That morning, Robinson woke up late—again.
Sunlight was already slipping through the blinds when he jolted upright in bed.
"Sh*t," he muttered, rushing to the bathroom.
Cold water hit his face, snapping him fully awake.
In less than ten minutes, he was out again—throwing on a t-shirt, a worn jacket, and some jeans.
In the small kitchen, his mother had already prepared toast.
She looked tired, but still smiled gently when she saw him walk in.
"Eat something, sweetheart. You didn't eat last night," she said softly.
Robinson grabbed one slice, then put it back on the plate.
"Not hungry, Ma."
His voice was flat, but his eyes were already moving, clearly thinking about something else.
He grabbed his car keys from the top of the fridge, kissed his mom's forehead quickly, and rushed out the door.
Outside, the morning sun lit up the white Toyota Supra MK4 parked by the curb—the car he'd won in last week's underground race at Jackson Tunnel.
Still spotless. Still smelling like gasoline and adrenaline.
Robinson got inside, started the engine.
It growled low and deep—this car was no factory toy. It was a beast.
As he reached for his seatbelt, he noticed something tucked between the seats—a crumpled flyer.
He pulled it out and scanned it quickly.
> "WALK-IN INTERVIEWS – MECHANICS & TECHS – Location: GARAGE 17, Queens. No diploma needed. Weekly pay."
He read it again, then smirked faintly.
"Guess I'll work here instead. Screw the whole stolen car mess."
Leaning back in the driver's seat, he stared out the windshield.
The Supra's engine hummed steadily.
"I just need to stay focused… for Mom's surgery."
His hands gripped the wheel tighter. His resolve was set.
The white Supra rolled slowly into the school parking lot.
Its deep engine growl sliced through the stillness of the morning.
Several students walking nearby turned their heads.
Some stopped in their tracks.
Others pulled out their phones to record.
Robinson stepped out without any theatrics.
Worn-out jacket, damp hair, but his gaze was sharp.
The Supra gleamed behind him under the morning sun—like a wild beast freshly tamed.
From the school gate, Daryl appeared, chewing gum.
The moment he spotted Robinson, he raised his hand.
"Yo!"
They hit their signature fist bump—loud and quick.
Then they both laughed for a second, like nothing chaotic had happened last night.
Daryl looked the car up and down.
"Bro… you seriously brought the Supra to school? Trying to give the teachers a heart attack?"
Robinson shrugged. "Whatever. I'm already late."
Daryl grinned, but his tone turned a bit more serious.
"So… you still planning to hit up your dad's hideout?"
Robinson shook his head slightly.
"Not yet."
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the crumpled flyer he'd found in the car.
Daryl grabbed it, skimming the text.
"Garage 17? What is this place?"
"A job," Robinson replied flatly.
"I'm thinking of applying. Might get some weekly pay. You know why…"
Daryl looked at him, then nodded slowly.
"…for your mom's surgery, yeah."
Robinson nodded.
"I can chase my dad's trail any time. But right now… my mom's what matters most."
They stood by the white Supra—just two high school kids who suddenly seemed way older than they were.
Around them, students kept staring—some jealous, some curious, some just plain amazed.
But Robinson didn't care about any of that.
Because that morning, for the first time…
he knew exactly which road he had to take.
Robinson and Daryl walked through the school hallway.
The usual noise filled the air—footsteps, conversations, locker doors slamming.
But today, everything felt different.
All eyes were on them.
Some students whispered quietly,
others stared openly,
and a few tried to act uninterested—but still peeked from the corners of their eyes.
Daryl let out a low whistle, trying to hold back a grin.
"Bro, you feel that? We're like celebrities today."
Robinson glanced around briefly.
His expression remained calm, cold.
A group of girls stopped talking and looked over.
One whispered,
"That's the guy with the white Supra, right?"
Another replied,
"Yeah… heard he smoked a Mustang last week."
Their steps stayed steady.
Robinson kept his head slightly down, eyes forward—he wasn't here for attention.
What he carried wasn't swagger. It was a weight.
Daryl stayed relaxed, but his gaze was sharp.
He knew too—this wasn't just about the car.
Something had changed.
Then—
A teacher stepped out of a classroom, eyeing them suspiciously.
Robinson quickly adjusted his jacket and softened his posture.
Daryl whispered with a grin,
"Your car's fire, bro… but we're two steps away from being mistaken for gang members."
Robinson let out a quiet breath.
"I don't care what they think…
as long as I land that job today."
Robinson and Daryl walked into the classroom.
The atmosphere shifted. Conversations died down.
All eyes followed them as they passed.
In the corner, Cassandra was chatting with two of her friends, laughing quietly.
But as soon as she saw Robinson, her smile changed—subtly sharper, more focused.
As Robinson passed by her desk,
Cassandra stood up and walked over without hesitation.
"Morning, racer," she said with a faint smirk.
Daryl quickly looked away, pretending to read something on the whiteboard, but his ears were clearly tuned in.
Cassandra stepped closer.
She gently brushed her hand across Robinson's shoulder, teasingly.
Her gaze was steady—playful, but hard to read.
"There's a party tonight…" she said softly.
"You coming?"
Robinson didn't answer right away.
Cassandra then pulled out a small black invitation, elegant with silver lettering, and slid it into his hand.
The Verge Underground.
A name that sounded more like a secret than a club.
"Think about it," she added, smiling slyly.
"I want to see if you're only fast on the streets… or if you've got moves on the dance floor too."
Then she turned around and walked back to her seat, calm and collected—like nothing had happened.
Her friends instantly leaned in, whispering and giggling.
Daryl walked up next to Robinson.
"Dude… I didn't know you were a racer and a ladies' man."
Robinson looked down at the invitation in his hand, silent.
Then calmly slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
"I'll go… if I've got time."
Class began.
But in Robinson's mind, the party might be more than just dancing.
It could be a clue… or a trap.