The clock struck 12:03 AM. The air at the South Harbor was damp and cold, heavy with the rumble of engines echoing through the empty docks. Dozens of modified cars lined the edge of the long straight road, headlights flashing, engines revving in anticipation.
Daryl leaned casually against the hood of his car, checking his phone. He glanced up toward the entrance road.
"Took him long enough," he muttered.
In the distance, a deep engine roar broke the silence — steady, powerful, and fast. Headlights cut through the fog as Robinson arrived in his sleek Japanese coupe. He rolled down the window, wearing a dark hoodie and racing gloves.
"Sorry I'm late. Had a small situation," he said calmly.
Daryl nodded and tapped the hood of Robinson's car.
"Perfect timing. Still haven't found anyone worth racing yet."
Nearby, Cassandra sat on a folding chair by the railing, leather jacket zipped up, eyes scanning the crowd. Suddenly, five shady-looking guys approached her — clearly not racers, just betting thugs.
"Hey there, sexy girl, sitting all alone?"
"Why don't you come chill with us?"
Cassandra gave them a cold stare but said nothing. One of them reached for her shoulder.
Robinson appeared instantly, stepping in front of her.
"Touch her again, and I'll break your fingers one by one," he said, voice ice-cold.
The men froze. One laughed nervously, "Whoa, chill, bro—"
Robinson's glare sharpened.
"Leave. Now. Before I decide to make you a medical case."
The group backed off, mumbling curses under their breath. Cassandra looked at Robinson and muttered,
"I can take care of myself, you know."
He didn't reply. Just walked back toward the starting line.
Daryl, watching all that, smirked.
"Looks like you're fired up now. Good. Your opponent just showed up."
He pointed toward a sleek black sports car that had just rolled in. Its lights flared before fading. The driver stepped out — tall, confident, wearing a custom racing jacket and a red cap.
Daryl raised his voice to the crowd:
"Alright, these two are racing! Road's clear. Three honks and then it's go time!"
The crowd started gathering, phones out, cheering and chanting. Cassandra stood silently nearby, watching.
Robinson climbed into his car, engine growling like a beast ready to hunt. His opponent did the same, the tension rising.
Three honks.
1. HONK
2. HONK
3. HOOOOOONK—
They launched. Tires screeched, smoke billowed, and the two cars shot forward like bullets.
The race was on.
As the two cars sped through the quiet dockside streets, the crowd and crews lining the sides began to cheer and place last-minute bets. Daryl stood among them, eyes locked on Robinson's steadily accelerating car. Just then, one of the guys from the betting group strolled over, lighting a cigarette.
"So…" he said casually, "what exactly is this big prize you were talking about?"
Daryl glanced at him, then smirked as he crossed his arms.
"It's not just cash. Not just the car."
He nodded toward Robinson's car cutting cleanly through a tight curve.
"This is about street dominance."
The guy chuckled. "Pfft… Dominance? Sounds like ego talk."
Daryl stepped closer, lowering his voice but making sure it cut through.
"Whoever wins tonight gets access to the Race Vault — the highest-tier underground race circuit, locked down and only open to elite drivers. You think this is just another street race?"
Whispers spread through the crowd.
"Race Vault?"
"No way… that's the one connected to international betting rings."
Cassandra, standing nearby, overheard the conversation. She didn't say anything — just watched Robinson's car glide past another turn, inches from the edge of a steel container.
Someone behind them muttered,
"So the winner… gets a path into Asia's underground racing syndicates?"
Daryl gave a slow nod.
"Exactly. And that's just the beginning."
The crowd roared again as Robinson pulled ahead in a narrow straightaway, nearing the final stretch.
One last turn. One moment of risk. One shot at victory.
The street track was dark, lit only by dim lamps from trucks and the glowing headlights of spectators' cars. Two cars raced side by side—smoke rising from the asphalt, engines roaring through the cold midnight air.
Robinson knew this wasn't just about winning. It was about pride. And maybe… his future.
One final turn to decide it all.
His opponent took the safe inner lane—smart and steady.
But Robinson?
He chose the outer lane—dangerous and wide, but if he could counter-steer perfectly, he might slingshot ahead at the last second.
Cassandra, watching from the crowd, held her breath. Daryl gripped one of the crew's shoulders. All eyes were locked on the two beams of headlights closing in on the finish.
Tires screeched.
Robinson whipped the wheel right, then quickly countered left, letting the car's rear slide in a powerful drift—nearly 50 degrees off axis.
Someone in the crowd yelled,
"HE'S CRAZY! IS HE TRYING TO DIE!?"
But Robinson shot out of the turn ahead, passing the finish line first.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
He slammed his hands on the steering wheel, breathing heavily, heart pounding.
