Robinson stepped inside, eyes scanning the room.
Garage 17 was nothing like he expected. It wasn't just a regular workshop—it was packed with exotic race cars. Skylines, RX-7s, an old Evo with heavy mods, and in the corner, an engine torn apart mid-repair.
Marcus looked up from under a hood. "Hey, the kid's here."
Paul walked over casually, wearing a calm smile.
"Guess that brochure didn't end up in the wrong hands after all."
Robinson froze. "Wait… this place is yours?"
Paul nodded. "Told you… the world's smaller than you think."
Robinson glanced at the crumpled brochure in his hand, then around the garage, then back at Paul.
"So this isn't just some repair shop…"
Marcus chimed in, "This is a base. For the old legends and the new blood who know how to race with a purpose."
Paul crossed his arms. "I didn't bring you here before because you weren't ready. But if you came here on your own… that means you're starting to understand what you're chasing."
Robinson looked down, deep in thought.
"So is this about racing? Or about the dad who disappeared ten years ago?"
The room went quiet. Marcus stepped back, giving them space.
Paul met his son's gaze.
"I never ran away. But there was a reason I had to vanish."
Robinson stared at him. "You got time to explain?"
Paul gave a small smirk. "If you're planning to work here, you'll have plenty of time. And so will I."
Robinson was silent for a moment… then gave a slow nod.
"Alright. But one condition."
Paul raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
Robinson looked him dead in the eye. "You tell me the truth. From now on."
Paul nodded slowly. "Deal."
That night, at Garage 17.
The sounds of tools clanking and metal echoing filled the air, mixed with the soft hum of tuning equipment. Hanging lights cast a glow over the workbench where Paul and Robinson were working on the engine of a Nissan S15.
Paul was calmly showing Robinson how to remove the intake manifold, his hands swift but controlled.
"Easy. Don't yank it. You'll tear the gasket."
Robinson followed his instructions, still a bit stiff, but focused.
In the corner, Marcus sat in front of a laptop, discussing codes and ECU maps with his girlfriend—a sharp, no-nonsense tuning expert. Their quiet conversation buzzed with technical jargon, numbers flying back and forth.
Robinson hadn't said much since they started. His face was focused, but his mind elsewhere.
Paul finally broke the silence.
"Tomorrow… your mom's surgery. I'm paying for it."
Robinson looked up, eyes narrowing.
"Wait—why didn't you say anything before?"
Paul met his gaze, steady and calm.
"Because you had to choose your own path. I couldn't force it."
Robinson let out a frustrated breath.
"I already stepped into the dirt, Dad… Stole a car, got chased down, nearly threw punches at some underground race. All just to help Mom."
Paul placed a hand on his son's shoulder.
"You did it because you've got heart. But this world—the racing, the betting, Zero Divide—it's not just about fast cars. I stepped away to protect you both."
Robinson stared back at him, his voice low but sharp.
"Then tell me the truth. What's really going on?"
Paul exhaled slowly and locked eyes with his son.
"There's a war in these streets. Not just over speed—but over control. Data, money, lives. And Zero Divide's in the middle of it. I used to be one of them. Now… they know you're my son."
The silence was thick. Robinson didn't answer right away.
Marcus stood from his desk.
"You're in deep now, Rob. But this time, you're not alone."
Paul added quietly,
"We'll end this. Together."
Robinson clenched his fist.
"I'm not backing down."
Paul gave a faint smile.
"Good. Because starting tonight… you're not just some street racer. You're part of the team."
The night was getting late.
Robinson sat on a wooden bench near the car they'd been working on, still holding an oily rag. His phone buzzed—Daryl's name lit up on the screen.
He answered.
"Yo, bro! You coming to Cassandra's party tonight?"
Daryl's voice sounded pumped on the other end.
Robinson let out a quiet breath.
"I don't think so, Dar. I gotta get ready for tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? What's going on?"
"My mom's surgery."
There was a brief pause.
"Damn... where'd you get the money for that?"
Daryl's voice shifted, more serious.
Robinson glanced toward the garage, where Paul was still working on an engine.
"From my dad."
"Wait—what? You met him?"
Robinson nodded even though Daryl couldn't see it.
"He owns Garage 17, Dar. The place from that crumpled flyer."
Daryl went quiet for a few seconds.
"Dude… that's wild. Straight-up plot twist."
Robinson let out a small laugh.
"You're not the only one who's shocked. I'm still trying to process it too."
"So… do you trust him now?"
Robinson looked up at the night sky. The stars were drowned out by city lights.
"I don't know. But… this time he's here. And that's more than I ever had before."
"Alright... if you need anything, just call me. I'll skip the party if you need backup."
"Nah, go ahead and enjoy it. But tomorrow afternoon, meet me at the hospital?"
"You got it. Bro code."
Click.
The call ended. Robinson stared at his phone for a moment before sliding it back into his jacket pocket.
From across the garage, Paul glanced up and said,
"That's a good friend you've got."
Robinson nodded slightly.
"Yeah… they're the reason I can still keep going."
That night, the party was in full swing.
Colorful strobe lights flashed across the ceiling of an abandoned warehouse turned makeshift nightclub. Heavy hip-hop and trap beats shook the floor, blending with the smell of alcohol, cheap perfume, and adrenaline. High schoolers danced, laughed, and mingled in chaotic waves. In one corner, Leon's crew had gathered—loud, cocky, and always watching.
Daryl stepped inside, casually descending a metal stairwell. He scanned the room, heading toward the drinks table—but before he could get far—
Leon stepped in front of him, blocking his way.
"Well, look who decided to show up," Leon sneered. "Where's your coward friend? Robinson? Hiding behind his mommy tonight?"
Some nearby kids laughed, entertained by the tension. Cassandra stood not far away, watching silently, her expression unreadable.
Daryl popped his gum and replied coolly,
"He's busy. Got more important things than parties."
Leon scoffed and stepped forward, closing the distance.
"Or maybe he's just scared to face me again?"
Before Daryl could answer, Zashiro appeared, sliding in from the side to stand between them. His eyes were cold, his voice calm.
"If you're looking for a fight, wrong person."
"If you're looking for Robinson… try searching somewhere higher than low-tier scenes like this."
Leon locked eyes with him, jaw clenched. His crew shifted slightly, tension rising—but Cassandra suddenly spoke, sharp and dry:
"Enough, Leon. Not everyone lives to feed your ego."
Leon glared at her, clearly annoyed, but didn't move.
Zashiro clapped a hand on Daryl's shoulder.
"Let's bounce. This party's dead."
They turned and walked away, leaving Leon standing alone in the middle of the noise.
As they walked off, Daryl glanced back—just briefly—and locked eyes with Cassandra. She didn't say anything… but something in her gaze said she was thinking.
Zashiro pushed open a side door, leading to a narrow balcony overlooking the street.
The cold night air hit them instantly.
"I hate noisy places," Zashiro muttered, pulling a hand-rolled cigarette from his pocket.
Daryl chuckled.
"Yet you still showed up."
Zashiro lit the cigarette, exhaled slowly, eyes on the sky.
"Sometimes… you gotta see your enemies up close."