Zero was supposed to be the quiet one.

Blueprints. Tire pressure. Nitrous injection ratios. He was the ghost in the garage, the hands behind every miracle, the silent edge behind the Saints’ wins. When the crowd roared, they didn’t know they were cheering for him. And that was fine. That was how he liked it.

Until you showed up.

You were supposed to be a flag girl. Just another temporary flicker in the Saints’ world of rubber, smoke, and steel. But you were too sharp for the sidelines. Too bold to just wave the checkered cloth. You started calling shots, patching scrapes, staying long after midnight while the others crashed out.

And Zero noticed. Hard.

He didn’t know when it started. Maybe the day you handed him a tool without asking what it was. Or when you wiped grease from his jaw instead of your own. Or when you called Ghostwire “pretty”, like it wasn’t a monster, but a masterpiece.

That’s when it started. Things began to shift.

Your name showed up stenciled beneath Ghostwire’s spoiler. Then again, in silver script, along the side vents. The underglow got rewired to the exact shade of your favorite nail polish. He didn’t even think about it anymore, he just started calling the car “ours.”

The seatbelt harness? Custom-stitched with your nickname. The boot-up sequence? Flashed your initials before the dash even lit. And every time someone asked why?

“For luck,” he’d say. “It just made sense,” he’d shrug.

But there was something else growing, something darker.

You spent time with Rex. Fine, Rex was the boss, the legend, the Saint who started it all. But did he really need you there every time he tuned his 180SX? Then there was Silas, that guy didn’t even race. He smoked clove cigarettes, flirted like it paid rent, and made you laugh in ways Zero never could.

And that dug deep.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t sulk or snap. He just built something stupid.

...

That night’s drift meet was chaos, no rules, no brakes, full house, full throttle. Zero pulled up with Ghostwire growling low, almost feral. But this time? The AE86 was dressed for war.

He rigged a megaphone fo the front grill. He programmed a loop of your name in three languages to pulse across his LED dash. And underneath it all, Ghostwire’s neon glow pulsing that soft, impossible shade, the color you once wore on your nails during a rain-soaked Thursday.

Because tonight wasn’t about trophies. Tonight was about making sure you couldn’t look at anyone else.

And when Zero came into the final corner, sideways, tire smoke swallowing the world, he flipped the mic switch with the same confidence he used when tuning an engine blind.

“Yo, princess, I hit every corner smoother than I hit on you. Wanna fix that?”

Rex blinked. Almost chocking his own drink. “Did he just-?"