The night loosened as the bottles emptied.
At first it had been easy—laughter, music, the soft rhythm of people who knew each other well enough to talk over one another without anyone getting offended. But as the hours pressed on, the edges blurred. Someone turned the music up. Someone else brought out another cooler. The air grew warmer with bodies and beer breath, with the sweet smoke of the grill dying down into charcoal.
Dom stayed steady in the middle of it all, drink in hand, but never letting it take him. Letty laughed louder than she had earlier, eyes bright, shoulders relaxed, but even she kept one foot planted in awareness. Mia moved through it like she always did—collecting empty bottles, handing out plates, smiling when she meant it, deflecting when she didn't.
Vince, though, started to swell.
Alcohol hit him like gasoline.
He got louder. He got bolder. He started leaning into the spotlight like he needed it to prove he existed. He laughed at things that weren't funny. He told stories he'd told before, only bigger this time—wilder, meaner, with more "you should've seen it" and "I swear" layered over the same old bones.
And he kept orbiting Mia.
Not gently. Not subtly.
Like if he stood close enough, talked loud enough, made himself enough of a presence, the world would remember he'd been there first.
"Tell 'em, Mia," Vince said at one point, draping an arm on the back of her chair as she sat for two seconds to breathe. "Tell 'em who was there when Dom was still wrenching in the dirt. Tell 'em who kept this whole thing running."
Mia's smile tightened. "Vince, sit down."
Vince ignored the instruction and pointed across the yard toward Brian, who stood near the fence with a beer in his hand, jaw tight, eyes too bright.
"And this guy," Vince continued, voice sharpening, "this guy shows up like he belongs. Like he's family."
Brian's head snapped up.
The party's noise didn't stop, but a small pocket of attention shifted—people sensing a change in temperature.
Brian forced a smile that didn't fit his face. "Relax, man."
Vince scoffed. "Relax? Nah. I'm relaxed. I'm just sayin'… you don't just walk into Dom's world."
Brian took a drink—too big a swallow, too fast.
Jacob, watching from the edge of the yard, felt the shift in Brian like a tremor in the road. Brian had been controlled earlier, careful, patient.
Now he looked like a man trying to drown a thought.
Jacob knew that thought.
My cover is slipping.
The awareness of being watched didn't make most people quieter. It made them either vanish or explode.
Brian seemed to be doing both at once—pulling inward while pouring more alcohol on the parts of him that wanted to stop caring.
He drank again.
Vince saw it and grinned like he'd won a point. "Yeah, that's right. Drink up. Maybe it'll help you remember where you are."
Dom's voice cut through, calm but heavy. "Vince."
One word. A warning.
Vince held up his hands like he was innocent. "What? I'm just talking."
Dom's gaze didn't soften. Vince's grin faded a fraction.
Brian drank anyway.
Not to spite Vince. Not to impress Mia.
To silence the tension in his chest that had been building since Jacob pulled him aside and said the word undercover like it was nothing. Since he'd felt his own lie become visible. Since he'd realized he wasn't the only person in the yard paying attention to the wrong things.
Jacob caught Mia watching Brian with quiet concern.
Then, a second later, Mia's eyes met Jacob's—and Jacob saw something there he hadn't expected:
Understanding.
Not complete. Not specific.
But a sense that Mia could feel the currents under the party's surface even if she didn't know their names.
As the night got heavier, people started to drift. Some left. Some slumped in lawn chairs. Someone laughed until they coughed and then laughed again at the coughing. Empty bottles multiplied like weeds.
At some point Brian's laughter started to sound wrong—too loud, too sharp, like it was covering a crack. He stumbled slightly when he walked, then caught himself and pretended it was nothing.
Vince noticed and pounced, telling another story with Brian as the punchline without ever saying Brian's name.
Jacob didn't step in.
Not because he didn't care.
Because stepping in would draw lines in public.
And Jacob had already drawn too many invisible lines tonight.
So he stayed quiet.
He watched.
He waited for the moment the party's momentum shifted into cleanup—the moment when the noise died down enough for real conversations to happen again.
