Jacob tried to live like the city didn't have a ghost story with his name orbiting it.
He woke up early—too early, the sky still a bruised gray at the edges—and lay there for a minute in the dim comfort-room that the system had carved out for him. The speaker set sat on the table like a promise. The iPhone's dark screen reflected his face faintly—sharp cheekbones, pale eyes, a tiredness that didn't belong to twenty years of skin.
For a moment he listened for sirens.
There were none.
That should've made him feel safe.
Instead it made him restless.
He got up before his thoughts could catch him, dressed in simple gym clothes, and left the shop with the Supra. No helmet. No myth. Just a legal car in the dawn, moving through empty streets that smelled like sprinklers and exhaust and the faint sweetness of bakery air waking up somewhere.
The gym was quiet at that hour—only a handful of people, all of them moving like they were trying to outrun their own minds. The front desk guy barely looked up. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The place smelled like disinfectant and old sweat and rubber mats.
Jacob wrapped his hands and tried not to think about how the system had gifted him "beginner boxing proficiency," stealing the slow dignity of learning from him. He still hated that. The anger sat under his skin like a thorn.
So he lifted first.
He loaded plates onto a bar and let weight do what weight always did: force honesty. When the bar pressed into his palms, there was no room for myth. There was only gravity and breath and the steady burn in muscle.
He counted reps slowly, watching his hands as if he were making sure they still belonged to him.
Between sets, he stared at himself in the mirror and tried to recognize the person looking back.
He didn't.
He boxed anyway.
The heavy bag swung with dull rhythm as Jacob's gloves thudded into leather. His technique was too clean, too crisp—an insult to his pride—and he responded the only way he could: he poured emotion into force. He hit until his shoulders burned and his lungs opened and sweat ran down his spine, until the angry tightness in his chest softened into something like exhaustion.
A guy nearby nodded at him once, impressed.
Jacob pretended not to notice.
He left the gym with his forearms aching and his mind quieter, and it felt like a win even if he knew it was temporary.
Breakfast was the next attempt at normal.
He didn't go anywhere special—just a random diner off a main road with sun-faded signage and coffee that tasted like it had been brewed out of habit rather than care. The waitress called him "hon" without meaning anything by it. The air smelled like bacon grease and syrup and the soft burn of a griddle.
Jacob sat in a booth by the window and watched Los Angeles wake up.
People in work trucks. A woman walking her dog. A kid on a bike weaving between cracks in the sidewalk. A world that didn't know it had started telling ghost stories at night.
He ate pancakes too fast, then slowed down and forced himself to chew like he had time. He drank coffee and let the bitter warmth sit in his stomach.
For ten minutes, he felt almost ordinary.
Then he caught his own reflection in the window again and remembered the helmet, the gun, the rockface.
Ordinary didn't stick.
He paid, left a tip that was too big, and drove back to the shop.
By late morning, Leon showed up.
Leon pulled into the alley with a low rumble and a casual confidence that Jacob recognized now as the language of Dom's circle—cars didn't just arrive, they announced themselves quietly. Leon stepped out, nodding once like he'd decided Jacob was worth taking seriously.
"Yo," Leon said. "Hope I'm not messing up your day."
Jacob smiled. "You're fine. What's up?"
Leon popped his hood and pointed. "She's running a little rough. Don't know if it's fuel, timing, whatever. Thought I'd bring it to you since Dom said you had hands."
Jacob felt a small tightness at the compliment. Dom said. Dom's word traveled like currency.
"Alright," Jacob said, leaning in. He listened, really listened—not just to Leon's description but to the engine's idle, the subtle hitch, the way the vibration carried through the chassis. It felt grounding, this kind of problem. Honest. Mechanical.
He worked quietly, methodically. Pulled a plug, checked wear, checked a line, traced a small vacuum leak that would've been easy to miss if you didn't have patience. He didn't summon system menus. He didn't buy upgrades.
