Robinson stood tall, his voice cutting through the heavy silence.
"And now you show up?" he snapped.
"After all these years? After everything?"
Paul looked at him, silent. But Robinson didn't give him space to hide behind it.
"You cared more about your racing world. Your own life. While we—me and Mom—we were just left behind."
His eyes were red, but he held back the tears—not out of shame, but out of anger.
"Do you even know Mom's sick?" His voice cracked.
"She worked day and night, hid her medication so I wouldn't worry."
Daryl kept his head down, not daring to say a word.
"I stole a car. I know it was wrong. But I did it for her. And for myself. Because there's no one else to help us."
He stepped closer to Paul, eyes burning.
"If you're really my father… if you have even a shred of decency—then give me a reason."
Robinson locked eyes with him, filled with pain, fury, and years of silent questions.
"I don't need your approval. I need the truth."
"Give me a real reason why you left us."
"Say something that proves you're not just a coward."
The room fell into a tense hush. The woman from before looked away quietly.
The muscular black man—Marcus—let out a slow breath.
Paul finally spoke. His voice was low, but heavy with something deeper.
"You think I left because I didn't care?"
He met Robinson's stare with one of his own, tired and raw.
"I left… because I had to."
Robinson shook his head.
"That's not an answer."
Paul walked slowly to a desk in the corner. He opened a drawer and pulled out an old folder—yellowed papers, and a worn photo with frayed edges.
He placed it on the table.
"Before you hate me more than you already do… read this."
Robinson looked at him, hesitant.
Paul gave a small nod.
"Then we'll talk. About who I really am… and why that car you stole isn't just a car."
Daryl stood awkwardly beside them, his eyes darting between Robinson and Paul.
"Bro... what is that?" he whispered.
Robinson didn't respond right away. He opened the folder slowly—worn-out papers with handwriting and some old legal documents.
There was a photo too. An old one. A younger Paul stood next to a woman holding a baby.
Daryl leaned in.
"Is that... you?"
Robinson stared at the photo for a long second. The baby was unmistakably him. But his face stayed unreadable.
He closed the folder calmly.
Then looked up and stared straight into Paul's eyes.
"I don't care what's in here." His voice was cold. Firm.
Paul looked taken aback, clearly expecting a different reaction.
"What matters is this," Robinson said. "You left me. When I was just two years old."
Daryl swallowed hard.
"I don't want your explanations. I don't want your excuses. This isn't about your past. It's about how you walked away—and never came back. Until now."
Paul opened his mouth to speak, but Robinson raised a hand, cutting him off.
"This is your mess. Not mine."
"I grew up without you. So don't show up now acting like you're part of my life."
The room felt frozen. Silent. Even the soft hum of machines in the background seemed to vanish.
Paul lowered his head, for the first time at a loss for words.
"You had a choice," Robinson said, voice quieter now but sharper.
"And you chose to leave. So don't blame me for walking my own path."
He placed the folder back on the table, turned around, and started walking out.
Daryl glanced back at Paul one last time, then quickly followed Robinson outside.
The air outside was cold, but Robinson didn't shiver.
He just looked… colder.
Inside the garage, the air was heavy.
Marcus—the broad-shouldered man with dark skin—finally spoke up after a long silence.
"You were too hard on him, Paul."
Paul stared blankly at the door where Robinson and Daryl had just left.
His voice was low, almost a whisper.
"He's hard because he grew up without knowing who his father was. And that's on me."
Elisa, the woman who greeted Robinson earlier, leaned against the desk, arms crossed.
Her gaze was sharp.
"You can apologize, Paul. But don't expect him to forgive you right away. He's living in a world you walked away from."
Paul nodded slowly.
"I'm going to make this right. But first… I need to make sure he's not in deeper trouble."
That night — in an empty parking lot on the city's edge.
Daryl stood nervously next to the stolen GTR. The buyer arrived — tall, in a leather jacket, his face half-hidden beneath a cap.
"This the car?" the man asked, cool and expressionless.
Daryl nodded.
"You said you'd wire the cash instantly. Did it go through?"
The man gave a slight smirk, holding up his phone.
"Done."
He tapped a few times and turned the screen toward Daryl. "Look. Funds transferred. Check your account."
Daryl quickly opened his banking app.
The screen loaded… and the number flashed across. Money received.
"Alright," he said with relief. "Take it, man."
The buyer nodded, got into the GTR, and calmly drove away.
But barely a minute later, as the roar of the engine faded, Daryl double-checked the app—only to see the number…
Gone.
"What the hell—?"
He blinked, refreshed the app again.
Balance: 0.
"No… no way…"
He dug into the transaction details—only to find it was a fake notification.
Somehow spoofed. The money was never really sent.
His heart pounded. Then something flashed in his mind—
The man's neck.
Just as he turned to get into the car earlier… a tattoo.
A Z, split down the center.
Daryl's blood ran cold.
"We've been set up…"
With trembling hands, he grabbed his phone and called Robinson.
"Dude—pick up. We've got a problem. A big one. That guy… he played us."
In the small garage behind the house, Robinson was working on an old car engine.
His hands were covered in grease, sweat trickling down his forehead. Despite everything weighing on his mind—Paul, the betrayal, the danger—this was the only place he felt in control.
He heard soft footsteps behind him.
His mother approached, carrying a glass of water.
"You need this," she said gently.
Robinson looked over, wiped his hands on a rag, and stood up. He took the drink, sipped, then went quiet. His eyes stayed fixed on the engine.
"I met him, Mom," Robinson said quietly.
"Dad."
His mother froze for a second. But she didn't look surprised—more like she'd been waiting for this moment to come.
"You knew?" Robinson continued.
"All this time, I thought he was dead. Or just… gone. But he's been out there. Alive. And you—"
He paused, his voice tightening.
"You've still been in contact with him? And you hid it from me?"
His mother set the glass down on the nearby toolbox, her eyes welling with tears.
"I just… I was trying to protect you, Rob. When he left, I thought it was forever. But sometimes, he'd call. Sometimes send money. I didn't want you to get your hopes up again."
Robinson shook his head, jaw clenched.
"So you lied to me my whole life? Even when I asked about him, you made it seem like he didn't care. But all this time… you were still talking to him?"
She looked down.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"I was afraid. Afraid that if he came back, he'd break your heart all over again. But now he found you… before I could explain."
Before Robinson could say more, his mom's phone started ringing.
She glanced at the screen, then silently handed it to Robinson.
"It's for you."
Robinson frowned, wiped his hands, and took the phone.
"Hello?"
Daryl's voice came through, tense and panicked.
"Rob! We've been played! The money's not there—he said it was sent, but it never showed up. And that guy, man… I saw a tattoo on his neck. A split Z. You know what that means?"
Robinson's eyes sharpened. All the emotion he'd just felt—gone in an instant, replaced by pure focus.
"Say that again. What tattoo?"
"A 'Z'—split down the middle like lightning. I looked it up on a forum—it's a mark. Some gang that went underground years ago. People say they're back now. Rob… I think we just handed over a stolen car to someone way worse than the cops."
Robinson stared at his mom.
His lips didn't move.
But his eyes—dead serious.
"Send me your location."