The cassette deck clicked. Through worn foam headphones, the world went muffled before the music hit like a physical force. The guitar riff punched straight through Yosuke's skull, drums resonating through his bones like electricity. When Eddie Vedder's voice erupted - raw and primal - he actually gasped.

"Oh my god," he whispered, leg bouncing uncontrollably. Erik nudged Leon, pointing at Yosuke's face cycling through shock, wonder, and something approaching religious ecstasy.

When the last note faded, Yosuke sat frozen, chest heaving. "Again," he managed, grabbing Leon's wrist. "Play it again."

Leon grinned. Another convert to the church of grunge.

And so Yosuke's education began. Erik handled the practical - why blue toilet cleaner wasn't soap, how microwaves rejected metal. Leon's lessons were more abstract.

"'Black' is the ultimate track," he'd explain, sprawled across his bed. "Perfect for crying or making out."

"Making... out?"

"Kissing and stuff, space cadet. But with feeling."

This new vocabulary led to inevitable mishaps. Like Yosuke announcing "The mac and cheese is totally bogus!" while devouring his third helping.

"That's not—" Leon choked on his milk. "No - bogus means bad. I was being sarcastic because that stoner ate concrete."

"Oh." Yosuke considered his mac and cheese. "Then this is... radical?"

"Yo, check it out, this mac is hella rad, dude!" Leon jumped up, demonstrating his best slouch and bored grin, milk mustache forgotten. Yosuke attempted to mirror him, thin arms awkward, eyes half-closed beneath his glasses, looking more sedated than cool. "Uh, the Mac is hella rad—ical."

Summer's last heat pressed down as they headed toward town. Yosuke tugged at his borrowed KISS t-shirt, faded almost gray, clashing with formal black pants. Leon bounced ahead in baggy shorts and sleeveless Pearl Jam shirt while Erik maintained his preppy composure in khakis and polo ("golf club reject," as Leon called it). They were a mismatched trio - calculated polish, deliberate dishevelment, and whatever Yosuke was attempting with his Dad-rock shirts and hospital shoes.

The arcade loomed ahead, neon sign crackling and spitting purple sparks. Through its open door came a symphony of chaos - the artificial thunder of racing games, tinny explosions from fighting cabinets, victory music clashing with defeat sirens. A crowd of boys huddled around Street Fighter, their shouts mixing with the synthetic violence. But it was the sharp crack-crack-crack of the shooting games that made Yosuke's steps falter.

BANG. BANG-BANG-BANG.

His shoulders jerked involuntarily at each synthetic gunshot. Something about the noise pushed against memories he didn't have, triggering instincts he couldn't explain.

"Dude," he attempted Leon's drawl, forcing his voice steady. "This place is totally bogus." His voice cracked on the last word.

Erik pinched the bridge of his nose. "We talked about this."

"No, I mean..." Yosuke swallowed hard as another explosion flashed through the doorway. "It looks radical. Really radical."

His mouth stayed open after the words, releasing a constant nervous vowel sound - "Eeeee" - that wavered up and down like a broken radio frequency.

Erik's head snapped toward him, eyes sharpening with recognition. Leon caught it too, that weird keening that meant Yosuke was overwhelmed but trying to hide it.

"Right," Erik said, already steering them away from the arcade's flashing mouth. "Perhaps we'll return when you're a real boy, Pinocchio."

Leon shot Erik a look but didn't argue. "Yeah, space cadet. Let's hit somewhere quieter first."

They spent the afternoon touring Greenwode's teenage landmarks - the video store where Friday night battles erupted over new releases, the beach that used to reek of industry but now hosted wannabe surfers, the bus stop that promised escape to malls and normalcy. Each stop added another layer to Yosuke's overwhelmed brain until Leon declared, "Food. Before space cadet's head explodes."

Which led them here, to a small white building with colored glass windows, steam fogging the panes from within. A neon sign flickered flickered against the darkening sky: "The Toro - Since 1972". The smell hit Yosuke first - garlic and herbs and something that made his mouth water embarrassingly. He wiped his lip, wondering if this drooling response was normal.

"Fair warning," Leon muttered at the door. "This place has... history. My history. Everywhere."

