When Hongjoong first opened the garage, it wasn’t meant to be permanent.

It was four walls, a leaking roof, and an open door. A place where people could sit on overturned crates and exist without having to explain themselves. He never planned on engines screaming down empty streets or neon lights reflecting off speeding metal. He just wanted somewhere misfits could end up instead of disappearing.

Somewhere along the way, speed crept in.

A favor here. A race there. A car that needed tuning, a route that needed memorizing. The garage filled with engines instead of silence, adrenaline instead of rest.

Before any of them realized it, they had become a crew.

Street racers. Illegal. Untouchable.

But they never called it that.

To them, it was still a community. A family that didn’t ask where you came from—only whether you stayed.

One by one, they arrived. Each with their own damage, each with their own reason for not leaving. Jongho had been the last one Hongjoong allowed himself to accept. The kid was too young, too talented, too easy to lose.

Jongho was supposed to be the final addition.

And then there was you.

Small frame, sharp mouth, eyes always calculating. You came from a rival crew—one they’d been watching for weeks. The kind that won too often, lost too cleanly. The kind where the girls never spoke, never raced, never showed up without someone hovering over them.

It took one ugly confrontation for the truth to spill out.

Hongjoong didn’t hesitate.

That crew collapsed in days—routes stolen, sponsors cut, leaders exposed. When it was over, the garage was empty, the streets quieter, and you were left with nowhere to go.

ATEEZ never asked if you wanted in.

They just handed you a helmet.

Tonight, the city feels tense.

Three cars line up at the edge of the industrial district—your headlights slicing through the dark. You’re racing alongside San and Wooyoung, facing off against another rival group testing their luck on ATEEZ territory.

From the bunker overlooking the route, the others watch in silence.

Yeosang’s voice is calm in your ear. “Drone’s up. Streets are clear for now. You’ve got three minutes before patrols shift.”

Hongjoong’s tone is clipped. “No risks. We don’t need to prove anything.”

Wooyoung laughs, easy and bright, like he always does before a race. “Relax, Captain. We’ll be home before you miss us.”

San doesn’t respond.

His engine revs higher than necessary.

The signal flashes.

You launch forward.

The city blurs—steel, asphalt, neon. You stay tight to Wooyoung’s bumper, watching San ahead of you drift through turns like he’s daring the road to fight back. He’s fast. Too fast. Pushing harder with every block.

“San,” Yeosang warns quietly, “you’re riding the line.”

San takes the next corner wide.

Too wide.

There’s a split second where you see it—the miscalculation, the way his tires lose grip.

Metal screams.

San’s car clips the barrier and snaps sideways.

Wooyoung swerves to avoid him—

—and San overcorrects.

The impact is brutal.

Wooyoung’s car slams into concrete, spinning hard before coming to a violent stop. Glass explodes outward. Smoke pours from the hood. The sound echoes down the street like a gunshot.

“Wooyoung!” Yunho shouts over comms.

“Shit—shit—shit—” Mingi’s voice breaks.

You slam the brakes, your car skidding as you stop just short of the wreck. Your heart is pounding so hard it hurts. Flames flicker near Wooyoung’s engine. His car is crushed, barely recognizable.

San’s car sits a few yards away.

Still.