at night, because gangster fashion rules are weird), and said:
"Are you Daniel Fenton?"
I blinked at him from my crumpled position on the ground. "Last I checked."
He didn't smile. Instead, he did something way more terrifying.
He bowed.
"I'm honored to meet the disciple of Master Naruto," he said solemnly, like I was some kind of mystical warlord instead of a limping high schooler with grass stains on his jeans. "We'll take it from here."
Before I could say "Wait, what?", his crew moved into action. They checked on the unconscious thugs (still out cold—thank you, baseball bat) and started zip-tying them like pros. One guy pulled out a phone and casually called the police.
"I thought you guys were the police," I muttered.
"No," said Scarface, nodding at a black SUV that looked like it could survive an apocalypse. "We work for Mister Sebastian. Under orders from Master Naruto. You, young master, are under our protection."
Okay. Time out.
First off: Mister Sebastian? As in Sebastian, the infamous crime boss of Amity Park? The guy every other gangster feared and every parent blamed when their kid started listening to rap?
Second: Under protection? Young master??
I was still processing all that when they lifted me—very gently, I might add—into the backseat of their armored cruiser like I was made of glass. I expected cold leather, maybe handcuffs or creepy spy tech.
Instead, they handed me a juice box.
Apple flavor.
And a warm towel for my face.
And a literal first-aid kit, which one of them proceeded to use like he'd done battlefield triage in six countries. They patched me up faster than a school nurse on Parent-Teacher Day.
"Do you require painkillers, sir?" asked another guy, adjusting the car temperature for me. "Or perhaps something from our snack basket?"
"Snack basket?" I croaked.
"Yes. Mister Sebastian insists on hospitality for all of Master Naruto's proteges."
I sipped my juice, dazed. It was organic.
And cold.
"Is this… real?" I asked no one in particular.
Scarface, now in the passenger seat, gave me a nod of deep respect. "You are the Crown Prince of the Amity Underground now. Whether you want it or not. We serve you. Just say the word."
I stared at him.
I stared at my bent baseball bat lying on the floorboard.
I stared at my juice box.
And I did the only thing I could think to do.
"…do you guys have grape flavor?"
Note to self:
Getting beat up in a graveyard might suck, but getting treated like the heir to a supernatural mafia empire?
Kind of awesome.
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I sat on a tombstone.
Not because I was feeling particularly emo—though, to be fair, I'd just been in a back-alley graveyard brawl with five grown men who had more tattoos than IQ points. No, I sat there because my legs had the consistency of overcooked noodles, and the tombstone was the only seat that didn't smell like cigarette ash and broken dreams.
That's when Naruto appeared.
One minute, empty air. The next, poof—sage robes, spiky hair, and all the wisdom of a centuries-old battle monk mixed with the smug aura of a guy who's beaten actual gods in his spare time.
He sat on the tombstone across from me, arms resting casually on his knees like he wasn't glowing faintly with spiritual energy that only I could see.
"You did good, kid," he said with that lopsided grin of his. "Took a hit like a champ, adapted on the fly, and you didn't let fear paralyze you. That's a win in my book."
Despite myself, I grinned. "So... does that mean I'm officially a hero now?"
He raised a brow. "You want a certificate or something?"
"I mean, maybe a sticker."
Naruto chuckled, shaking his head. "What you did tonight? That wasn't about labels. That was you standing between your city and people who wanted to hurt it. That's hero work, Danny. Even if it didn't come with a cape or theme music."
I felt something warm rise in my chest—a weird mix of pride, relief, and the leftover adrenaline that hadn't quite exited my bloodstream yet. But Naruto's face grew serious, and I braced myself for it.
"But," he added, because of course there was a "but," "you still got careless."
"Which part?" I asked, half-expecting a scroll and pointer.
He ticked points off on his fingers. "You didn't check for a second wave of enemies. You overcommitted to a head-on approach. You relied too much on the bat and forgot you had smoke bombs in your belt. Oh, and you almost tripped on a headstone trying to look cool mid-punch."
