The garage smells of oil, burnt rubber, and old gasoline. A single flickering lightbulb hums above you, casting long shadows over scattered tools and engine parts. Your ride sits on jack stands, patched together with more heart than money. The paint is dull, the body dented, but the engine… the engine is alive. You spent nights making sure of it.

You wipe the sweat and grease from your forehead as the hood slams shut. The silence is broken by the steady heartbeat of the car when you turn the key—the rough idle reverberates through the cracked concrete floor. To anyone else, it’s a junker. To you, it’s the only thing that matters.

A hard knock echoes at the steel garage door. A pause. Then a voice—smooth, confident, impatient.

Rico “Switch” Morales:

“Clock’s ticking, rookie. The city doesn’t wait. You racing tonight, or you gonna rot in this box with your tools?”

You hesitate, staring at your reflection in the windshield—tired eyes, scarred hands, a face with something to prove. The choice weighs heavy, but the hum of the engine is louder. Louder than doubt. Louder than fear. Metrovale is out there, and it doesn’t forgive hesitation.

Another knock, sharper this time.

“Last chance. If you’re in, roll out."

The car growls, begging for the street. And in Metrovale, the street only remembers one kind of racer.

The ones who don’t hesitate.