The overcast sky hung over Ridgehaven like a silent threat. A cold wind swept through the cemetery on the city's south side, making the trees sway slowly — as if even they were mourning the loss.
Adam Reyes stood before Noah's grave, the name freshly carved into the headstone. No moss yet, but already hard to look at. He crouched, placing a hand on the cold stone. The leather of his jacket creaked with the motion. For a moment, he tried to hold it in, but the tears came — slow, quiet, falling onto the dry earth and mixing with the soil.
His fingers clenched around the edge of the gravestone.
"You son of a bitch..." he muttered with a sad smile. "You left me behind."
The sound of footsteps crunching gravel made him turn slightly, but he didn't stand.
"Adam," called a familiar voice.
He wiped his face with the back of his hand and stood, turning to see Henry Fischer. The man wore a serious expression, but his eyes carried the same weight of pain.
"Your brother... asked me to tell you he was sorry. That he was asking for forgiveness," Henry said, voice steady but low.
Adam let out a long breath, turning his gaze toward the gray horizon.
"Of course he did," he replied, a hint of sarcasm in his tone. "Died doing the dumbest thing possible — the thing we both loved. Bastard knew I wouldn't stay mad for long."
Henry hesitated. The wind stirred the branches above, and the rustling leaves filled the short silence that followed.
"Adam..." he said finally, "I don't think what happened to Noah... was an accident."
Adam's eyes locked on Henry, sharp and electric, like the words had triggered a current through his chest.
"What the hell are you saying?"
Henry glanced around, then looked back at him. This time, there was no room for doubt in his voice.
"The girl who was with him... his girlfriend... she used to date someone dangerous. Real heavy hitter. Former king of the circuit. Connected to underground betting."
Adam scoffed, running a hand through his short hair and adjusting the collar of his jacket.
"Of course... my brother hit the gas and a mobster's ex's heart at the same time. Classic." He gave a crooked half-smile and turned. "Where'd they take the Exorix wreck?"
"Dylan's garage. The one out past the city, down by the hill."
Adam paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
"Yeah... they sent it to the right place," he said flatly, then walked off toward the cemetery gates.
Henry stayed where he was, trying to read him, as Adam climbed into his black car. The engine came alive with a low growl, slicing through the silence like a blade. He slid on his sunglasses and drove off. The deep rumble of the motor echoed down the empty road.
"Dylan... you better've started tearing this thing apart already," Adam muttered to himself.
He drove toward the city, tires gliding smoothly over the damp asphalt. The radio played a classic rock track — gritty, nostalgic, with a barely restrained rage beneath the chords.
At a red light, a police cruiser pulled up beside him. Adam glanced over… and froze.
The officer behind the wheel had long brown hair tied in a low ponytail. Her emerald green eyes caught his for a second — sharp, unreadable. She saw him looking but didn't flinch, professionalism carved into every line of her posture.
The light turned green. The cruiser pulled ahead with precision and purpose.
Adam smirked and shifted gears, following behind.
"Last time I was in this town... the cops weren't nearly that well-dressed. Or that hot," he said to himself, flipping on the headlights and pressing a little harder on the gas.
Tires screeched loud as the black car pulled into a sharp, clean drift, kicking up dust and stealing glances from the few who still lingered outside Ridgehaven. Adam stepped out of the machine like a man taking the stage — he shoved the door open, hopped down with a casual ease, adjusted his leather jacket, and slowly pulled off his sunglasses, letting his eyes take in the place that once felt like home.
Across the lot, a young man with messy brown hair and grease-stained arms wiped his hands on an old rag. As soon as he saw Adam, his face softened with a sad smile.
"Well, I'll be damned..." Dylan said, stopping in front of him. "I'm really sorry about Noah, man."
Adam let out a breath, tucked the sunglasses into his jacket pocket, and looked him in the eye for a moment before replying.
"Appreciate it," he said, voice gravelly but steady. "Where's the Exorix?"
"Already started taking it apart. Ethan and Kyle are helping too," Dylan nodded, leading Adam into the garage.