Inside, dark wooden panels lined the walls, scarred by decades of chairs scraping against them. Bull-fighting scenes hung between rustic pillars where red flowers drooped in the warmth. Under a tired ceiling fan, red and white checkered tablecloths covered tables crammed together like sardines. A menu board stretched above the counter, its chalk-written prices making Yosuke's eyes swim with options. Pizza Margherita. Four Seasons. Hawaiian Nightmare? His stomach growled loud enough to make Erik glance at him.

"Leon! Erik! It's a wonderfulness to see you!" A short, plump man emerged from behind the counter, his balding head gleaming under fluorescent lights. His white apron bore the marks of countless sauce battles, and flour dusted his thick forearms. His dark eyes found Yosuke and widened. "And who's a' you'd be? A new fresh man?"

Yosuke squinted through his glasses, struggling with the thick accent that seemed to turn English into music.

"No, Mr. Lugosi," Erik stepped in with his usual diplomatic grace. "This is Joskey, he's joining our class."

"AH you're a' sixteen I see!" Lugosi seized both of Yosuke's hands, the vigorous handshake vibrating through his whole body. "You do not look a' thing like sixteen! But it's a' good thing to be small! Nothing to be the embarrassed over!"

"I'm fifteen," Yosuke mumbled but no one heard him.

Through the swinging kitchen door came a symphonic clash - pots banging, water running, rapid-fire curses punctuated by the hiss of something hitting hot oil. A boy slipped out a second later, dark hair falling in his eyes as he studied a thick manga volume.

The boy, with his red Toro uniform and mole-marked cheek, carried himself silently, sharing none of the older man's explosive energy. His eyes darted to Erik first - a quick, respectful nod - before acknowledging Leon with the subtle head-tilt of a fellow musician.

"Yo, Pablo! We should totally jam before the festival," Leon said, casual but with an undertone of professional interest. "Got some new fills that would kill with Tristan's famous licks."

Licks, Yosuke crinkled his nose, wondering if people actually got famous for licking things. Leon's eyes swept the dining room, shoulders tensing. "Hey, uh..." He grabbed Pablo's sleeve. "Is Karin working tonight?"

"Nah, she's off. Probably at Jessica's with the squad." Pablo's gap tooth showed as he almost smirked. "Why, scared she'll catch you out past curfew?"

"Shut up," Leon muttered, but his shoulders visibly relaxed. He no longer looked like a spooked cat ready to bolt.

Erik made a face like he'd bitten into something unexpectedly sour, his perfect posture stiffening further.

The kitchen doors burst open with a bang that made Yosuke jump. "You give it a stop a'just standing there!" Mr. Lugosi's voice cracked through the air. "You give 'em table you big fannullone!" He smacked Pablo's head with a menu.

Pablo didn't flinch, like he'd learned to let his father's words wash over him. He led them to a corner booth far from the kitchen, his manga tucked safely in his apron pocket. Only when the shouting faded did he study Yosuke with quiet intensity. "So, who's the point dexter?"

"This is-" Erik started, but Leon cut him off with an elbow to the ribs.

"Let him use his own voice, mom," Leon smirked. "He's actually fifteen, you know."

Erik's ears reddened while Yosuke cleared his throat.

"I'm Yosuke Shirai. I woke up in a hospital a few weeks ago with no memories of who I am or was." The words came easier now, soft and efficient like he rehearsed in the mirror. Then for good measure: "Complete bogus."

"Oh man, just like in that movie!" Pablo's eyes lit up. "When they wipe Schwarzenegger's memory and plant fake ones, but his real self keeps breaking through? That's wild."

Pablo pulled out his order pad. "Dad's having a crisis. Today's special is Hawaiian Nightmare - pineapple and anchovies."

"Margherita," Erik said quickly, knife already aligned with his napkin.

"Pepperoni," Leon yawned. "The boring classic."

Yosuke's stomach growled at the smell of garlic. "Mediterranean with extra olives, garlic bread, mozzarella sticks, and..." he squinted, "what are jalapeño poppers?"

Three pairs of eyes fixed on him.

"Dude," Leon whistled. "Where are you putting all that? You're like a twig."

"I'm hungry," Yosuke shrugged, trying to mimic Pablo and Leon's casual slouch. He slid lower and lower in the booth until only his dark hair peeked above the table like a curious sea creature.

"What's he doing?" Pablo whispered, torn between amusement and concern.

"No. Sit properly." Erik yanked him up with brotherly exasperation. "We don't do Leon's sofa rules in public."

"This term's gonna be wild," Pablo grinned, gap tooth showing.

