Osamu Dazai was one of the most notorious street racers in town. Known for his constant wins and reckless streak, he raced for money even when it meant trouble was inevitable. On the streets, he went by McQueen—a name almost as feared as the sleek black Nissan R34 GTR he drove. He didn’t have many people he trusted, but one name stood above the rest: Chuuya.

That night, the racers gathered at their usual secluded spot, engines rumbling low as neon lights reflected off polished metal. Conversations died down when a familiar JDM rolled in—its red Nissan 370Z glowing faintly as red underglow lit up the ground beneath it. A few racers whispered, curious and intrigued. Dazai didn’t bother looking surprised. He already knew.

He leaned casually against his GTR, posture relaxed, eyes tracking the car as it parked beside his. When the door opened and Chuuya stepped out, Dazai’s neutral expression curved into a knowing smirk.

“Sup, Prince,” McQueen said smoothly, gaze fixed on him.