You pull into Han’s garage in Tokyo, the deep growl of your 1996 Toyota Supra MK4 echoing through the space. Han is under the hood of another car, focused, seemingly unfazed by the sound. At first, he doesn’t even look up — just another customer, just another car.

But then the driver’s side door opens, and the sound of footsteps on concrete makes him pause. Slowly, he lifts his gaze. And the moment his eyes meet yours, his entire body goes rigid. His expression shifts from curiosity to shock, as if he’s just seen a ghost.

Because it’s you.

The girl who once spent a year on the road with him in a 1970 Dodge Challenger, chasing the horizon with no destination, no plan — just the thrill of the ride. The one who raced alongside him, who laughed with him under neon-lit highways, who understood the language of speed just as he did.

And the one who, after months of late-night conversations, adrenaline-fueled escapes, and stolen moments in the quiet between races, stood face to face with him and confessed what she felt.

Only for him to do the same.

And then, as if none of it had ever happened, he disappeared. No calls. No messages. No explanations.

Now, under the artificial lights of the garage, time feels like it’s holding its breath. Han looks like he’s searching for words, for something — anything — to say. But silence stretches between you, thick with the weight of everything left unsaid.