It came in small pieces.
Someone turned the music down. Someone started stacking cups. Mia stood up with a sigh and began gathering plates and bottles with the resigned efficiency of someone who'd cleaned up after boys her whole life.
Jacob moved without thinking.
He grabbed a trash bag from near the porch, opened it, and started collecting bottles too.
Mia glanced at him, surprised. "You don't have to do that."
Jacob shrugged, keeping it light. "I hate leaving messes."
Mia's smile was tired but real. "Yeah. So do I."
They worked in a quiet rhythm for a minute—bending, picking up, tossing glass into the bag with soft clinks. The night air felt cooler now, the heat of the day finally letting go. The yard smelled like charcoal and spilled beer and damp grass.
Behind them, Vince was still talking—louder than anyone else—while Brian sat on the edge of a chair with his head tilted back, eyes half-lidded, bottle dangling from his hand like he'd forgotten it was there.
Dom watched that scene with a tightness around his mouth, but he didn't move yet.
Letty murmured something in Dom's ear, and Dom nodded once.
Mia's voice lowered as she tied off a trash bag. "He's drinking too much," she said quietly, eyes flicking toward Brian.
Jacob kept his tone neutral. "Yeah."
Mia glanced at him again. "Vince is making it worse."
Jacob paused—just a fraction—then continued picking up bottles. "Vince seems like he makes a lot of things worse," he said softly.
Mia's lips pressed together like she was trying not to laugh. "That's… harsh."
Jacob's smile was small, but it carried something sad. "It's honest."
Mia studied him for a beat longer than a casual conversation required. In the dim porch light, her expression softened.
"You're different," she said.
Jacob's hands stilled briefly on an empty cup.
Different was a dangerous word.
He forced himself to keep moving. "Different how?"
Mia shrugged, but her eyes stayed on him. "Most guys show up here and try to be loud. Try to prove they belong."
Jacob tied another bag shut, fingers trembling slightly. "Maybe I'm tired of proving things."
Mia's gaze held his. "Yeah?"
Jacob hesitated, then let a little truth out—just enough to feel like breathing.
"In my life," he said quietly, "I've spent a lot of time running from consequences. Or… from myself."
Mia's expression shifted, gentled by something she recognized even if she didn't know the details. "That doesn't sound like you," she said.
Jacob let out a short, humorless breath. "You don't know me."
Mia stepped closer, lowering her voice further. "Then tell me something real."
The request hit him harder than any challenge on the road.
Jacob's throat tightened. He looked down at his hands—at the dirt under his nails, at the faint tremor that never fully left him now—and then looked back up.
"I don't sleep well," he admitted. "I wake up like I'm still being chased."
Mia's eyes softened immediately. "Nightmares?"
Jacob nodded once.
Mia didn't press. She didn't pry. She simply said, "I get that."
They stood there for a moment, the party noise behind them muffled and distant, the yard suddenly feeling like a small island of quiet.
Jacob realized, with a strange ache, that this was the first time since he arrived in this world that he'd been spoken to like a person instead of a rumor, a mechanic, a racer, a problem.
Mia picked up another bottle and tossed it into the bag. "You know," she said, trying to lighten the weight without erasing it, "Dom's gonna keep testing you."
Jacob's chest tightened. "I figured."
Mia glanced toward the driveway where Dom stood. "He doesn't trust easily."
Jacob swallowed. "I'm… not sure I deserve trust."
Mia's eyes returned to him, steady. "You don't have to deserve it to try."
The words landed in Jacob's ribs like a warm bruise.
He opened his mouth to answer, but a loud burst of laughter cut through the yard—Vince again—followed by the scrape of a chair.
Brian stood unsteadily, bottle in hand, and for a second Jacob thought Brian was going to come over.
Instead, Brian turned away from the group and walked toward the side gate, shoulders hunched, head slightly bowed—like he needed to escape even though he was already in the safest place he'd found all night.
Mia watched him go with a crease between her brows.
Jacob watched too, and felt the weight of the secret he'd dropped into Brian's hands earlier.
