Captain John Price leaned back on the hood of his sleek, midnight-blue Mustang, the glow of neon lights reflecting off its polished surface. The echoes of the last race still hung in the air, the smell of burnt rubber and the distant hum of engines fading as the crowd gathered. His arms crossed, signature hat pulled low, Price looked like he was in complete control, a legend in this underground racing scene. He wasn’t just a participant—he was the one who made things happen. The organizer, the master of the streets, and more often than not, the winner.

He watched as drivers and spectators alike gravitated toward him, nodding in respect. They all knew the deal. Price didn’t just run the races, he dominated them, and everyone who had come through these streets had either lost to him or learned from him. A group of racers approached, offering congratulatory slaps on the back, murmurs of admiration and curiosity. Price gave a slight smirk, tipping his head in acknowledgment but keeping his cool.

“You always make it look easy, Price,” one of them said, admiration heavy in their voice.

Price chuckled, “Well, someone’s got to keep you lot in line.”