The restaurant swirled around them - a symphony of chaos conducted by Pablo's father, whose voice boomed a strange mix of cheerful English and angry Italian from the kitchen. Their conversation drifted to familiar territory as they waited for food.

"Jarrell still with Jessica?" Erik asked.

"Negative. She's got that St. Mary's guy now. The one with daddy's Camaro?"

"Classic Jessica. Total grody move." Leon sprawled deeper in his chair. "Hey, Liam's starting another D&D campaign. They need a cleric - that's you, dude."

"If I had time for more brain rot." Erik's lips twitched. "Though you excel at it. Leon the cleric-"

"Ha ha." Leon's voice dropped, suddenly defensive. "You know why I can't go back..."

"Oh, so you want me to spy on him? That's classic..."

Their words blurred as Yosuke's attention scattered like light through the steam-fogged windows. The kitchen doors swung in their endless dance - Pablo dodging his father's wild gestures, manga peeking from his pocket as he weaved between tables. Ding went the bell, again and again, marking the flow of hungry teenagers with backwards caps and pizza cravings.

"Yo Pablo, my pepperoni ready?"

"Papa, that's not how you-"

"Twenty-five years I make pizza! You telling me-"

CRASH. SIZZLE. DING.

Everything overlapped - voices, smells, movement - yet somehow worked together like some intricate machine. The kitchen timer's shrill ring cut through it all, while Pablo appeared and disappeared, stealing glances at his manga between deliveries.

"Earth to Yosuke?" Leon waved his hand through Yosuke's thousand-yard stare. "You're doing that weird space cadet thing again."

Steam had fogged Yosuke's glasses. He slipped them off to wipe them, and the world sharpened - revealing details in the bull-fighting paintings, Leon's stubbled chin, and Erik...

Erik's face went carefully blank, fingers drumming a warning pattern. Leon looked up, eyes widening.

"Holy shit!" A grin spread across his face. "Purasutikku booooi, purasutikku haaaart!" His Japanese falsetto made Pablo wince.

"Leon," Erik's voice carried a sharp edge. "Not here."

"Dude, you look exactly like-"

"You have really pretty eyes," Erik blurted, face flushing red.

"Gaaay!" Leon giggled, though his own ears went pink.

Yosuke reached for his glasses, hurrying to put them back on.

"Oh shut up." Erik's wadded up napkin hit him with force. "Think Freddie Mercury would've approved?"

"Whatever," Leon muttered, shoving deeper into the worn cushions.

Years of friendship compressed into a single loaded glance between them.

Through the kitchen's swing door, Pablo appeared with their plates balancing precariously, saving Yosuke from whatever truth Leon had been about to uncover.

The bell chimed again, but this time the restaurant's rhythm faltered. A policeman stepped in, his shoulders filling the doorway with quiet authority. The usual chatter dimmed. Pablo froze mid-step, nearly dropping his tray.

Yosuke's heart hammered against his ribs, but when his eyes found the officer's across the room, something unexpected happened. The officer tilted his head slightly, a gesture of recognition that felt more like welcome than warning.

"Officer Jansen," Mr. Lugosi emerged from the kitchen, his smile fading slightly. "What brings you here today?"

"Just following up about those birds," Jansen said, his eyes sweeping the room with careful attention. "Mind if we talk?"

"Birds are birds," Mr. Lugosi's accent thickened. "They come, they go. Nothing to discuss."

"Some interesting patterns in their behavior lately—"

"No, no more talk." Mr. Lugosi chopped the air with his hands. "Bad for business. You want pizza? I make you pizza. Otherwise..." He gestured at the door.

After Jansen left, Pablo drifted back to their table. "You guys hear about the shit that went down yesterday? Mr. Harris and his date were eating on the balcony when these huge birds just dive-bombed them. Not even seagulls - proper raptors."

Something stirred in Yosuke's memory. "Were they peregrine falcons?" The words came without thought. "Gray-blue wings, white chest, black marks under the eyes like a helmet?"

Pablo's eyebrows rose. "Yeah, actually. How'd you know?"

"Bird nerd alert," Leon teased, but his voice was tight, uncertain.

They left The Toro as evening gathered, the sky deepening to purple over the bay. Yosuke thought he caught movement against the clouds, a dark shape wheeling overhead, but when he looked again there was nothing but the first stars beginning to show.