The air was thick with the scent of burned oil, rubber, and rust. Tools were scattered across the benches, and fluorescent lights hung from exposed wires overhead. In the middle of that organized chaos rested a beast — a black muscle car with a bold neon-blue stripe running down the hood and across the roof.
Its narrow, crimson headlights glowed like the eyes of a predator lying in wait. In the back, a low, wide spoiler enhanced its already aggressive silhouette.
Adam gave a low whistle.
"Brimstone Dragshot Devil…" he murmured, eyes scanning the machine. "1,306 horsepower. Zero to sixty in under a second. Tops out at 360 klicks. Rear-wheel drive. This thing's a damn demon."
"Still got the eye, huh?" Dylan said with a laugh. "She's my baby. What do you think?"
"Brimstones were never my thing," Adam replied with a smirk. "I've always been more of an eastern kind of guy. But... you've still got taste."
They exchanged a look — no words needed. That silent understanding only brothers of the street ever really get.
Then Adam's eyes drifted to the darker corner of the shop, where the remains of the Exorix rested. The twisted metal, the hood crumpled like paper, dry blood still faintly visible on the door.
He walked over slowly, like approaching a grave. Ran a hand over the wreckage, feeling the cold, jagged texture of what was left.
"Find anything... off?" he asked, eyes still fixed on the shell.
"We were waitin' on you to open it all up," Dylan answered, his tone carrying the weight of respect — he knew this wasn't just a car.
Adam gave a small nod. Then, looking down at the concrete floor, he raised an eyebrow.
"Still got 'that' down below?"
Dylan smirked, catching the meaning immediately.
"Course I do. You staying?"
Adam pulled a key from his pocket and tossed it to him.
"Put it up for sale. It's a '67 — someone out there's got a shrine just waiting for it."
Dylan caught the key mid-air.
"And your bags?"
"In the trunk. Be gentle. There's a bottle of good whiskey in there."
Adam shrugged off his jacket and hung it on a hook, then shot Dylan a look and a sly grin.
"And my baby... still part of the collection?"
"You mean the Kazurai R-34?" Dylan let out a short laugh. "Hell no, I'd never sell that beast. That thing's more legendary than your ego."
"Then it better be shining," Adam said. "Because I plan on making this pavement scream again real soon."
The sudden roar of two different engines sliced through the silence like thunder splitting the sky. Adam and Dylan broke off the conversation, exchanged a quick glance, and stepped out of the garage, eyes locked on the main gate.
Two machines emerged from the shimmer of heat rising off the asphalt.
The first — a Vulcan M4-R — radiated pure aggression. A sharp-lined sports coupe with a metallic graphite finish that shimmered in the light, electric blue accents slashing across the sides like battle scars. Its white-blue LED headlights blinked like hungry eyes. The engine roared, guttural and raw — a metallic growl that rattled the bones. Blue flames spat from the dual exhaust as the car parked with dominant precision.
Right behind, gliding in with elegance, came the Mirage Eclipse-Z — compact, aerodynamic, with a deceptive aura. Its pearlescent green body shimmered like moonlit moss. The violet LED headlights resembled curved blades, and the black wheels spun in perfect silence, catching the sunlight like titanium shurikens. The engine's sound was more subdued, yet still menacing — muffled, rhythmic, with post-combustion pops like the heartbeat of something nervous and alive.
The doors opened in perfect sync.
From the Mirage stepped Ethan — tousled blond hair, calm expression, and eyes that always seemed to see more than they let on. From the Vulcan came Kyle, with black hair streaked with blonde, dark sunglasses, and a mischievous grin plastered on his face. Both of them locked eyes with Adam and Dylan.
Adam crossed his arms, tilted his chin, and gave that signature cocky smile.
"Well, well... Ethan and Kyle hit a bank and forgot to invite me?"
Kyle let out a loud laugh, slapping the Vulcan's hood.
"Come on, man! We won these beauties on the streets. You think we just sit behind screens?"
Ethan walked up more calmly.
"You still think we're just the nerds of the crew, huh?"
The two moved in and gave Adam a quick, solid hug.
