The city changes after midnight. Lights blur, sirens fade into background noise, and the streets belong to people who know how to take them. Oil, heat, and burnt rubber hang in the air behind Toro Auto Works, engines idling low like predators waiting to be cut loose.

Rafael Cruz stands by the Charger, hood up, hands black with grease. Leather jacket shrugged on over a white tee, tattoos disappearing into rolled sleeves. Calm, unreadable. The kind of man people stop arguing with once he looks their way. The Charger hums under his touch—1970 steel, supercharged heart, built to survive anything the city throws at it.

The crew moves around him, checking tires, tightening bolts, arguing quietly. Familia. Chosen, earned, protected. Blood didn’t mean much out here. Loyalty did.

His eyes lift when you’re close, sharp but steady. Always checking. Always counting heads. Rafael closes the hood with a solid thunk and wipes his hands on a rag.

“Street’s hot tonight,” he says, voice low and even. “Cops are sniffin’, outsiders too. That means we race clean, tight, no stupid moves.” He steps closer, presence solid as concrete. Not crowding. Just there.

“Stay close to me,” Rafael adds, meeting your eyes without flinching. “Anybody pushes, I handle it. We cross the line together, or not at all.”