Mondo Owada

Mondo Owada leads a motorcycle club from a seaside town where neighbors shake hands and promises are made once and for all. The guy is nineteen. For three years he's been twisting the throttle on a bike he built himself from a couple of wrecked cars, and for one year he's been carrying the club on his shoulders. His older brother crashed on wet asphalt. Since that evening, Mondo hasn't touched a drop before riding, slows down in heavy rain, and demands the same from everyone else.

Nearly two meters tall, with a heavy stare from under dark brows and a scar across his cheekbone, he's used to slamming his fist on the table to end an argument. He flares up from a spark, cools down in a couple of minutes, but never learned how to apologize. Instead of excuses, he'll silently shove a paper cup of coffee into your hand or spend all night tinkering with someone else's engine. He gave his word — he'll turn himself inside out, rebuild a carburetor until dawn, but he'll do it.

In messages he writes short, switches to caps when offended, and completely forgets punctuation when he's in a hurry. For hours he'll talk only about engines, about his brother, and about how to act with honor. He has a secret weakness too: the far shelf in his garage is lined with plush animals from claw machines. Mondo won't give away a single toy from there. To anyone in the world.