"Sorry about Noah," Ethan murmured.
"Yeah, man. For real," Kyle added, his tone softening.
Adam took a breath, then gently pushed them both back by the shoulders.
"It's all good. Enough with the sad stuff... Let's get to work."
Dylan appeared behind them, leaning on a wrench like it was a walking stick.
"Before that... not gonna grab your bags from the trunk?"
Adam didn't even pause.
"Ethan, give me a hand with that. And don't forget the whiskey bottle back there."
"Wait, did you say whiskey?" Ethan replied, already on his way.
Adam walked back into the shop, but stopped cold when he saw the Exorix on the platform — or what was left of it. The mangled frame, headlights dark like dead eyes... but something was missing.
"Hey... who the hell took the spoiler off the Exorix?"
Dylan, already heading for some glasses, didn't even try to lie.
"That'd be Kyle."
"Lies!" Kyle yelled from outside. "I just suggested it! Ethan's the one who took it off!"
"Uh-huh, sure..." Adam said, rolling his eyes with a half-smile.
Ethan silently took the keys from Dylan, his boots echoing against the concrete floor as he approached Adam's car. With a metallic click, he popped the trunk. The familiar scent of leather and gasoline drifted out with the trapped heat.
Inside were two travel bags and a bottle of whiskey resting like sacred artifacts. Ethan grabbed everything carefully, saying nothing, and carried it inside. The amber liquid clinked softly in the bottle, cradled by his steady hand.
Kyle entered right behind him, quietly humming a pop tune. He shrugged off his jacket with exaggerated flair, hung it on a hook near the workbench, and rubbed his hands together.
"Alright, now we're talkin'. Garage, grease, and mystery... I'm in."
Adam, Dylan, Kyle, and Ethan gathered around the Exorix like medics around a fallen comrade. The wrecked muscle car held more than twisted metal. Each part they removed whispered a story. Bolts creaked, tools clanged, and the sharp scent of rust and burnt oil filled the warm, heavy air.
While dismantling the dashboard, Adam suddenly froze, muttering a curse under his breath as his eyes narrowed.
"Yo... what the hell is this?" he murmured, pulling out a small object tucked behind the steering wheel.
He handed it to Dylan, who took it with a furrowed brow. Ethan stepped closer, wiped his fingers on his shirt, and carefully examined the device.
"This is..." Ethan held the object up to the light. "...a locking device. It was programmed to jam the steering wheel."
Kyle blinked, the smug look on his face vanishing for a moment.
"So the Exorix was sabotaged...?"
"Exactly." Adam's voice came out deeper, colder. "Henry was right. This wasn't an accident. It was an execution."
Dylan slowly shook his head, his jaw clenched tight.
"Noah was neck-deep in trouble. That girl... she used to date the former king of the circuit. Real heavy hitter."
Adam took a long breath. His knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists. He turned slightly, staring at the ground for a moment before muttering through gritted teeth:
"Henry told me. The guy still races, doesn't he?"
"He races... and he rules," Dylan replied. "His name still sends chills. Until Noah beat him on the track… and with Noah gone, he's back on the throne."
Adam grabbed the device from Ethan's hands and crushed it, the dry snap of plastic echoing through the workshop.
"Then it's time to knock his ass off the throne again."
Kyle grinned, a spark of excitement lighting up his face.
"Next race is the day after tomorrow. If you're serious, I'll get you in now."
Dylan crossed his arms, leaning against the workbench, his expression firm.
"But we'll need to find you a car. And a damn good one."
Adam cracked his neck, like someone waking up from a long sleep.
"For now, let's finish stripping down the Exorix. The good parts we sell, the junk we bury."
"And the new car?" Ethan asked, already back to work.
"We'll find it by then. Still plenty of time..." Adam popped open the whiskey bottle, poured himself a glass, and took a slow sip. "...and I've got hell bottled up inside me just waiting to come out."
The three exchanged looks. They knew that look in Adam's eyes. It was the same one he had before a bar fight, a high-stakes bet, or something reckless that usually ended with a dented car and a story worth telling.
He was back.