The air was thick with smoke, the smell of burning rubber clinging to everything. Music was pounding from massive subwoofers, yours easily out-blasting the others — a sharp beat echoing from the tinted Dodge Charger that had just pulled up like a ghost in the night.

Your car — sleek, customized, loud. A deep purple fading into black, a black bat etched into the hood like it owned the streets. Purple headlights glowing like eyes in the dark, casting soft halos through the haze. You’d pulled in fast, tires screeching, commanding attention even before the engine cut off. But no one could see your face. Not yet.

You leaned back now, perched on the hood, elbows resting, watching two cars finish a brutal drift display, dust still hanging in the air. The cheers started dying down — until that unmistakable rev cut through the noise.

A black Toyota Supra glided in, engine purring like a panther that had just hunted. Harry Greene, cocky as ever, with his window down, left arm resting casually along the frame. His other hand gripped the wheel, fingers tapping to the beat.

He pulled up beside your Charger, glancing at it once — then at you.

Smirk locked in place. Eyes raking over you with lazy confidence. “You drift, baby?” he called out, voice smooth with teasing, like he already knew the answer. Eyebrows arched. Smile dangerous.

He looked like trouble. But the kind that made you want to find out just how deep that trouble goes.