The crowd was packed when Zashiro's car pulled up on the side of the dark Brooklyn street, lit only by headlights and the flicker of fire barrels. Heavy hip-hop beats thundered from massive speakers. The air was thick with the smell of gasoline, cigarette smoke, and reckless energy.
Robinson got out first, jacket zipped up, eyes sharp.
Daryl followed, looking a little nervous, while Zashiro kept his hands in his hoodie pocket, casually chewing gum.
They walked through the buzzing crowd.
People were partying, betting, drinking, and gathering around modified street racers. The roar of tuned engines and bursts of laughter echoed in the night.
"You sure your dad's gonna be here?" Daryl asked, scanning left and right.
"He didn't say anything," Robinson replied flatly.
"But if there's movement in the streets… he usually shows up."
They kept pushing forward until—
The crowd opened up to a wide clearing—the main racing zone.
There, five guys stood in a loose formation.
Behind them, a sleek red coupe sat, engine still ticking hot.
And leaning casually against the hood—Leon.
Wearing his usual cocky grin.
Next to him stood Cassandra, her long hair falling over her leather jacket, eyes locked on Robinson—not surprised, not annoyed… but curious.
Leon smirked.
"Well, look who showed up. Robby the rising star. Stirring up school, now trying to show off on the streets?"
His crew chuckled behind him, amused.
Daryl muttered, "Damn it… not this guy again."
Zashiro narrowed his eyes, checking Leon out.
"He's racing too?"
Robinson didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on Cassandra—still watching him, silent.
Leon stepped forward, stopping just a few feet away.
"If you came looking for a race, I'm your guy. if you're looking for your dad…" he laughed dryly,
"…too bad.Maybe you don't even know who he really is."
Robinson's stare didn't flinch.
"I'm not here for you."
Leon grinned wider.
"But you're standing on my turf."
The tension cracked like static in the air. People nearby began turning to watch.
Finally, Cassandra spoke—quiet but cutting.
"You really haven't changed, Leon. Still trying to start fights to feel important."
Leon glanced at her, annoyed.
But before he could reply, Zashiro cut in:
"We don't have time for drama. You want a race, fine. But if all you've got is big talk, we're gone."
Leon laughed hard.
"Who's this? Little Tokyo thinks he's tough?"
Zashiro smiled lazily.
"Little Tokyo's riding with twin-turbo. Your car might not make it home."
A wave of "OHHH" rolled through the crowd—people laughing, cheering.
But Robinson didn't crack a smile. He stepped forward.
"I'll ask one last time…"
"Where's Paul? I need answers—tonight."
"How the hell would we know?"
One of the five guys in front burst out laughing, followed by the others.
"Is the dude even alive?!"
Laughter exploded through the crowd.
Leon shrugged casually.
"I heard your old man used to be a street racer. Big shot on the road. But now?"
He looked Robinson up and down.
"You're asking us like we used to chill with some runaway dad? Bro, your old man ditched you when you were a kid, and now you're asking us? That's hilarious."
More laughter. Echos of mockery mixed with the music and the crowd's cheers.
Robinson stayed silent. His face tightened. His eyes were burning.
In a flash—
"Shut your damn mouth, mutt!"
His hand grabbed Leon by the collar.
Laughter died. Everyone froze.
Leon didn't even have time to react before Robinson shoved him hard.
Leon staggered back, nearly crashing into his own car.
The vibe shifted—not tense, but held in stunned silence.
Robinson glared at the crowd. His eyes cold and sharp.
Then he turned around.
"Let's go."
He said to Daryl and Zashiro.
The three of them pushed through the crowd. No one dared get in their way.
Daryl muttered,
"Dude… you almost clocked him again."
"Should've punched him for real," Robinson muttered, jaw clenched.
But the search still came up empty.
Cars roared, bets flew, engines screamed through the night—but no sign of Paul.
They wandered through the fringes of the race scene, where things were a bit quieter.
The crowd was still thick. Loud music. Smoke and gasoline filled the air.
Robinson, Daryl, and Zashiro moved through it all—searching, but still no trace of Paul.
Until—
"YO!!"
A deep, booming voice rang out from near the edge of the track.
A burly man holding a bottle of alcohol stood on a rusty oil drum, eyes wild.
"THAT'S HIM!!" he shouted, pointing straight at Robinson.
"THIS KID WON THE SUPRA RACE LAST WEEK AT JACKSON TUNNEL!!"
Heads turned. Whispers spread through the crowd. Some nodded, some looked shocked.
Robinson froze.
Daryl snapped his head around. "Bro… that was you, right?"
Robinson nodded slowly.
The man stepped down, swaggering toward them, half-drunk but full of energy.
"I remember you. White Supra. You took that red Mustang at the tight turn. That move… savage, man."
He grinned.
"I thought kids these days only knew TikTok. Turns out, some still got racing in their blood."
Zashiro smirked faintly.
"You just made your name in a world you can't control, Rob."
Robinson stayed calm, his eyes laser-focused.
"You know who owned that red Mustang?"
The man shrugged.
"One of the inside players. Word is, it's linked to Reaper."
He leaned in a bit.
"That's why I was shocked you beat him. Kids your age usually get smoked."
Daryl glanced at Robinson.
"Reaper again?"
Zashiro nodded slightly.
"That name keeps popping up."
The man took another swig from his bottle.
"If you're serious about this world, you'll meet him sooner or later. And trust me… he's not someone you wanna face alone."
Robinson stared at the man.
"I'm not scared."
The man laughed. "Heh. Young blood."
Then he wandered off, still laughing and shouting to other racers—completely unaware that the kid he just hyped up…
was the son of a long-lost racing legend—Paul.
Daryl took a deep breath.
"Bro… I think this is way bigger than just getting cash for your mom's surgery."
Robinson clenched his fists.
"Exactly why I have to keep going."