He just did the work with his own hands because he needed to remember he still could.
Leon watched him for a while, then leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. "You're good," Leon said.
Jacob shrugged. "I'm careful."
Leon laughed. "Yeah. Dom likes careful."
Jacob's stomach tightened slightly at that—because Dom also liked truth, and Jacob's life was built on hiding one.
He finished the fix, started the engine again, listened to the smooth idle return like a sigh. He wiped his hands on a rag and nodded. "There. Take it for a spin."
Leon did, came back a minute later grinning. "Feels right."
Jacob felt a small, quiet pride bloom in his chest that had nothing to do with speed. "Good."
Leon tossed him cash. Jacob tried to refuse. Leon insisted. Jacob took it because refusing would've been weird in this world.
Then Leon nodded toward Dom's shop. "You coming by later?"
Jacob hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. I'll drop the car off."
Leon smirked slightly, like he already knew why Jacob went by more often than necessary. "Cool."
When Leon left, Jacob stood in the quiet bay for a moment, staring at the empty space where the BMW used to sit. Even with the myth locked in a shipping container, the shop still felt like it held its echo.
He shook it off, got into the Supra, and drove to Toretto's.
Dom's garage in daylight felt different—less myth, more labor. The doors were open, the air warm with oil and sun, tools clinking, radios playing. The world looked almost normal from the outside.
Inside, it was family.
Jacob pulled Leon's car in and parked it where Dom pointed without Dom even having to say much. Letty was there, wiping her hands, eyes sharp. Jesse hovered near a workbench, eager and restless. Vince leaned on a fender like he was guarding the place.
And Mia—Mia was behind the counter again, steady as always.
Jacob's chest tightened in that familiar, stupid way. He hated himself for it and couldn't stop it anyway.
Mia looked up and smiled. "Hey."
Jacob smiled back. "Hey."
He handed her the keys. "Leon's car's good. Vacuum leak."
Mia's eyes brightened. "You already fixed it?"
Jacob shrugged modestly. "Yeah."
"Thanks," she said, and it was simple, but it hit Jacob like warmth.
Vince watched the exchange with his jaw tight.
"Of course he fixed it," Vince muttered loud enough to be heard. "Mr. Miracle Mechanic."
Jacob kept his face calm. "It wasn't a miracle."
Vince's eyes narrowed. "Everything's a miracle with you."
Letty snorted softly, amused. "Vince, shut up."
Vince's glare flicked to her, but he didn't challenge Letty.
Brian was there too.
Jacob felt him before he saw him—the subtle tension in the air, the awareness of being watched. Brian stood near the edge of the bay, talking to Dom about something mundane, posture too controlled, eyes scanning more than they should for a "regular guy."
When Brian noticed Jacob, his expression tightened just slightly.
Not anger.
Not suspicion, exactly.
Something closer to frustration.
Jacob couldn't blame him. Brian had come to Jacob's shop looking for something and found an empty bay. His instincts were probably screaming the same way Jacob's were.
Jacob offered a small nod. "Brian."
Brian nodded back. "Jacob."
The exchange was neutral on the surface.
Underneath it, both of them felt the friction.
Jacob drifted toward Mia without meaning to. Not like he was chasing her, not like he was trying to prove anything—just… drawn. Like her steadiness made the chaos in his head feel quieter.
He asked her about her day. She answered with a small smile. He made a joke. She rolled her eyes.
And Brian watched it from the corner of his eye, jaw tightening the way men's jaws tightened when something slipped out of their control.
Vince watched it openly, resentment practically vibrating off him.
"You're here a lot," Vince said, voice sharp.
Jacob turned, calm. "I help when I can."
Vince scoffed. "Yeah, you help."
Mia's voice cut in, firm. "Vince."
Vince held up his hands like he was innocent, but his eyes stayed on Jacob. "Just saying."
Dom looked up from under a hood and gave Vince a look that made him back off half a step. Then Dom's gaze returned to Jacob—quiet, assessing, not unkind.
