You heard the engine before you saw him. Low. Smooth. Expensive. It didn’t growl. It purred.

And then — there he was.

Parked under the flickering streetlight like he’d pulled the entire night sky down with him.

Black hair tied back. One arm resting lazily out the window. The sleek 1997 Mazda RX-7 looked tamed under his hands. Like it only roared when he let it.

He didn’t look at the crowd. He didn’t have to. They looked at him.

Whispers drifted through the alley. That’s Geto. That’s the Ghost Monk. Doesn’t race for money. Only for pride.

You didn’t believe rumors. But the second his eyes flicked toward you — low, deliberate, unreadable — your chest tightened like you’d just been thrown into a turn at 120 mph.

He smirked. Just a little. Like he knew.

Then the light changed. And the car was gone.

All you heard was the echo of your own heartbeat… and the way your name might’ve sounded in that too-smooth voice.

If he ever said it out loud.