Mia's voice came softer. "He's… not like Vince," she said, almost to herself.
Jacob kept his tone gentle. "No."
Mia looked at Jacob again. "And you're not like them either."
Jacob's throat tightened. "Mia…"
She held his gaze, and in it Jacob felt both comfort and danger—because Mia's kindness made him want to be better, and wanting to be better was the kind of wanting that could destroy him if he failed.
They finished tying the last trash bag.
Mia wiped her hands on her jeans and exhaled. "Thanks," she said quietly. "For helping."
Jacob nodded. "Thanks for… letting me."
Mia's smile returned—small, tired, genuine. "You can hang around," she said. "If you want."
Jacob felt a sharp, sweet ache in his chest.
He wanted to say yes without thinking.
He wanted to stay in this yard until morning and pretend his life had always included warm porch light and quiet conversations and someone who looked at him like he was worth listening to.
But he didn't trust the wanting.
So he kept his voice soft and careful. "Yeah," he said. "I want to."
And as the party around them sank deeper into alcohol and noise, Jacob and Mia stood in their small pocket of quiet—two people cleaning up other people's messes, talking like the night could hold something real without breaking.
For a moment, it almost did.
..
Brian came back from the side gate with the wrong kind of energy.
His steps were unsteady—not dramatic, not falling-over drunk, but loose in a way that told Jacob he'd crossed the line where alcohol stopped being a social lubricant and started being a shield. His eyes were bright and glassy. His smile came too late, like it had to travel through a fog to reach his face.
Vince saw him immediately.
Vince had been watching the whole yard like a sentry with a grudge, and the moment Brian reappeared, Vince's posture sharpened as if he'd been waiting for a reason.
"Hey," Vince called out, loud enough for nearby people to turn. "There he is."
Brian hesitated, then kept walking, trying to bypass him like Vince was furniture.
Vince stepped into his path.
"You good?" Vince asked, voice falsely friendly.
Brian's mouth twitched. "Yeah. I'm good."
Vince looked him up and down like he was appraising a part that didn't fit. "You don't look good."
Brian exhaled through his nose. "What do you want, man?"
Vince's grin widened and turned mean at the edges. "Just wondering why you're here."
The yard's noise shifted—small pockets of laughter dimming as attention moved. People didn't rush in to stop it yet. Not because they didn't care, but because fights were a kind of entertainment in this world until they weren't.
Brian took another step to go around.
Vince shoved him.
Not hard. Not enough to knock him down.
Just enough to say: I can.
Brian stumbled a half step and caught himself. His head snapped up, eyes sharpening.
"Don't," Brian said, voice low.
Vince lifted his hands like he was innocent. "Don't what? Don't touch you? You some kinda prince?"
Brian's jaw clenched, and Jacob felt the moment it tipped—felt it like a wheel losing traction.
Brian lunged forward and shoved Vince back.
The crowd reacted—shouts, laughs, a few quick "yo!"s—like sparks in dry grass.
Vince's grin vanished.
He swung.
Brian blocked clumsily, the alcohol slowing his timing just enough to make it ugly. Vince's fist clipped Brian's cheek anyway, and Brian's head snapped sideways. A red flash bloomed under Jacob's skin just watching it—because it wasn't just a fight now, it was Vince trying to prove ownership of the yard with blood.
Mia's breath caught behind Jacob.
"Stop!" she shouted, but her voice got swallowed by the noise.
Vince stepped in again, grabbing Brian's shirt. "You think you can come in here—" he snarled, and Brian, fueled by drink and panic and the creeping fear that his cover was slipping through his fingers, swung back harder than he should've.
The two men slammed into each other, bodies colliding, feet scraping on concrete.
Jacob moved before he thought.
His body reacted the way it always did when things threatened to spin out: he stepped toward the point of impact, hands up, ready to control the chaos.
Dom was already there too.
Dom's movement was immediate, efficient—like he'd been waiting for the exact moment violence crossed from "boys being boys" into "this could ruin us." Letty followed, eyes sharp, ready to strike if needed.