"Good work on Leon's car," Dom said.
Jacob nodded. "Thanks."
Dom's voice stayed calm. "You eating with us later?"
Jacob's stomach tightened. The invitation wasn't casual. In Dom's world, food was inclusion.
"Yeah," Jacob said. "If that's okay."
Mia smiled immediately. "It's okay."
Vince's mouth tightened.
Brian's eyes flicked away for a moment, as if he didn't want to show what that did to him.
Jacob felt the room's dynamics shift subtly—small currents of jealousy and suspicion, tempered by Dom's gravity and Mia's steadiness.
He stayed anyway.
He spent time with Jesse and Leon when they came back, talked cars, answered questions, laughed once or twice in a way that didn't feel forced. He tried to be present.
And all the while, he felt the invisible truth sitting behind him like a second shadow:
He was trying to live a normal day.
But he was still the man who, a few nights ago, had driven a myth up a rockface and vanished into the forest.
He could lift weights.
He could eat pancakes.
He could fix Leon's car and laugh with Jesse.
But when Mia looked at him with that soft concern in her eyes, Jacob felt the ache of the lie he was carrying like a stone in his chest.
Because the only thing harder than surviving a chase…
…was surviving kindness while hiding the reason you didn't deserve it.
..
Later that day, Dom's house settled into its familiar gravity again—people drawn back to it the way loose things always drifted toward weight.
The sun had gone down, and the living room was lit mostly by the TV's blue glow and the warm spill from the kitchen. Plates were scattered on the coffee table. A cooler sat open in the corner. Someone had turned the volume down, but nobody had really stopped watching.
Because the news wouldn't stop replaying it.
A grainy helicopter shot. The blue-and-silver blur. The moment the BMW climbed where a car shouldn't climb. The anchor's voice trying to stay professional while the footage made professionalism feel like a joke.
Jacob sat on the edge of the room with a plate in his hands he hadn't eaten much from. He kept his posture relaxed, kept his face neutral, like the TV was just background noise.
But every time the clip showed the BMW bucking over a barrier—every time the commentary used words like inhuman and impossible—Jacob felt his stomach tighten.
He heard his own engine in their audio.
He saw his own violence in their shaky frames.
He felt the echo of the canyon in his ribs.
Mia moved around the kitchen like she was trying to restore normalcy by force—hands busy, voice steady, giving people food because feeding people was the one thing that made chaos smaller. She didn't hover near the TV. She didn't want to keep staring at the thing that had almost killed someone on screen.
Jacob found himself following her without planning to.
Not in a clingy way. Not obviously.
Just… gravitating toward the only place in the house that felt warm.
He carried plates to the sink. He rinsed dishes. He tried to make himself useful in the quiet, practical ways he'd learned mattered here. And Mia—tired but grateful—didn't push him away.
At one point she leaned against the counter with a bowl in her hands, eating slowly like she'd finally allowed herself to feel hungry.
"You don't have to help," she said, voice soft.
Jacob shrugged, keeping his eyes on the sink water as it ran. "I like having something to do."
Mia's mouth twitched into a small, knowing smile. "Yeah," she said. "I noticed."
Jacob rinsed a plate too carefully. He could feel the living room's noise behind them—the occasional laugh, the clink of bottles, Dom's steady silence—but it all felt muffled here, like the kitchen was a pocket carved out of the night.
Mia ate a few more bites, then glanced at him. "You okay?" she asked.
Jacob's hands paused.
The question was simple. That was what made it dangerous.
He forced a small smile. "I'm fine."
Mia didn't roll her eyes this time. She just watched him a beat longer than most people did. "You say that like you've practiced it."
Jacob swallowed. "Maybe I have."
Mia's expression softened, and she looked down at her bowl. "Life makes you practice," she said quietly.
