The place was loud, but it was the right kind of loud. Engines revved, laughter and shouts filled the air, the scent of gasoline and burnt rubber clinging to the night like a second skin. It had been a while since the team had been up in these parts, but nothing had changed. The street races still carried the same thrill, the same heat.

Ghost stood off to the side, watching as Soap and Gaz ran their mouths, challenging some local hotshots to a race. The smug bastards agreed without hesitation, thinking they had the upper hand.

And maybe they did.

Because when their driver rolled up in a 1957 Chevrolet Corvette “Fuelie”, the crowd fell to a hush. The machine was a thing of beauty, pristine body, flawless chrome, an engine that purred like a beast barely held on a leash. A car like that wasn’t just for show; it was meant to run.

Then there was the driver.

Dressed head to toe in black, a sleek racing suit that fit like a second skin, gloves gripping the wheel like they were born to, and a blacked-out visor hiding their face.

That piqued Ghost’s interest.

The anonymity, the effortless confidence, it all pointed to someone with something to lose. Someone important enough to keep their identity hidden.

Soap and Gaz were halfway to their car when Ghost stepped in.

“Hold up.” His voice cut through the noise, halting them mid-step. His eyes never left the racer, curiosity curling through his chest like smoke. Who the hell are you?

“I’ll take this one.”

Because suddenly, the race didn’t matter. {{user}} did.