Dom grabbed Vince by the collar and yanked him back with one powerful pull.
"Enough," Dom said, voice low but absolute.
Vince fought it, still burning. "He's—"
Dom shook him once, hard. "Enough."
Jacob caught Brian's arm and held him steady before Brian could stumble into a second swing. Brian tried to pull away, jaw clenched, breathing hard.
"Hey," Jacob said quietly into Brian's space, voice calm like a hand on a steering wheel. "Stop. It's done."
Brian glared at him, vision unfocused, anger and humiliation swirling together. "Get off me."
Jacob didn't tighten his grip. He just stayed there—present, steady, refusing to escalate.
Dom shoved Vince back a step and planted himself between Vince and Brian like a wall. "You're in my house," Dom said to Vince, voice dangerous in its quiet. "You don't do that here."
Vince's chest heaved. His eyes cut to Mia, as if hoping she'd validate him. Mia's face was pale with anger and embarrassment.
"Vince," Mia said, tight. "Seriously?"
Vince swallowed, but the pride didn't drain out of him. "He started it."
Brian laughed—a harsh, broken sound. "I started it? You pushed me."
Dom turned his head slightly toward Brian, and for the first time Brian saw the full weight of Dom's attention on him—not friendly, not welcoming. A reminder of whose yard this was.
Dom's tone stayed controlled. "Everybody's been drinking. That's it."
Jacob released Brian slowly, keeping his hands visible, palms open. "It's okay," Jacob said, voice soft, pitched to defuse. "Nobody's hurt."
Brian's cheek was reddening. Vince's knuckles looked scraped.
Mia stared at the scene as if she wanted to erase it from existence.
Dom exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing by a fraction. Then, surprisingly, he nodded once—an apology, small and rare.
"My bad," Dom said, voice directed at the group, at the space, at the night. Not a plea. A statement of responsibility.
Vince looked stunned by it. Brian looked confused.
Jacob added quickly, "It's alright," because he understood something Dom did instinctively: if you wanted a moment to end, you gave people permission to let it end.
Mia's voice cut in, sharp but tender underneath. "We'll make it okay later," she said—half to Dom, half to the air, half to Jacob, as if promising the night could still be repaired even after it cracked.
Jacob met her eyes and nodded once, grateful and guilty all at once.
Then he looked at Brian.
Brian's posture had gone loose again now that the adrenaline of the fight was draining. His anger didn't vanish, but it stopped holding him upright. His eyes drifted. His jaw worked as if he were chewing on words he couldn't quite form.
Jacob made a decision.
He stepped closer to Brian and lowered his voice. "Come on," he said. "Let's get you out of here."
Brian blinked at him. "Why."
"Because you're gonna say something you can't unsay," Jacob replied.
Brian's eyes narrowed, suspicious even through the fog. "You gonna arrest me?"
Jacob almost laughed at the absurdity of it, but he kept his face calm. "No."
Brian swayed slightly, then steadied himself with a hand on Jacob's shoulder. The contact was heavier than it should've been.
Mia watched, concerned. "Is he okay?"
Jacob softened his voice. "Yeah," he said, lying gently. "He just needs to cool off."
Dom's gaze held Jacob for a beat—evaluating the choice. Then Dom nodded once, as if allowing it.
"Take him," Dom said, quiet. "Make sure he's good."
Jacob guided Brian toward the driveway with a hand lightly at his elbow. Brian resisted at first out of pride, then gave in because his body didn't have the balance to argue.
As they passed Mia, she touched Jacob's arm briefly—quick, warm contact that felt like a promise.
"Be careful," Mia murmured.
Jacob's throat tightened. "I will."
Brian muttered something under his breath that might've been a curse, or a question, or just the sound of a man trying to hold onto control.
Jacob got him into the passenger seat of the Supra and shut the door gently. He walked around to the driver's side, got in, and sat for a moment with both hands on the wheel.
