That morning, the sky was clear.
Sunlight filtered through the trees lining the schoolyard. Birds chirped, students bustled through the gates—completely unaware of what had gone down the night before.
Robinson strolled in, hoodie pulled up over his head. Hands in his pockets, footsteps easy—but his eyes held a sharpness, like he was carrying a secret too heavy for the morning light.
Daryl was already waiting near the school's old basketball court, perched on the railing, scrolling through his phone. He hopped down the moment he spotted Robinson and fell in step beside him.
"Dude," Daryl muttered low. "The car's still up on my post. I put, 'Rare find. No questions asked.' Already got two people DM-ing me. Want to see it today."
Robinson gave a small nod.
"Good."
They kept walking through the school hallway, past groups of laughing students and echoing chatter. But their world felt detached—like their minds were still stuck in the midnight streets with the GTR's roar in their ears.
"You really think we'll sell it?" Daryl asked, lowering his voice. "The more I think about it… What if the owner's, like, mob-connected? Crazy type. Tattoos. Dudes in suits that make people disappear over parking spots."
Robinson glanced at him with a faint smirk—one that wasn't amused, but dangerous.
"He's hunting me," Robinson said quietly. "So now… I hunt him back."
Daryl blinked. "You're serious?"
Robinson didn't answer.
But his eyes said everything.
Beneath that hoodie, he wasn't just a high school kid anymore.
He was a fuse—lit and counting down.
They were walking casually through the main school corridor—lockers lined up on both sides, the morning filled with chatter and laughter.
But the atmosphere shifted as soon as a group of students blocked the hallway ahead. People instinctively stepped aside, as if they already knew what was coming.
At the center of the group stood a tall guy with a buzz cut, wearing a varsity jacket with his name stitched on the back: Leon.
Leon was infamous—the kind of upperclassman bully who always resurfaced when someone new started to gain popularity.
And Robinson? After what had happened the previous night, his name had already begun spreading in certain circles.
Beside Leon stood a striking girl with long, sleek hair: Cassandra. Leon's girlfriend. Her face was unreadable, but her sharp eyes locked onto Robinson—curious, calculating.
Leon stepped forward, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"So you're Robinson, huh? The guy everyone's suddenly talking about?"
His voice was heavy, dripping with mockery. His crew chuckled behind him.
Daryl took half a step back, sensing where this was headed.
"I heard you think you're hot stuff now," Leon continued. "But you know what they say—what goes up fast… crashes even harder."
Robinson stared him down, calm and unshaken.
He pulled back his hoodie, revealing a steady gaze.
"I'm not looking for trouble," Robinson said flatly. "But if trouble's looking for me… here I am."
Leon's smirk faltered. His eyes narrowed.
Five of his guys slowly began to surround them. Tension thickened in the air.
Daryl whispered urgently, "Bro… it's five against one."
Robinson barely glanced at him before locking eyes with Leon again. His stance never changed. Solid. Ready.
Suddenly, one of Leon's guys shoved Robinson hard.
Without hesitation, Robinson moved.
Fast. Clean. Precise.
One punch to the jaw. A block—then a sharp elbow to the ribs.
His movements weren't wild or angry—they were deliberate, practiced, and deadly efficient.
Within seconds, two of them were down, two more staggered back, and the last one hesitated before slowly backing away.
Leon froze, his face pale.
Cassandra hadn't moved. She was still watching, her expression unreadable—but there was something in her gaze now. Not admiration. Curiosity. Deep, intense interest.
Robinson breathed out slowly, adjusting his hoodie as he looked at Leon.
"I don't like violence. But if you force it… this is what you get."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away.
Daryl hurried after him, eyes still wide with disbelief.
The hallway remained silent.
Everyone watched Robinson—not in fear, but with a rising sense of awe.
And behind them, Cassandra still hadn't moved.
Her lips never parted, but her mind whispered:
"That guy… he's not like the others."
The classroom was quiet. The teacher scribbled on the whiteboard, her voice droning on about history or math—Robinson wasn't paying attention.
He sat near the window, next to Daryl. His thoughts drifted between last night's stolen car and the morning fight.