Jacob let the water run over his fingers until the cold grounded him. He turned it off, dried his hands on a towel, and leaned back against the counter at a careful distance—close enough to talk, far enough not to trap her.
For a minute they ate in silence: Mia taking slow bites, Jacob pretending he was hungry when his stomach felt like a knot.
Then, without meaning to, his eyes flicked to the living room where the TV replayed the same clip again—Wanted's BMW surging through light and dust like a thing that wouldn't die.
Mia noticed his glance.
Her voice turned quieter. "It's everywhere," she said. "Feels like the whole city is holding its breath."
Jacob nodded once, throat tight. "Yeah."
Mia's brows knit. "People keep acting like it's a movie. Like it's… fun."
Jacob's hands clenched around the towel. "It's not fun."
Mia looked at him sharply at that—because the tone had slipped, just a little, into something raw.
Jacob exhaled and softened it. "Sorry," he murmured. "I just… I hate seeing people treat it like entertainment."
Mia's face gentled. "Me too."
She took another bite, then set the bowl down as if appetite had run out.
Jacob felt the moment open up—one of those rare gaps where you could say something real, or you could let it pass and regret it later.
His chest ached with the weight of what he couldn't say.
So he asked something adjacent to it.
Something that would tell him what kind of person Mia was when the world got sharp.
"Mia," Jacob said softly.
She looked up.
Jacob held her gaze and kept his voice careful, almost casual, like it was just a thought.
"If you knew something about… Wanted," he said, "and telling someone would hurt the people you care about—would you tell anyone?"
Mia didn't answer immediately.
Her expression changed—not alarmed, not suspicious, but thoughtful, like she could feel the shape of the question underneath the words. Like she heard what Jacob wasn't saying: Would you protect your people even if the truth mattered?
She looked down at her hands for a second, fingers flexing once like she was grounding herself.
Then she looked back at Jacob, eyes steady.
"I'd want to do the right thing," she said quietly. "I really would."
Jacob's heart tightened painfully, because he believed her.
Mia continued, voice soft but firm. "But the right thing isn't always the thing people think it is." She swallowed. "If telling would get someone I love hurt—Dom, Letty… even Jesse, even Vince…" she sighed, like it cost her to include him, "—then no."
Jacob barely breathed.
Mia's gaze didn't waver. "I wouldn't hand them over to a system that doesn't care what happens after," she said. "I've watched this city chew people up. I've watched cops decide they're guilty before they even ask questions. I've watched rumors ruin lives."
Jacob's throat burned.
Mia stepped a little closer—not invading, just closing the gap enough to make it feel like she was choosing honesty.
"If I knew something," she said, "I'd protect my family first."
Jacob felt the words hit him like warmth and shame at the same time.
Mia's eyes searched his face, and her voice dropped another notch.
"And whatever you're asking me right now," she added, "I'm not going to repeat it."
Jacob blinked.
Mia held his gaze, unwavering now. "I won't mention that you asked me," she said. "Not to Dom. Not to Letty. Not to anyone."
A vow, said quietly, without drama.
Jacob's chest tightened so hard it hurt.
He hadn't expected that. He hadn't earned it.
He forced himself to breathe and nodded once, because if he tried to speak, his voice would crack.
"Thank you," he managed.
Mia's smile was small, sad around the edges. "You don't have to thank me," she said. "You just… you look like someone carrying something heavy."
Jacob's hands trembled slightly on the towel.
He wanted to confess.
He wanted to drop the truth on the counter like a broken part and ask her to help him fix it.
He didn't.
Because he didn't trust what the truth would do to her.
So he only nodded again, and let the silence hold what he couldn't say.
In the living room, the TV replayed the chase again—sirens and rotors and the ghost car climbing into darkness.
In the kitchen, Mia stood close enough that Jacob could feel the warmth of her presence, and for a moment he let himself believe in something more fragile than speed:
That there might be at least one person in this city who could hold a secret gently instead of turning it into a weapon.
...