He glanced back at Dom's house. The porch light spilled out over the yard. People were already trying to laugh again, to stitch the mood back together. Vince stood near the steps, jaw tight, eyes tracking the Supra like a warning.
Mia stood in the doorway, arms folded, expression complicated. Dom was a shadow behind her.
Jacob started the engine.
The Supra purred to life, smooth and confident.
He pulled away slowly, not wanting to draw attention, not wanting to make the night bigger than it already was.
Brian slumped in the passenger seat almost immediately, head tilted toward the window, eyes half shut. He smelled like beer and sweat and bruised pride.
"Where are we going," Brian mumbled.
"Home," Jacob said.
Brian let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Yeah. Whose."
Jacob didn't answer.
He drove through Los Angeles with the windows cracked, letting cool air slice through the stale smell of alcohol. The city was quieter now—fewer cars, more empty intersections, streetlights humming like tired insects.
Brian's breathing grew slower. Not asleep, not fully awake either. He muttered occasionally—fragments of thought, half-formed questions.
"Why'd you—" Brian started at one point, then lost the thread.
Jacob kept his eyes on the road. His throat felt tight.
He wasn't doing this because he liked Brian.
He wasn't doing it because it was smart.
He was doing it because he recognized that cracked look in Brian—the look of someone who realized the lie they'd built their life on was wobbling.
And Jacob knew what people did when their lies started to collapse: they either confessed or they burned everything down.
He couldn't let Brian burn Dom's world down tonight.
Or Mia's.
Or his own.
He pulled into the alley behind Cooper's Auto with headlights off for the last stretch, coasting in on momentum. The roll-up door lifted as the Supra approached, silent and obedient, swallowing them into darkness.
Jacob parked inside the bay and killed the engine.
The sudden quiet felt like falling underwater.
Brian stirred, blinking slowly, eyes unfocused. He looked around the dim garage as if trying to place it in his mental map and failing.
"Where the hell—" Brian began.
"Somewhere safe," Jacob said.
Brian squinted at him, suspicion trying to crawl back into place but slipping on the alcohol. "You live here?"
Jacob didn't answer directly. He opened the passenger door and helped Brian out, guiding him like a man guiding a friend who wasn't sure if he was a friend.
Brian leaned against the workbench, breathing through his nose.
Jacob flipped on a single light—enough to see, not enough to reveal everything.
Brian's eyes drifted over the space: tools, shelves, the faint outline of a bay that seemed deeper than it should've been. He frowned, trying to make sense of it.
"You're… not normal," Brian mumbled, like it was an accusation and a confession at the same time.
Jacob's mouth tightened. "Neither are you."
Brian laughed softly. "I'm a cop."
Jacob's heart kicked once.
Brian had said it like it was a joke. Like he was trying to see what Jacob would do with it.
Jacob kept his expression steady. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I know."
Brian's eyes narrowed. "How."
Jacob pulled a folding chair out and set it down, then sat across from Brian, giving him space, giving him an anchor.
"I pay attention," Jacob said again, the same line as before. It sounded different here, in the quiet—less taunting, more tired.
Brian swayed slightly, then steadied himself with both hands on the bench. His voice came softer. "I'm not supposed to be drinking."
"No," Jacob agreed.
Brian's eyes drifted to the floor. "Vince knows. He knows something."
Jacob nodded. "He suspects. That's enough."
Brian swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. "And you… you tell me like it's nothing."
Jacob's chest ached. "It's not nothing."
Brian blinked slowly. "Are you… undercover too?"
Jacob didn't answer.
He let the question hang in the air like smoke.
In the silence, the BMW M3 GTR felt like a sleeping god behind the deeper shadowed recess—hidden, unseen, waiting.
Jacob kept his voice gentle. "I'm not here to hurt you," he said.
Brian's eyes narrowed again, but weaker. "You're here to help Dom."
Jacob smiled faintly. "I'm here," he said, "because I needed somewhere to land."
Brian stared at him as if trying to decide whether that was true. The alcohol made the decision difficult.
Jacob leaned forward slightly, hands open. "Listen," he said. "You're too drunk to think straight. That's not an insult—it's a fact. Tonight isn't the night you solve your case."