Daryl nudged him gently.
"Yo… look."
Robinson turned his head toward the window. Down on the street, just outside the school gate, a man was standing still.
He wore a black shirt under an open leather jacket. Broad-shouldered. But what really got Robinson's heart pounding was the man's gaze—
Focused. Unblinking.
Like he knew exactly who he was looking for.
A moment later, one of their classmates walked over.
He had dark skin, curly hair tied back in a short bun. Everyone called him Dole—the guy who somehow always knew what was going on around school.
Dole leaned in, his voice low but serious.
"Hey, some guy's asking for you, Rob. Says it's urgent. Didn't say who he is—just wants you to come outside for a minute."
Robinson and Daryl locked eyes.
Daryl whispered, "Dude… you think it's the cops?"
"Or someone from the GTR's real owner," Robinson replied under his breath.
Daryl clenched his jaw. "If that guy's connected to the car… we're in deep shit."
Robinson glanced back out the window. The man was still there.
Only now, he was looking up.
Right at them.
And for a split second—he smiled.
Not a friendly smile.
A knowing smile.
The kind of smile that said, I've been waiting for you.
Daryl swallowed hard.
"This feels bad. Like we just stepped into someone else's game."
Robinson clenched his fist beneath the desk.
"Yeah. But if this is about the car—or about my mom… I need to know who he is."
Robinson and Daryl stepped out of the school gate. The midday air was starting to warm up, but Robinson's chest still felt cold.
The man stood across the street beside a black car, staring at them expressionlessly.
As they got closer, Daryl nudged Robinson lightly and muttered, eyes fixed forward.
"Bro… I swear. You guys look alike."
Robinson said nothing.
Daryl glanced again at the man.
"But this one… he's better looking. Built like a tank. Don't tell me—"
"I'm returning the car," Robinson cut in, his voice cold.
The man gave a small smile—not warm, but ironic.
"So now you're brave enough to steal something that's not yours, huh?"
Robinson stepped closer, eyes sharp.
"That's none of your business."
The man held his gaze, as if peering straight through him.
"I know. You've grown up, Roby."
Robinson narrowed his eyes. His heartbeat quickened.
"Come with me," the man said, opening the car door. "We'll talk at my place."
Daryl raised a hand quickly.
"We've got tutoring, sir. Really. English class and—"
"Just come along," the man cut in calmly. "You won't die in my hands."
His voice wasn't threatening—but carried a quiet finality that didn't invite argument.
Robinson stared at him for a few seconds before finally sliding into the back seat.
Daryl hesitated, then followed.
The car glided out of the school zone, leaving their normal world behind.
They arrived at a large warehouse on the outskirts of the city. From the outside, it looked like a storage unit—but once the doors opened, they saw rows of stunning, high-end cars lined up in precision.
Old muscle cars, modified sports cars, even an experimental electric vehicle.
Daryl's jaw dropped.
"This is… like an underground speed museum."
The cars weren't just parked—they were displayed. Each one looked like it carried history, scars, and stories. Polished paint, custom rims, battle marks left on purpose.
They were led to a small lounge in the corner of the warehouse. The walls were covered in street racing posters, shelves stacked with trophies and license plates from different countries.
A woman emerged from the back room. Early forties, hair tied neatly, sharp eyes. She looked at Robinson and smirked.
"Oh… so this is your kid, Robinson?"
Robinson froze in place.
His head slowly turned toward the man who brought him here.
"…Dad?"
It felt like something cracked inside his chest.
The man simply looked at him, silent.
Before Robinson could say anything, a deep voice echoed from behind.
A tall, muscular Black man entered. His gaze was piercing, but behind it, a trace of confusion.
"Paul…?" he said softly.
He looked back and forth between Robinson and the man next to him, as if trying to piece together a long-missing puzzle.
"He looks like you… but not quite."
Paul—the man's name finally spoken—locked eyes with Robinson again.
His expression was calmer now. But his gaze stayed sharp.
"There's a lot you don't know, Roby.
About me. About your mom.
And about why that car matters."