Rico Vasquez had been through some shit in his twenty-three years. Watched his brother catch a bullet in a drive-by. Held his mother's hand through chemo. Built his GT-R from scrap while everyone said he was wasting his time.
But nothing compared to the last eight hours.
"I told you," he said for the twentieth time, ice pack pressed against his swollen left eye. "I don't know where he is."
Detective Santos leaned against his tool cabinet, patience worn thin as old brake pads. "Cut the shit, Vasquez. You were his only real friend. He funded your entire operation. That GT-R? Those modifications? All Cross money."
"Luther Cross," Washington corrected from the corner. "Got to use the full name now that he's valuable."
Rico spat blood into an oil pan. "Fuck off."
They'd been at it for three hours. Good cop, bad cop, tired cop—every flavor of harassment the LAPD's Superhuman Crimes Division could serve. They'd tossed his garage, gone through his finances, threatened him with everything from tax evasion to accessory charges.
He'd given them nothing.
"You know what obstruction of justice gets you?" Santos stepped closer. "Especially when it involves an uncontrolled Transcendent Grade threat?"
"Platinum Grade," Rico corrected, just to be a dick. "That's what the news said."
Washington laughed, no humor in it. "Kid, we've got readings that say your boy could crack Level 100. You know what Level 100 means? He could kill you by accident. Kill this whole block by sneezing wrong."
Rico knew. He'd seen Jayden's eyes in those final moments before the crash. Seen something breaking through, like watching a nuclear reactor go critical from the inside.
His phone buzzed. Another unknown number. He'd stopped answering after the dozenth reporter, but they kept coming. Everyone wanted the inside scoop on Jayden Luther Cross's secret life.
"Look," Santos tried the reasonable approach. "We just want to help him. Get him somewhere safe before—"
The garage door exploded inward.
Not opened. Not broken. *Exploded*. Metal shrapnel embedded in walls as shadows poured through like living oil. The detectives reached for weapons, but the darkness was faster, wrapping around their wrists, yanking them against the walls.
Marcus Luther Cross stepped through the ruined entrance, shadow flowing from him in waves.
"Officers," he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey and twice as toxic. "I believe you've been harassing my son's friend."
Santos struggled against the shadow restraints. "Mr. Luther Cross, this is an active investigation—"
"Was," Marcus corrected. "My lawyers have already filed injunctions. You'll find your warrants revoked, your authority here... nullified."
The shadows tightened. Both detectives gasped.
"But we're not here about you." Marcus turned to Rico, and for the first time, the street racer understood why people feared the Luther Cross patriarch. This wasn't a man. This was power wearing a ten-thousand-dollar suit.
"Mr. Vasquez. You've been very loyal to my son. Admirable, really. But loyalty has its limits." The shadows released the detectives, who collapsed gasping. "Officers, you may go. Now."
Santos looked ready to argue, but Washington grabbed her arm. They left, Santos shooting Rico a look that said *this isn't over*.
When they were gone, Marcus manifested a chair from pure darkness and sat. "Now then. Let's discuss my son's whereabouts."
"I don't—"
"Please." Marcus held up a hand ringed with shadow. "Don't insult us both. Jayden had two locations. His public den—already searched, naturally. And another. Somewhere he thought even I didn't know about."
Rico's poker face must have slipped, because Marcus smiled. Not a nice smile.
"Ah. So you do know. Here's my offer, Mr. Vasquez. Tell me where my son is hiding, and I'll pay off your mother's medical debt. All of it. I'll even throw in a bonus. Say... five million? Enough to open your own shop, build ten GT-Rs."
Rico thought about his mom. About the bills crushing them both. About five million dollars.
"No."
The temperature dropped twenty degrees. Shadows began creeping up Rico's legs.
"No?" Marcus's voice went subzero. "Do you understand what you're refusing? What I could do to you?"
"Yeah." Rico met those inhuman eyes. "But Jay's my friend. Real friend. Not someone who ignored him for seventeen years then suddenly gave a shit when he got powers."
The shadows reached his chest, squeezing like a python. Rico couldn't breathe, couldn't move. Black spots danced in his vision.
"You know what your problem is?" Marcus stood, darkness flowing around him like a cape. "You think friendship matters. In this world, only power matters. And my son has power now. Which means he belongs to the family."
The shadows squeezed harder. Rico felt ribs creaking.
"But I'm not without mercy." Marcus walked to the door. "You have twelve hours to reconsider. After that, well... your mother's chemotherapy is very expensive. Be a shame if her insurance suddenly found reasons to deny coverage."
The shadows released him. Rico collapsed, gasping, ribs screaming.
Marcus paused at the ruined garage door. "Twelve hours, Mr. Vasquez. Oh, and if you're thinking of warning him..." Shadow tendrils caressed Rico's phone, which sparked and died. "Don't."
Then he was gone, taking the darkness with him.
Rico lay on the oil-stained concrete for five minutes, just breathing. Then he dragged himself to his feet, stumbled to his toolbox, and pulled out the ancient Nokia he kept for emergencies. The one not connected to any network, any account.
He'd already deleted their text history, destroyed the race footage. But there was one more thing to do.
Rico typed out a single message to a number he'd memorized: *They know about the second place. Shadow daddy's coming. Stay low.*
He hit send, then smashed the phone with a wrench. Twice. Three times. Until it was just plastic and prayer.
Then he limped to his GT-R, sat in the driver's seat, and remembered.
Remembered meeting Jayden at a race three years ago. Rich kid in a car worth more than Rico's life, but he didn't act like it. Didn't talk down. Didn't flash cash. Just asked about the GT-R's specs, genuinely interested.
Remembered Jayden showing up at the hospital during his mom's first round of chemo, dropping a check without being asked. "For the build," he'd said, like Rico couldn't see the amount. Like it was nothing.
Remembered every race, every late night, every time Jayden's mask slipped and Rico saw the broken kid underneath. The one who threw races because winning meant nothing when you'd already lost everything that mattered.
His phone—another burner—rang. Unknown number.
"Yeah?"
"Rico?" Another racer, voice tight with greed. "Heard you know where J-Cross is hiding. Listen, some people are willing to pay—"
"Go fuck yourself sideways with a rusty exhaust pipe."
He hung up, then threw that phone too. It shattered against the wall in a shower of plastic and broken promises.
Everyone wanted a piece of Jayden Luther Cross now. The family that ignored him. The government that wanted to control him. The media that wanted to consume him.
But Rico had made his choice. He'd take the shadows, the threats, the poverty.
Because some things couldn't be bought.
Even in a world where everything was for sale.
****
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