Brian's lips parted, then closed again. He looked tired suddenly, the fight drained out of him.
Jacob's voice softened even more. "So talk," Jacob said. "Or don't. But if you're going to fall apart, do it somewhere safe."
Brian's eyes glistened in the dim light, and for a second he looked younger—like the pressure had stripped the cop mask away and left a man who didn't know where he belonged.
He muttered, "This place… it's weird."
Jacob nodded, a quiet acknowledgment. "Yeah."
Brian rubbed at his face with the heel of his hand. "You're weird."
Jacob almost laughed. "Fair."
Brian's eyes lifted again, heavy-lidded. "You… you're gonna tell Dom I'm a cop?"
Jacob held his gaze. "No."
Brian's shoulders sagged. Relief—or exhaustion—washed through him.
Jacob nodded once, sealing it. "But you need to be careful," he added. "Vince is going to keep pushing. And the more you drink, the more you give him."
Brian frowned as if trying to assemble the words into meaning. "You sound like you've done this."
Jacob looked away for a moment, throat tight. "Yeah," he said softly. "I have."
The conversation stretched long, slow, and uneven—Brian drifting in and out of coherence, asking the same questions twice, losing threads, laughing at things that weren't funny.
Jacob stayed with him anyway.
He listened.
He answered what he could.
And he didn't give Brian the one truth that would've detonated everything: that the ghost "Wanted" wasn't out there somewhere beyond Dom's circle—
he was sitting right in front of him, in a quiet garage that didn't exist on any map, choosing—tonight—stillness over speed.
Outside, Los Angeles kept breathing.
Inside, in the soft hum of a single work light, two men who weren't supposed to trust anyone talked until the night ran out of words.
...
A few days later, Los Angeles felt like it had learned a new rhythm.
Not calmer—never calmer—but sharper. Like the city had become aware of how thin the line was between legend and consequence. Copycat talk still floated through meets and lots, but so did the crackle of patrol scanners and the nervous jokes about crackdowns. The streets hadn't changed. The people on them had.
That night, the drive started the way late-night drives always did: half therapy, half ritual.
A small crew rolled out after midnight from an industrial pocket near the river—four cars in a loose string, headlights low, engines subdued on purpose. Nobody was trying to put on a show. It wasn't a meet. It wasn't a race.
It was just motion. A moving exhale.
Jacob wasn't with them—at least, not as Jacob.
He wasn't in the Supra with plates and a name the DMV would recognize.
He hadn't planned to be anywhere near them at all.
But the city had a way of pulling him toward its currents, and the system in his head had grown quieter only when he gave it what it wanted: speed, precision, the clean certainty of a line taken perfectly.
So when he felt the itch that evening—when the shop air felt too still, when the comfort-room music started sounding like a lullaby meant to keep him docile—he'd walked to the back recess of Cooper's Auto and stood in front of the BMW M3 GTR like it was an altar.
Blue and silver, waiting.
Helmet sitting on the bench like a second face.
He told himself, Just a short run. Just enough to breathe.
He told himself, No one will know.
And that was the lie that always came easiest.
The crew was cruising the long avenues that threaded between warehouses and sleeping storefronts, keeping to the emptier roads where the streetlights came in slow, regular pulses. The lead car—a clean import with a confident stance—set the pace. Not fast. Not slow. Just enough to feel alive.
In the third car, one of the drivers laughed into his radio and said something about how the city felt "too quiet tonight," like he was challenging it.
The city answered.
A sound slid into the night behind them—high, metallic, predatory.
At first it was distant, almost mistaken for wind. Then it sharpened into something unmistakable: an engine note that didn't belong to any of their cars, a voice that carried arrogance without ever revving for attention.
The mirrors caught it.
A blue-and-silver shape swallowed the darkness behind them and became real under a streetlight—paint catching sodium glow like a blade catching fire.
The BMW M3 GTR.
The ghost.
The myth with no face.
Wanted.
The crew's radios filled with overlapping disbelief.
