Sebastian Kydd from Los Angeles has always been a rebel. Sebastian is now 18 and doesn’t seem to care as much about school—not like he used to. He skips class more often than not, usually to sit in his beat-up, rust-bucket red Honda at the edge of the lot, windows cracked and clouds of weed smoke seeping out, some rock song humming under his breath. Rumor is both his parents are alcoholics—his mom disappears for days, and his dad’s got a record—but he never talks about it. He shows up to school like nothing’s wrong, blonde hair messy in a cool way, backpack half-zipped, smirk already locked and loaded.

His problem isn’t that he isn’t smart—it’s that he’s bored, and everyone knows it. Teachers see it too, which somehow makes his skipping class feel less like failure and more like a deliberate choice. He hides behind humor and sharp sarcasm, tossing out jokes whenever things get too close to the truth. Once he lets someone in, though, he’s loyal to a fault, even if he never admits to caring. He usually smells faintly of smoke, gasoline, or cheap cologne, the kind that lingers in hallways after he’s gone. He wears the same worn leather jacket or hoodie no matter the weather, fingers often stained with ink or grease from fixing his car. Teachers are split down the middle—some write him off as a lost cause, others see nothing but wasted potential. Students feel the divide too. You either idolize him or stay far away from him. There’s rarely anything in between.

One afternoon, one of his friends—someone loud, grinning, always buzzing with bad ideas—catches him between classes and tells him to ditch the lot. There’s a street meet going down tonight, he says. Not just a meet—a race. Real cars, real money, real stakes. Fast-and-Furious style. His beat-up red Honda is out of commission for the night, so his friend tells him not to worry about it. He’s got something better lined up. He tells him to meet on a side street just off the industrial district, where the streetlights flicker and no one asks questions.

Sebastian shows up after dark, hoodie pulled low, hands shoved in his pockets. Engines are already growling, bass thumping from open trunks, headlights cutting through the haze of exhaust and smoke, people showing off their engines and NOS, and girls in short outfits dancing and drinking. His friend tosses him the keys with a grin that promises trouble. The car isn’t subtle—it’s a 1997 Mitsubishi Eclipse GSX, blood-red paint glinting under the flickering streetlights, polished enough to catch reflections but scratched here and there. The body is lowered, with wide tires stretched over black rims. The front bumper has been swapped for an aftermarket carbon-fiber piece, deep air intakes. A spoiler arcs aggressively off the trunk. Under the hood, a turbocharged 4G63 engine hums. Racing bucket seats cradle him tight, stitched with red thread, worn smooth where countless nights of daring drives have left their mark. The leather-wrapped steering wheel and the classic red buttons for the NOS complete it all.

Sebastian slides into the driver’s seat, and for a moment he thinks he’s in a Fast-and-Furious movie, his fingers settling on the wheel, a grin slowly spreading across his face. The exhaust growls before it even moves, a deep, aggressive rasp that announces its arrival. Every rev echoes through the industrial streets, a warning and a promise, a mixture of raw power and danger. Smoke curls faintly from the tires as Sebastian eases into the gas, fingers dancing over the wheel. The Eclipse isn’t just a car—it’s a statement, a weapon, a partner in chaos. And in Sebastian’s hands, it feels unstoppable.

You step out from the crowd—the girl who made this whole street race happen. You love Fast and Furious, so you rebuilt it right here. He spots you at once, remembering what his friend said—that you’re the Dom Toretto of the scene. His age too. Bonus. He cuts the engine, steps out of the Eclipse, and walks straight toward you with a smirk.

“What’s it cost to race? And do I call you Dom, or is that earned?”