Amidst the pounding music and flashing strobe lights, Robinson stood still, eyes scanning the room. Through the haze of smoke and dancing bodies, he spotted three men in black suits, whispering and occasionally glancing at him.
One of them touched his ear—an earpiece. Another reached under his jacket.
Robinson recognized the body language. Not partygoers. Not randoms.
Cassandra approached.
"What's wrong?"
Robinson glanced at her quickly.
"I need to go. Those guys… they're not just here for the party."
Cassandra frowned.
"Who are they?"
He took a deep breath.
"I don't know yet. But they've been watching me."
He glanced around again, then at Cassandra.
"Is Daryl still here?"
She nodded.
Robinson signaled. Daryl approached, picking up on the tension.
"Watch her. If anything seems off, get her out of here."
Then he turned to Cassandra, voice low but firm.
"Enjoy the party… I love you, girl."
She stared at him, eyes wide, her worry clear.
"Is it dangerous?"
He nodded slightly, touching her cheek.
"I'll be back before sunrise."
With that, Robinson ran. The music faded behind him, replaced by the thrum of his heartbeat. He reached his car, jumped in, and the engine roared to life.
Tires screeched. The car peeled out into the night.
Neon lights flickered across the hood as Robinson sped through the streets. He switched on his comm device.
"Marcus, do you copy? I've got three suspects tailing me—definitely not street racers."
Marcus's voice crackled through:
"I've picked up their signal. Military-grade. Not amateurs."
Robinson gritted his teeth.
"This isn't over yet…"
The roar of the engine shattered the quiet night. Robinson's car raced down the dimly lit city streets, the reflections of neon lights flashing across his windshield. His grip tightened on the steering wheel—his breathing heavy, his eyes sharp.
Suddenly—
"BRAAAK!!!"
A massive truck pulled out from a side street. Robinson's eyes widened.
"Damn it!!"
He yanked the wheel hard to the left, barely missing the truck's rear. The tires screeched, leaving a trail of black smoke as the car fishtailed. His body slammed against the seat.
The car straightened out just in time—but then,
"BOOOOM!!"
Another black car rammed into his left side. The impact shook the entire chassis. Robinson's head hit the wheel, and a thin line of blood dripped down his temple.
"Ugh…!" he groaned, clenching his jaw.
Two more cars boxed him in—one ahead, one behind.
This wasn't some random chase.
They were coordinated. Professional.
Robinson slapped a button on his dashboard—switching to full manual override.
"If they think I'm easy to pin down…"
He slammed the gas. His old Japanese tuner screamed like a beast unleashed.
Behind him, one of the cars tried to clip his rear again—but Robinson veered off into a narrow alley between two buildings. Barely wide enough for one car.
The chasing car couldn't react in time—it crashed into a pole.
One down.
Robinson gritted his teeth and flicked on his comms.
"Marcus—I'm under attack. This is coordinated. They knew I left the party."
Marcus's voice came in tense.
"Rob, that's not Zero Divide! That's not their logo!"
Robinson glanced into his rearview mirror—one car still tailing him.
"If it's not Zero Divide… then who are they?"
Then—
Headlights appeared up ahead.
A third car, already waiting for him.
One behind. One ahead. No way out.
Robinson slammed the brakes, skidding to a stop.
He stepped out of the car, breathing hard, blood still trickling down his face. He stood in the middle of the street, eyes locked forward—then back.
Then he shouted,
"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!"
The car in front slowly opened its door.
A large man stepped out. No gun.
But a symbol.
A new emblem—black, shaped like a fractured 'Z'.
Robinson's eyes narrowed.
"You thought Zero Divide was finished?"
The man smirked.
"They just changed names…"
Smoke billowed from the two black cars that had just exploded. The blast echoed through the night, lighting up the city block in flashes of red and orange.
Robinson stood frozen for a moment, stunned.
Pieces of burning metal clattered around him. Flames lit up the street.
Out of the smoke and fire, a custom silver sports car sped toward him.
The passenger door flung open mid-slide.
A hooded figure in a face covering shouted from the driver's seat,
"Get in! Now!"
Robinson hesitated—until the wailing sirens in the distance snapped him into action.
He sprinted forward and leapt into the car.
Tires screeched as the car drifted hard and peeled out from the wreckage.
Inside, heart pounding, Robinson shouted, "Who the hell are you?!"
The driver didn't say a word—just kept driving fast and smooth.
Then, with one hand, he pulled off his hood and mask.
Zashiro.
"Yo."
He smirked, eyes still locked on the road.
Robinson stared.
"Zash?! How did you even know I was there? What the hell was that explosion?"
Zashiro kept cool.
"I tracked your car. You think I'd let you run off solo like some dumbass hero?"