Dom didn't bring it up in the living room.
He waited until the TV had been turned down, until the bottles were mostly empty, until the house had shifted into that late-night quiet where voices softened and the world outside felt far away.
He caught Jacob on the porch, where the air was cooler and the light from inside painted soft rectangles across the concrete. Mia had gone to refill water, and for a minute Jacob was alone with his thoughts—too many of them—watching the street like it might suddenly produce sirens again.
Dom stepped out like he belonged to the night itself.
He didn't start with "Wanted." He didn't start with suspicion.
He started with the one language he trusted.
Cars.
"You got time tomorrow?" Dom asked.
Jacob turned, heart tightening automatically. Then he forced his face calm. "Yeah. For what?"
Dom leaned against the porch rail, arms crossed, gaze steady. "I've been thinking about upgrades."
Jacob's pulse flickered. "On what?"
Dom's mouth twitched. "The Charger."
Jacob swallowed. The Charger wasn't just a car. It was Dom's spine. His history. His pride. People didn't casually suggest changes to it.
Dom continued anyway, voice even. "I want it to hook cleaner. I want it to stay composed when it's loaded. And I want it to pull without feeling like it's gonna tear itself apart."
Jacob nodded slowly, trying to keep his mind from racing ahead. "That's… a lot."
Dom's gaze held him. "You said you had hands."
Jacob's throat tightened. He had said that, in a way. He'd implied it. He'd played the humble mechanic because it was the safest mask.
Dom's voice dropped a fraction, quieter now. "I've seen what you did to Leon's car. I've seen what you did to your Supra. That wasn't luck."
Jacob looked away for half a second, then back. "I can help," he said carefully.
Dom nodded once, like he'd expected that answer.
"What would you do?" Dom asked.
Jacob's mind flashed to the system shop, to the Futureline menu that sat behind his eyes like a loaded drawer.
Adaptive traction control.Pursuit-grade braking compound.Reinforced panel weave.ECU mapping that didn't exist yet.
A whole future sitting there, waiting to leak into 2001.
Jacob felt a tightness in his chest—guilt and temptation braided together. If he gave Dom nothing, Dom would keep hunting answers elsewhere. If he gave Dom too much, he'd arm a man who already lived close to violence.
But Dom wasn't asking for a miracle out of greed.
He was asking like a man who wanted to keep his people alive.
Jacob exhaled slowly. "There are… some upgrades I can do," he said.
Dom's eyes narrowed slightly. "Like what."
Jacob chose his words like he was choosing a line through traffic.
"Better braking," he said first. "Not just stronger. More consistent under heat. The kind of compound that doesn't fade when you need it most."
Dom nodded, listening.
Jacob continued, voice careful. "Traction management. Not the cheap kind. Something that helps the car stay planted when the road changes or when you're pushing hard. It won't drive for you. It just… gives you a cleaner edge."
Letty would've called it cheating if she heard it. Vince would've called it magic. Dom just looked thoughtful.
"And durability," Jacob added quietly, then immediately regretted it—because Dom's gaze sharpened at the word.
"Durability," Dom repeated.
Jacob forced himself to keep going like it was normal. "Reinforcement. Panel weave. Nothing obvious. Just… stronger bones."
Dom studied him for a long beat.
"You telling me you can do all that?" Dom asked.
Jacob swallowed. "Yeah."
Dom's eyes stayed on his face. "Where do you get it."
Jacob didn't blink. "I source."
Dom's mouth twitched faintly, like he didn't love the answer but respected the confidence.
"And you're sure it won't blow my engine?" Dom asked.
Jacob's voice softened—honest now. "I wouldn't offer if I wasn't sure."
Dom held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded once. Decision made.
"Alright," Dom said. "Do it."
Jacob's stomach dropped. "You're serious."
Dom's expression didn't change. "I don't ask twice."
Jacob felt the weight of the moment settle on him.