"No way—"
"Is that—?"
"Yo, YO—"
Jacob drove with the black helmet on, visor down, breathing steady.
He didn't come roaring in with theatrics. He came in like a tide: inevitable, controlled, terrifyingly smooth. The BMW slid into their formation without forcing anyone to swerve, threading the gap between the second and third car like he'd measured it with a ruler.
For a second, he ran alongside the lead car.
The lead driver—proud, territorial by instinct—held his lane, chin lifted, refusing to yield. Jacob could feel the challenge without seeing the face. He could feel it in the way the other car's engine rose a fraction, in the way its line tightened as if to say this is my run.
Jacob didn't respond with aggression.
He responded with certainty.
He eased forward, not by flooring it, but by simply… continuing to accelerate in a way the other car couldn't match without trying too hard. The BMW crept ahead by half a hood, then a full car length, then took the center of the lane like it belonged there.
No horn. No gesture.
Just a quiet takeover.
And the moment he became the point, something happened to the whole crew behind him—like a flock turning in unison when a new leader cut the air.
They followed.
Not because they were ordered to.
Because the road suddenly looked different when the ghost led it.
Jacob didn't head for the freeway. He didn't go for the long straight where top speed became spectacle. Instead he guided them into the city's old bones—an impromptu circuit carved through industrial arteries and forgotten connector streets. Right turn under an overpass, left into a corridor lined with chain-link, a long sweeping curve around a silent lot where parked trailers slept like beasts.
The route felt designed.
Not by the city.
By someone who knew how to turn roads into a story.
The crew tightened up behind him, spacing instinctively closer than they should've. They were chasing the feeling of being in the slipstream of something legendary.
Jacob could feel them on his back like heat.
He kept the pace just below the line where panic started. He didn't want to kill anyone. He didn't want to become a headline again.
But he also couldn't deny what surged through him as the circuit came alive: that clean, addictive clarity. The moment where fear wasn't a cloud—it was a tool. A thing you shaped into focus.
In the helmet, his breath sounded like ocean in a shell.
He glanced at the HUD, more out of habit than need.
Numbers sat there quietly, attentive, ready.
He ignored them.
Tonight wasn't about money.
Tonight was about the way the city stopped feeling like a cage when he moved fast enough.
The first police cruiser appeared at the worst possible time.
A Crown Vic nosed out from a side street ahead, roof lights still dark, engine idling—an officer sitting in the quiet with that bored, predatory patience cops got on late shifts. The BMW's headlights washed over the cruiser's front end and caught the reflective lettering on the door.
The officer's head turned.
Jacob saw the moment recognition fired—saw the tension snap into place even before the lights came on.
Because even in 2001, even without perfect cameras and internet saturation, the ghost had become a silhouette people knew. Blue and silver. Low. Fast. Wrong.
The cruiser's lights exploded into red-blue. The siren followed half a second later, harsh and hungry.
Behind Jacob, one of the crew's radios squealed.
"Cops—cops—!"
Another voice, breathless with thrill and fear, shouted, "It's happening! It's him!"
Jacob's stomach tightened.
Not because he hadn't expected this.
Because he could feel how quickly this could stop being fun and become tragedy.
He had seconds to decide what he was.
A ghost who vanished.
Or a leader who dragged everyone into a chase they hadn't asked for.
Jacob eased off the throttle slightly—just enough to change the rhythm. A signal, not a surrender. The BMW's brake lights flickered once. A warning to the crew behind him without words: back off, spread out, don't stack.
Some of them understood immediately, spacing out.
Some didn't.
Adrenaline made people stupid.
The cruiser lunged into the lane behind the last car, siren screaming. Another set of lights appeared farther back—another unit responding, drawn by radio chatter that carried a word nobody wanted to say out loud but everybody was thinking.
Wanted.
Jacob felt his hands tighten on the wheel.
He glanced in the mirror.
Not just cops.
Civilians too—one sedan caught in the chaos ahead, brake lights flaring as the driver panicked at the sudden siren-blast behind them. The road was no longer an empty canvas. It was becoming a crowd.