Climbing out of the car, hair messy and face dripping sweat, he walked over to Daryl and, still catching his breath, said:
"So… what's the big prize? Don't tell me it's just fixing this beat-up ride?"
A man in a leather jacket stepped up behind him—expensive watch, calm expression.
"You didn't even wear a helmet," the man said with a dry smile.
"That is the big prize—you're still alive."
Robinson raised an eyebrow.
"Alive, yeah. But no helmet? That better mean I get a discount on repairs."
Daryl burst out laughing.
"You win the race and still crack jokes? Legend, bro."
Cassandra walked up slowly, a soft smirk on her face.
"You're insane, Robinson. But… I like insane."
Robinson shot her a look,
"In that case, maybe I should go insane every night."
After the laughter settled, the older man in a leather jacket slightly opened his coat, revealing a black metal card with a silver wing emblem at the center. He looked at Robinson with meaning.
*"You've got talent, kid. I'm the owner of Race Vault Underground," he said.
"That win wasn't just entertaining... it showed something—real racing spirit."
Robinson stayed quiet, while Daryl's jaw dropped.
"How about joining the upcoming tournament next month? It's legal… but the stakes are insane. Cars... or worse."
Daryl quickly jumped in, "He's in! He's definitely in!"
Robinson gave a half-smirk.
"I'll think about it."
The man chuckled, pulling a small card from his pocket and slipping it into Robinson's jacket.
"If you change your mind, my number's on that. But before that…"
He winked. "There's a party tonight. Loud music, wild girls, zero rules. You boys in?"
Daryl didn't hesitate, "I'M IN. NO WAY I'M MISSING THIS!"
Robinson gave him a light smack on the back.
"You horny perv. We're not even legal, Dar."
Daryl defended himself, "Legal's just a number, bro. Tonight, we're kings of the street!"
Just then, Cassandra walked over, grabbing a water bottle from the portable table nearby.
She glanced at Robinson and said flatly,
"Oh... kings of the street? A real king knows when to head home."
Robinson paused a beat, then replied with a small grin,
"Depends... is the queen heading home too?"
Cassandra rolled her eyes, trying not to smile.
"Maybe... if the king doesn't lose his damn mind first."
Daryl couldn't help but yell out,
"WOOO! Somebody just got coded! Should I head to the party while you two go see a rom-com or something?"
Everyone burst into laughter. The air felt lighter. There was a sense of victory, of freedom… and maybe, the beginning of something more.
The bass pounded through their chests as they stepped into a converted hangar turned underground club. Strobe lights flashed across concrete walls, smoke hovered in the air, thick with the scent of expensive perfume and gasoline.
Daryl vanished instantly, probably toward the bar or the packed dance floor. Robinson and Cassandra stood at the edge, slightly overwhelmed by the sea of bodies moving to the heavy beat.
Cassandra crossed her arms.
"This your kind of party? Looks just like a street race meetup."
Robinson gave a half-smile.
"I thought it'd be... fancier. But yeah, this is wild in its own way."
They moved slowly through the crowd—leather jackets, combat boots, dark glasses even at midnight. The DJ at the far end cranked up the volume.
Suddenly, someone grabbed Cassandra's arm.
A blond guy with tattoos all over his arms, wearing a racing jacket labeled "Drake."
"Didn't think I'd see you here—Cassandra, the Queen of Drift," he said, leaning too close.
Robinson stepped in immediately, gripping his arm.
"You got a problem, man?"
Drake scoffed, smirking.
"Relax, kid. Just saying hi to my ex."
Cassandra's eyes narrowed.
"We broke up a year ago, Drake. And you haven't changed one bit."
Drake's gaze shifted to Robinson, annoyed.
"So this your new guy now?"
Robinson responded calmly, but firm.
"None of your business."
The tension thickened. The music didn't stop.
Before things could escalate, Daryl appeared from behind.
"Yo, everything cool here? Or just another guy who can't move on?"
Drake looked at each of them, then backed off.
"Careful, kid. The racing world's smaller than you think."
He left, leaving Cassandra exhaling deeply.
"Sorry... he's a pain from the past."
Robinson gave a nod.
"He knows the line. And now he knows I'm here."
Cassandra smiled slightly.
"I like guys who can drive and stand their ground."
Moments later, they found themselves on the dance floor.
Robinson—awkward at first—eventually let go and enjoyed it. They laughed, danced, and for a moment, all the chaos of the streets, the syndicates, and secret missions felt far away.
But Cassandra leaned in, her lips near his ear.
"Tonight's fun. But don't forget, our world isn't safe yet."
Robinson met her eyes.
"I know. But just for tonight, I wanna be a regular guy… with an extraordinary girl."