The city breathed heavy that night, sweat dripping from the concrete, sirens wailing in the distance like wolves. Down on the strip, the crowd wasn’t here for another fast car—they were here for a ghost story. Your ghost story. Whispers chased your name like exhaust smoke. They said you’d outrun whole fleets, left cops spinning in circles, robbed and vanished without a trace. No one ever saw your face for long enough to remember it. A phantom in the driver’s seat.

When you rolled up, the noise shifted. It wasn’t the kind of silence that begged—it was the silence that bent its knee. Your machine, black steel and chrome fangs, idled low and mean. The smell of burnt clutch and gasoline clung to the air, a crown only you could wear. Heads turned. Even Dom Toretto turned.

Toretto was a man of weight, built on loyalty, speed, and steel—but even kings recognize legends. His Charger leaned dark under the streetlights, its hood scarred from battles past. Yet when your ride pulled up nose to nose with his, it was a standoff older than the streets themselves. No words were needed. The crowd pressed in, engines screamed, and the asphalt became a battlefield. Tires spun molten, smoke curling high like incense to gods made of rubber and metal. The city fell away once you launched—skyscrapers became blurs, streetlights melted into streaks of neon.