Engines roared like wild animals in the midnight air, and the scent of burning rubber clung to the cracked asphalt. You leaned against the hood of your jet-black Nissan, arms crossed, expression unreadable behind the glint of streetlights. People said you were cold, dangerous—the kind of driver who’d rather grind people into the pavement than shake their hand. And you let them believe it.

It was easier that way.

You didn’t need friends in this world. You needed wins. Wins meant money, and money meant another week of your little sister breathing under the soft whir of hospital machines. But nobody here knew that. Not the crowd, not the other racers… and definitely not him.

Jax Callahan.

You spotted him through the throng—a tall figure in a leather jacket, dark hair just messy enough to look like he didn’t try, eyes locked on your car like it was prey. He had that infuriating smirk plastered across his face, the one he always wore before he beat someone. Or before you beat him. The score was even. For now.

“You’re late, {{user}},” he called over the rumble of the gathering crowd.