This wasn't helping Leon with a vacuum leak. This wasn't tuning a Supra for fun.
This was Dom Toretto trusting him with the car that anchored his whole world.
Jacob forced a nod. "Tomorrow," he said. "Bring it by."
Dom pushed off the rail. "We'll be there."
Then Dom paused, gaze cutting back to Jacob like a final nail.
"And Jacob," Dom said.
Jacob looked up.
Dom's voice stayed calm, but it carried the weight of a rule. "If you're bringing something new into my world… you tell me if it's gonna bring heat."
Jacob's throat tightened. He nodded once. "I will."
It wasn't a full lie.
It was just… not the full truth.
The next afternoon, Dom rolled the Charger into Cooper's Auto like he was bringing a weapon to be blessed.
Letty came too, leaning against the doorframe with that same sharp, wary energy she always carried. She watched Jacob with eyes that didn't miss much.
"You sure about this?" Letty asked Dom.
Dom didn't look at her. "He's sure."
Jacob didn't speak. He just moved.
He'd already bought the parts through the system shop that morning in a flurry of guilt: a heat-resistant brake compound that felt too perfect in his hands, an "adaptive traction controller" disguised inside a plain metal casing, reinforcement material that looked like normal weave until you tried to bend it and realized it resisted like stubborn will.
He didn't explain the physics.
He didn't mention the Futureline.
He didn't say the words "system shop" out loud because saying them would make them real.
He just did what he always did when he was scared:
He worked.
He installed the brake compound with careful precision, bleeding lines until the fluid ran clean. He wired the traction module in a way that looked like a normal aftermarket job if you didn't know what to look for—tucked, neat, quiet. He added reinforcement where it mattered, not where it would be seen.
Letty hovered close, arms crossed. "That's a lot for a 'starting mechanic,'" she said.
Jacob didn't look up. "I learn fast."
Letty's mouth twitched. "Yeah. I noticed."
Hours later, Dom sat behind the wheel and started the Charger.
The engine's rumble filled the bay like thunder. Jacob's pulse kicked, because if anything went wrong, it wouldn't just be a car that got hurt.
It would be trust.
Dom eased it out onto the street.
Letty rode shotgun.
Jacob followed in his Supra, hanging back, listening.
Dom didn't test it like a kid.
He tested it like a man who knew what speed cost.
He braked hard from a straight and the Charger didn't wobble the way it usually would. It stayed composed. It bit clean. It didn't fade.
Letty glanced at Dom, surprised.
Dom accelerated through a corner and the rear end stayed more planted than it had any right to, traction biting in a way that felt like the car had learned to listen to the road instead of fighting it.
Letty's eyebrows lifted. "Okay," she said, voice quieter now. "That's… different."
Dom didn't smile, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. He pushed harder—another corner, another braking test, a harder launch.
The Charger responded like it had been sharpened.
Not turned into a different car.
Turned into a better version of itself.
They returned to the shop after one loop.
Dom killed the engine and sat for a moment, hands on the wheel, listening to the idle like he was listening for lies.
Then he got out and looked at Jacob.
For the first time since Dom had met him, the look Dom gave wasn't suspicion first.
It was respect.
"That's solid," Dom said.
Letty exhaled slowly, shaking her head like she didn't want to be impressed and couldn't help it. "Yeah," she admitted. "That's solid."
Jacob felt his chest loosen and tighten at the same time—relief and fear braided together.
Because he'd just crossed a line he couldn't uncross.
He'd put Need for Speed–style technology into Dom Toretto's hands.
And Dom—calm, steady, dangerous—had just become the first official build in a story that was no longer only about a ghost car in the night.
It was about a new kind of power entering the street scene.
Quiet at first.
Then inevitable.
...
Jacob tried to treat the next day like it was ordinary.
He showed up at Toretto's shop mid-morning with grease still faintly under his nails from his own place, wearing the calm he'd learned to carry like a second skin. The bay doors were open, sunlight spilling across concrete, radios murmuring low. It smelled like oil, hot metal, and the kind of work that never really ended.