I winced. "Okay, okay, I get it."
"Danny," he said more gently, "this is a journey. You won today, but barely. And barely is fine for now. Just don't let it become your ceiling."
I nodded. I wasn't about to argue with a guy who's died and come back more times than I've passed math quizzes.
Then his eyes twinkled. "Now, onto more important things."
I blinked. "More important than not dying?"
He grinned wide. "It's time."
I squinted at him. "Time for what?"
And then I heard it.
The roar.
Low, mechanical, beautiful.
The sound of The Fireblade purring like a giant metallic tiger with an attitude problem.
My head snapped toward the path at the edge of the graveyard, where it stood—shining under the moonlight, sleek and black with red streaks along the chassis, the kind of motorcycle that made grown men cry and teenage boys write bad poetry.
My jaw dropped. "Is that—?"
"Yes," Naruto said, his grin impossibly smug now. "Your ride for the night."
I stood up so fast I nearly fell back down. "Wait, ride? You mean own, right?"
He shook his head slowly. "No. I know what I said. Ride. For today."
"But—!"
"You want to own it? Earn more points."
I looked between him and the bike like a toddler being offered one lick of a popsicle. "That's just cruel."
Naruto shrugged. "Welcome to training."
So, did I hop on the Fireblade and ride it like I was born to? Absolutely.
Did I scream like a banshee when I hit the throttle and nearly flew off the thing? You bet.
But you know what?
It was worth it.
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It was 4:30 p.m. The sun was doing that lazy golden-hour thing where everything looked cinematic and slightly too good to be real. Birds chirped. The breeze ruffled the trees. Somewhere, a little kid probably dropped their ice cream cone in slow motion.
And I?
I was roaring down the street on the Fireblade like I was in the final scene of an action movie. Black leather jacket. Black pants. Black helmet with a silver ghost logo on the side—customized, thank you very much. The engine purred under me like a wild animal just barely restrained, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I had a grip on the chaos around me.
One tiny problem.
"I don't have a license!" I yelled into the wind.
Inside my head—because of course he lives rent-free in my skull—Naruto's voice chuckled.
"Relax, kid. You think I'd let you ride around like this without covering our bases?"
I swerved around a minivan going fifteen under the speed limit and tried not to panic. "Covering bases doesn't change the fact that I'm breaking, like, five traffic laws!"
"Six," Naruto corrected. "You forgot the one about riding an unregistered custom vehicle with reinforced plating and a plasma exhaust mod."
"THAT'S NOT HELPING."
"Look," he said, somehow managing to sound both patient and smug, "Sebastian owns half the police force. This bike is registered under his private fleet. Nobody's going to stop you. And even if someone does try something…"
There was a pause. I could almost feel him smirking through the mental link.
"I'll just boop their memory. Gone. Poof. Like they never saw you."
I paused at a red light, heart pounding, hands gripping the handles like they owed me money. The Fireblade hummed beneath me like a predator waiting for permission to pounce.
"This feels extremely illegal," I muttered.
"Danny," Naruto said, "you're being mentored by an immortal warrior-spirit from another realm, working with a mafia boss who uses gangsters to do charity work, and you just beat up five armed men in a graveyard with a baseball bat. I think we passed 'illegal' three exits ago."
"…Fair point."
When the light turned green, I twisted the throttle, and the Fireblade took off like a rocket.
I zipped past cars. I weaved through traffic. I drifted—yes, drifted—through a roundabout while an old lady on the sidewalk clutched her purse and muttered what I assumed were prayers for my soul.
And I felt alive.
Like, capital-L ALIVE.
People stared. Pedestrians turned their heads. I may or may not have passed Pauline and her friends at a stoplight, and I may or may not have given them a casual two-fingered salute before peeling off into the distance like a ghost in a Fast & Furious sequel.
Naruto whistled in my head. "See? Told you. You look like a legend already."
I grinned under the helmet. "Still want me to give it back after today?"
"Earn your points, and you'll own it. But for now? Ride like the world's watching."
Spoiler alert: I did.
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