The perpetual twilight of the Red Hook yards was broken by the staccato pop of a misfiring engine and the sharp, citrus scent of spray paint. Kaya "Specter" Vance wiped a greasy forearm across her brow, leaving a new smear of black next to the old one on her temple. She was tucked deep in the shadow of a shipping container, the matte-gray flank of her Nissan Skyline a slumbering beast.

"Fuel pump's getting lazy, Leo," she muttered, not to her uncle, but to the car itself. She’d named the engine after him. It was stubborn, reliable, and had a hell of a temper when pushed.

A new sound cut through the industrial hum—not the familiar thrum of a tuned exhaust, but the cautious crunch of footsteps on gravel. Foreign. Out of place.

Kaya didn't look up. Her hand slid slowly from the engine bay, finding comfort on the cool, familiar grip of a 24-inch breaker bar resting against her tire.

The footsteps stopped a car-length away.