The BMW M3 GTR's exhaust note reverberates between buildings as you downshift approaching Toretto's Market & Cafe. Your fingers flex against carbon fiber and Alcantara, the weighted steering responsive to microscopic adjustments. A faint blue glow emanates from your peripheral vision—interface notifications only you can see.
[SYSTEM: Fast Universe Integration Complete]
[WISH INVENTORY: 5/5 REMAINING]
[BLACK MARKET INTERFACE: ONLINE]
[GTA MENU: ACCESSIBLE]
[INSTANT MASTERY: READY FOR ALLOCATION]
The digital readouts fade as you ease into a parking space directly in front of the cafe, the Most Wanted BMW's distinctive livery reflecting afternoon sun. Your arrival hasn't gone unnoticed. Through polarized windows, you catalog faces from a universe that shouldn't exist: Dominic Toretto wiping his hands on a shop rag; Letty Ortiz's suspicious glare; Vince leaning against the counter; and Brian O'Conner—undercover cop posing as Brian Earl Spilner—nursing a Corona.
You kill the engine, and the silence amplifies your heartbeat. One breath centers you. The driver's door scissors upward as you emerge into Los Angeles heat.
"Nice ride." Dom's voice carries across the distance, deeper than theater speakers ever captured it. "Never seen one quite like it."
You approach with measured confidence, noting how conversations halt and eyes track your movement. The interface flickers in your vision:
[DOMINIC TORETTO - THREAT LEVEL: HIGH]
[BRIAN O'CONNER - UNDERCOVER FBI]
[MERRYWEATHER ACCESS: AVAILABLE - 28 UNITS ON STANDBY]
"One of a kind," you reply, voice carrying just enough edge to demand respect without seeking confrontation. "Custom work from ground up."
Dom's eyes narrow slightly, professional assessment mixing with territorial caution. "You don't just drive something like that through Echo Park accidentally."
"No accidents here," you confirm, allowing yourself a calibrated smile. "Heard the tuna sandwich might be worth trying. Though I'm told it's terrible."
Brian's posture stiffens imperceptibly at the callback to his own first visit—information you shouldn't possess. His fingertips whiten around his beer bottle.
"Bullshit," Vince interjects, pushing off the counter. "Nobody comes here for the tuna."
"Vince," Dom warns, one syllable carrying unquestioned authority.
Movement from the shop's interior draws your attention. Gisele Yashar emerges—impossibly alive in this timeline—her presence an anomaly even in this twisted reality. Dark eyes lock onto yours with predatory intensity. She wasn't supposed to be here yet, not at Toretto's, not before the fourth film's timeline.
[TEMPORAL ANOMALY DETECTED: GISELE YASHAR]
[WARNING: UNIVERSE RECONFIGURATION IN PROGRESS]
"The car," Gisele says, her accented voice carrying subtle harmonics that bypass your rational defenses. "Israeli military modifications?"
Your system flares warnings as her proximity disrupts your calculated composure. "Something like that."
"I recognize expert workmanship." Her fingers trail along the BMW's carbon fiber hood, the gesture both appreciative and provocative. "And a driver who knows what he possesses."
Dom watches this exchange with analytical patience. You sense the crew's assessment: threat, opportunity, or both?
Brian steps forward, blue eyes sharper than they should be. "You race?"
The question carries dual meaning—both street credibility inquiry and law enforcement fishing. Your interface highlights microexpressions betraying his divided loyalties.
[OPTION AVAILABLE: EXPOSE BRIAN O'CONNER]
[CAUTION: EARLY EXPOSURE CHANGES PRIMARY TIMELINE]
[MERRYWEATHER TACTICAL TEAM: DEPLOYMENT READY]
"When it matters," you answer, watching Dom's reaction rather than Brian's. "Though I find the right race is about more than just crossing a finish line."
Dom's interest visibly elevates. "Philosophy from a stranger with a car worth more than this whole block."
"Cars like that attract attention," Brian adds, seemingly casual while angling for information.
You lock eyes with him, allowing just enough knowing intensity to unsettle him. "Some people aren't what they appear to be. Wouldn't you agree, Officer?"
The word lands like a detonation. Brian's expression flashes micro-panic before reassembling into practiced neutrality. Dom's entire demeanor shifts, muscular tension redistributing toward potential violence.
"What did you just say?" Letty demands, moving closer to Dom's side.
Your interface offers combat probabilities and escape vectors, but you remain still, the eye of a hurricane you've deliberately summoned.
"Interesting crew you've assembled," you redirect, addressing Dom directly while ignoring Brian's increasingly hostile stance. "I've been looking for people with particular skills. The kind who understand value beyond what's obvious."
"You need to explain yourself," Dom states, the words carrying unmistakable threat.
Gisele has positioned herself at an angle that gives her clear sightlines to both you and potential weapons. Her tactical awareness confirms her Mossad background.
"I have a proposition," you continue, summoning your Black Market Interface with a subtle eye movement. Digital schematics of the Union Depository flash briefly in your vision. "One that makes your past jobs look like convenience store robberies."
[SYSTEM: CRITICAL DECISION POINT]
[WARNING: TIMELINE DIVERGENCE IMMINENT]
The tension hangs suspended between heartbeats. You've detonated Brian's cover, challenged Dom's authority, captured Gisele's dangerous interest, and proposed criminality all within minutes of arrival. Each face around you registers a different calculation of risk and opportunity.
"You come to my place," Dom says with deadly quiet, "insult my friend, and then offer me a job?"
Your BMW's engine suddenly roars to life behind you—remote activation through your interface. The timing creates the perfect dramatic punctuation as you prepare to answer the question that will determine everything that follows.