Mia was behind the counter, sorting receipts and parts orders with the same steady rhythm that made the whole shop feel anchored. When she looked up and saw him, her smile came easy—small, tired, real.
"Hey," she said.
Jacob's chest tightened the way it always did around her, annoying him and warming him at the same time. "Hey."
He drifted closer under the excuse of being helpful—stacking boxes, moving a tool cart, grabbing a rag when someone asked. He didn't stand too close, didn't hover, but he kept finding himself in her orbit like metal drawn to a magnet.
Brian was there too.
He wasn't loud about it. Brian never was. He positioned himself the way a patient man positioned himself: useful without asking, present without clinging, smiling at the right moments like he was trying to earn a place without forcing it.
He handed Mia a coffee without making a big deal of it.
He asked her about a part number as if he cared about the shop's actual life.
He laughed at something she said and didn't overdo it.
Jacob noticed all of it.
So did Mia.
So did Vince, who muttered under his breath whenever Brian's presence got too comfortable and whenever Jacob's presence looked too welcome.
The rivalry didn't flare into open hostility.
It sharpened into moves.
Brian moved by being dependable—quiet competence, steady eye contact, the kind of calm that made people feel safe.
Jacob moved by being human—asking Mia how she was really doing, listening when she answered, making her laugh and then stepping back like he wasn't trying to claim anything.
Each of them avoided saying the obvious thing out loud: they both wanted her attention.They just wanted to look like they didn't need it.
At one point Mia slid a clipboard across the counter and sighed. "I swear the paperwork is going to kill me before the cars do."
Brian leaned in with a half-smile. "Want help?"
Mia glanced up, amused. "You know how to file parts invoices?"
Brian hesitated just long enough to look human, then shrugged. "I can learn."
Jacob couldn't help it—he let a soft laugh slip out. Mia's eyes flicked toward him, and her smile brightened.
"I'll help," Jacob said.
Brian's jaw tightened so slightly most people would've missed it.
Mia looked between them and shook her head, amused and exasperated. "You two," she said, as if she didn't know what was happening and knew exactly what was happening.
Jacob kept his hands busy, sorting papers and trying not to think about how good it felt to be included in something so normal.
Brian kept his posture loose, but his eyes tracked Jacob more than Jacob liked.
Vince watched all of it like he was memorizing reasons to start a fight.
The shop hummed along anyway—customers in and out, tools clinking, Letty calling someone an idiot affectionately, Dom disappearing into the back bay and reappearing with the calm weight of a man who ran his world by quiet decisions.
For a couple of hours, Jacob almost believed he could live like this.
Then the TV in the corner changed the temperature of the room.
It wasn't the usual replay of the Wanted footage this time—no familiar blue-silver blur, no canyon climb on loop. The anchor's voice came through sharper, urgent, cutting into whatever daytime nonsense had been on.
"—we're interrupting programming—this is breaking news out of Los Angeles—an active police pursuit—repeat, active pursuit—"
The whole shop turned without meaning to.
The screen showed a helicopter shot of a freeway on-ramp and a car that looked like it had been built to be seen: a low, wide-bodied Acura—an Integra coupe by the silhouette—paint bright enough to pop even through grainy broadcast. A massive widebody kit flared around the wheels. A wing that looked like it belonged on a track car. Under-glow washing the asphalt in color even in daylight. The exhaust spit a little flame on a downshift like it was trying to perform for the camera.
Local units chased—Crown Vics, lights screaming, a small swarm that looked suddenly old and clumsy behind a car that moved like a blade.
Mia's brows knit. "What the—"
Letty's eyes narrowed. "That thing's not subtle."
Dom's posture shifted a fraction, attention sharpening.
Brian's face went still in a way Jacob recognized now—cop-still, even when Brian was pretending he wasn't one. Brian leaned forward slightly, as if his body already wanted to move toward the problem.