Robinson shook his head, still trying to process. "But the cars—who blew them up?!"
Zash replied without missing a beat.
"Race Vault."
Robinson narrowed his eyes. "I thought Race Vault was just another street crew."
Zashiro shifted gears and took an exit ramp hard.
"They're more than that. What's left of Zero Divide that didn't follow Vance? They went underground—way underground. They're serious. And they know who you are."
Robinson went quiet.
The car sliced through traffic, silent except for the roar of the engine.
Zashiro glanced at him.
"From now on, you're not just some kid trying to win a race."
Robinson let out a deep breath.
"Yeah. I figured that the moment I hit the streets."
Zashiro's car sped down the highway under the dark city sky. Neon lights flickered in the distance like a mirage of chaos and allure.
Without looking over, Zashiro said,
"You know that card?"
Robinson turned, confused.
"Card?"
Zashiro nodded toward Robinson's jacket pocket.
"Check your pocket. He must've slipped it to you."
Robinson reached into his jacket. His fingers touched something cold and hard.
He pulled it out — a black metal card, engraved with a silver wing emblem in the center. It was thick, heavy, and radiated importance.
His eyes widened.
"What the hell is this?"
Zashiro glanced quickly, then focused back on the road.
"Not just a card. It's an invitation. They call it Silver Wing. It's a key — to an older, darker organization. Way above Zero Divide. Way more ruthless."
Robinson stared at it, gripping it tighter.
"Who gave me this… last night?"
Zashiro nodded.
"After you won. I was there. Watching. That whole race — it was a test. You passed. Now they see you as a 'potential'."
The metal card gleamed under the dashboard light. The silver wing shimmered like a symbol of something sacred — or cursed.
Zashiro's tone dropped.
"You think this is just about underground racing? No, man. You've stepped into high-level criminal territory. There's no going back. Zero Divide's pissed because of you. They think you're continuing your dad's mission. And now… other groups are watching."
Robinson sat back. His thoughts raced faster than any car he'd ever driven.
This wasn't about saving his mom anymore.
Not just about his dad's past.
This was about him.
The car cruised steadily through the dim streets. Inside, the air was thick with tension.
Robinson stared at the metal card in his hand, then turned to Zashiro.
"Is Race Vault just a splinter group from Zero Divide? Or are they still connected somehow?"
Zashiro stayed quiet for a moment, the engine humming beneath them.
"Good question."
He exhaled.
"Officially—no. Race Vault showed up after Zero Divide started falling apart. A lot of their people split off and formed new circles. Race Vault was one of them."
Robinson narrowed his eyes.
"But?"
Zashiro glanced at him quickly, then focused on the road again.
"But behind the scenes... there's a link. Some of the former higher-ups from Zero who vanished? Word is—they're funding Race Vault in secret. Not all of them. But enough to make it feel like Race Vault is Zero Divide's shadow."
Robinson clenched his jaw.
"So now I've got two sides watching me? The old legacy... and the new blood?"
Zashiro gave a slow nod.
"And don't forget—both sides think you're the heir to a criminal throne. Paul's son, the 'traitor agent'."
He looked over.
"They either want you on their side... or out of the way for good."
Robinson turned his gaze to the window, city lights fading into the night mist.
His fingers tightened around the silver-winged card.
The car came to a stop in front of a semi-industrial apartment building. From the outside, it looked run-down, but the electronic security system said otherwise. Inside the dashboard, the cabin lights cast a soft glow.
Robinson leaned back, glancing at Zashiro.
"Looks like... I'll have to crash at your place tonight," he said quietly, still feeling the weight of the black metal card in his jacket pocket.
"I can't go back home. If they know where I live..."
Zashiro unbuckled his seatbelt and gave a knowing smirk.
"Figured you'd say that. Come on, let's go up."
They entered through the back entrance of the apartment. Inside, it resembled a mini-hideout: a converted workshop filled with engine parts, hidden weapon compartments, and a wall-mounted strategy board. Upstairs, there was a compact living area — foldable mattress, surveillance monitors, and a tiny kitchen.
Robinson dropped into a beanbag by the window.
"Your place... feels more like a command center than an apartment."
Zashiro opened the fridge, tossed him a cold drink.
"I've been living in the shadows for a while now. I knew someday the world would come for me... now they're coming for you too."
Robinson cracked the can open, staring blankly at the floor.
"If this keeps going... maybe Paul was right. Maybe Japan is safer."
Zashiro sat on the floor, leaning against the sofa.
"Or maybe that's what they want... for you to run. So they can move freely while you're out of the picture."
Robinson looked at him seriously.
"You think this is gonna blow up into something bigger?"
Zashiro nodded slowly.
"Race Vault isn't the end. It's just the entry point... into something darker than Zero Divide ever was."