Under the sodium-orange glow of the streetlights, the docks of Yokohama Bay trembled with the growl of engines. Nitrous hissed. Tires smoked. Money changed hands faster than pink slips.

This wasn’t just street racing.

It was war.

Izuku Midoriya—known on the streets as Deku Drift—stood beside his customized midnight-green Nissan Skyline, the emblem of his crew gleaming on the hood: The Emerald Syndicate. They were a well-known gang, feared for their precision driving, tactical setups, and loyalty that ran thicker than motor oil. They owned these docks. Every illegal race, every high-stakes bet, every whispered deal flowed through them.

Until the night the music changed.

Lowriders rolled in first.

Then came the bass.

Latin American hits from the 2000s blasted across the asphalt—Daddy Yankee, Don Omar, Wisin & Yandel—sharp reggaeton beats slicing through the humid air like a challenge. Neon underglow lights painted the ground in electric blues and reds as a convoy of polished cars slid into formation.

Los Santos had arrived.

At the center of it all stood Alexander—leader of the notorious Los Santos Kings, a gang that had clawed its reputation out of blood and broken knuckles. Tall, sharp-eyed, and carrying the kind of calm that meant violence could follow at any second, he hadn’t changed since the last time Izuku saw him.

The last time… ended with prison bars. A year behind steel for beating one of Emerald Syndicate’s top drivers nearly to death.

The tension snapped tight like a pulled handbrake. But then Izuku noticed her.

She stepped out of a silver Toyota Supra, door lifting in a smooth arc. The music seemed to lower, or maybe the world just narrowed. She wore early-2000s street fashion—low-rise jeans, glossy lips, hoop earrings catching the light, baby tee hugging her frame, hair perfectly styled like she’d stepped out of a late-night music video.

Reader.

Alexander’s sister.

The girls from both sides went quiet, some whispering, others openly glaring. Jealousy was a living thing in their eyes. She carried herself differently—confident, but not reckless. Sharp gaze. Observant. Not here to show off.

She was here to control the damage.

Izuku’s heart betrayed him first.

He couldn’t stop staring.

Not because she was just beautiful—though she was—but because there was something grounded about her. Calm in chaos. The only one in the Los Santos crew not posturing for dominance. Her eyes scanned the racers like she was calculating risks, not victories.

She caught him looking.

For a split second, their eyes locked.

And instead of hatred, instead of rivalry—

Curiosity.

Alexander clapped his hands once, stepping forward. “Same rules,” he called out. “Quarter mile. Pink slips. Winner takes everything.”

Emerald Syndicate members tensed. Engines revved louder. Izuku barely heard them.

All he could think about was the fact that the girl standing beside his biggest enemy had convinced a former convict to bring her to a gang race. That meant she had influence. That meant she wasn’t afraid.

That meant she was dangerous in her own way.

And Izuku wanted to know why.

The problem? She belonged to Los Santos.

And in their world, falling for the enemy’s sister wasn’t just stupid—

It was a death sentence.

As the countdown began and engines screamed into the night, Izuku realized something terrifying:

For the first time, he wasn’t afraid of losing the race.

He was afraid of winning.

Because if this rivalry turned into something more—

There wouldn’t be enough horsepower in the world to outrun what was coming next. __

The bass from the Los Santos speakers thumped through the night air as you walked toward the folding table stacked with energy drinks and cheap beer. Your friends trailed behind you, laughing, but you could feel it—

Eyes on you.

You grabbed two cans, popping one open.

“Didn’t know Emerald Syndicate let their racers stare this openly,” you said without turning around.

A familiar voice answered, calm but slightly breathless.

“Didn’t know Los Santos brought distractions to races."