And Jacob—
Jacob felt cold creep up his spine.
Not because of the Acura.
Because of what the Acura meant.
It was too loud. Too obvious. Too theatrical. Not the way a smart driver moved if he wanted to survive.
It looked like a flare shot into the sky.
The broadcast zoomed tighter. The Acura clipped a lane divider, sparked, corrected with a reckless twitch that made the camera operator curse. Police units tightened behind it, trying to form a box.
The anchor's voice rose. "—authorities are warning motorists to avoid the area—this vehicle appears to be heavily modified—"
Jacob's vision flickered.
The system HUD slid into place like a knife slipping between ribs.
WARNING: INCOMING DANGERSOURCE:ENFORCEMENTCLASSIFICATION: NOT RACER / NOT STREETNOTE: Acquisition response likelyRECOMMENDATION: Reduce visibility. Protect associates.
Jacob's throat went dry.
He didn't blink at the screen. He barely heard the TV anymore. He heard only the word the system chose:
enforcement.
Not cops.
Not street.
Enforcement—like a larger machine had begun to turn its gears.
He forced his breathing steady and looked around the shop as if the answers might be hidden in faces.
Mia was watching the chase with worry, hand half-raised to her mouth.
Letty looked angry—at the recklessness, at the attention it would bring down on the whole scene.
Dom's gaze was distant, calculating, like he'd already started mapping how this would change the city's pressure points by tonight.
Brian looked too focused—eyes narrowed, jaw tight—like the chase had hooked him personally, like he wanted to be out there in it.
And Jacob… Jacob felt the system's warning settle into his chest like a weight.
Because the Acura didn't feel like the next chapter of street racing.
It felt like bait.
A loud, obvious distraction that would justify more units on the road, more federal presence, more "task force" energy—more of the kind of attention that didn't just arrest people.
Attention that took things.
The anchor's voice crackled again. "—we are receiving reports that additional agencies are monitoring this pursuit—"
Jacob's fingers curled around the edge of the counter.
He kept his face neutral, because showing fear in Dom's shop was like bleeding into water.
But inside, his thoughts moved fast and jagged:
If enforcement was coming, it wasn't coming for the Acura kid's body kit.
It was coming for whatever had made the BMW survive.
Whatever had made it climb.
Whatever had made it not die.
And Jacob had just put a piece of that impossible future into Dom's Charger.
He glanced at Dom—just once.
Dom's eyes flicked briefly toward Jacob, not fully, but enough to make Jacob feel seen.
Not as a suspect.
As a variable.
Jacob forced his voice calm. "This feels wrong," he said quietly, more to Mia than anyone, as if it were just an observation.
Mia glanced at him. "Wrong how?"
Jacob swallowed. He couldn't say the system warned me. He couldn't say feds are hunting the tech. He couldn't say I might have armed your family with something they'll now get hunted for.
So he chose the safest fragment of truth.
"Like somebody wants it seen," Jacob said.
Letty snorted, sharp. "Yeah. No kidding."
But Jacob could feel the difference between Letty's interpretation and his.
Letty heard: show-off driver.
Jacob heard: a door opening.
On screen, the Acura veered hard, took an off-ramp too fast, and barely held it. The pursuit tightened. The helicopter camera shook as it followed, and the anchor's voice kept climbing in panic.
Jacob's HUD pulsed again, impatient.
DANGER WINDOW: OPENINGENFORCEMENT VECTOR: EXPANDINGTIP: Leave public hubs. Secure assets.
Jacob kept his expression still.
But his heartbeat started to hammer in a way that had nothing to do with wanting Mia to look at him.
It was the old chase feeling again—only now the thing pursuing him wasn't a cruiser behind him.
It was the weight of the state itself, turning its attention toward the impossible.
And Jacob had a sick, personal certainty:
This new driver wasn't the threat.
The threat was what would arrive because of him.