And Jacob's chest ached with a sharp, personal fear:
If someone gets hurt tonight, it won't be the system's fault.
It'll be his.
He cut left into a narrower industrial spur—tight enough to discourage the cruisers from pushing too hard, wide enough for the crew to flow through if they kept their heads. The BMW slid into it like it was born there, suspension settling, tires humming. The lead cruiser followed, heavy body rolling into the turn with a groan of mass and momentum.
The crew behind Jacob hesitated.
One car peeled off—choosing safety.
Another stayed—hungry, reckless, loyal to the myth they were chasing.
Two more followed, because once the chase started, pride became glue.
Jacob's throat tightened.
He hadn't asked for followers.
But he had created them anyway.
The siren echoed between warehouse walls, turning into a violent chorus. The crew's engines rose, anxious. The air smelled like hot brake pads and dust.
Jacob held the line and made it personal in the only way he knew: he started driving for them.
He avoided the riskiest cuts. He signaled with brake taps and subtle lane choices. He kept the pace high enough to stay ahead, low enough to keep the less-skilled drivers from making a fatal mistake.
The police weren't chasing a single car anymore.
They were chasing a phenomenon.
And phenomena didn't care about collateral.
A second cruiser joined from an intersecting street, trying to angle for a block. Jacob saw it early—headlights turning in, nose dipping as it committed.
He didn't slam Speedbreaker. He didn't need to bend reality to solve this.
He simply chose a different line.
A smooth right that looked like he was heading into a dead end.
The cruiser committed to cut him off.
Jacob waited until the last possible moment—until the cruiser's weight was fully committed—then snapped left into a narrow service lane that ran behind a line of warehouses. The BMW fit with inches to spare.
The cruiser didn't.
It braked too hard, tires screeching, and had to abort the turn, momentum carrying it wide.
Jacob's followers poured into the lane behind him in a staggered stream—one car scraping a mirror, another fishtailing slightly and recovering. He felt his stomach twist with every wobble, because every wobble was a life.
And still the sirens stayed.
Still the lights chased.
The city was awake now.
Jacob's HUD pulsed, patient, almost pleased.
He ignored it again.
Money wasn't worth this kind of responsibility.
He wasn't sure he was either.
They burst out of the warehouse lane onto a broader road, and for a moment the night opened up—more space, more visibility, more risk.
Jacob saw the crew spread behind him like a broken chain: one car too close, one falling back, one trying too hard to keep up. In his mirror, the lead cruiser was still there, roof lights strobing like a heartbeat gone wrong.
Jacob's mouth went dry.
This was the part where the ghost usually vanished.
This was the part where the myth won by disappearing and leaving everyone else to deal with the aftermath.
He could do that.
He knew exactly how.
There were routes, holes in the grid, shadows he'd already memorized.
But he saw the cars behind him again—real people, real steering wheels, real fear.
He remembered the copycat crash on the TV. The screaming. The crumpled hood.
He couldn't do it to them.
So Jacob made a different choice.
He tapped his brakes twice—clearer this time. A command.
Then he took the next turn hard into a wide parking lot entrance—an old shipping yard lot with multiple exits. He drove straight through, not slowing much, just enough to make the message obvious:
Split. Scatter. Go.
The car closest behind him hesitated, then peeled left out a side exit.
Another took the far right.
The last one stayed a second too long, almost drawn by the BMW's pull, before finally choosing an exit as well.
Jacob felt an ache of relief so sharp it almost made him dizzy.
Then he was alone.
The myth had done what myths did—shed its witnesses.
The police cruiser stayed on him anyway, because the cruiser didn't care about the others. The cruiser cared about the ghost in front.
Jacob punched out of the lot and into a darker corridor of streets, the siren still behind him, the city still trying to close.
And as the chase resumed—smaller now, more personal—Jacob felt something heavy settle in his chest:
Not exhilaration.
Responsibility.
Because he'd led them into it.
And now, alone with the siren and the night, he couldn't pretend he was just running for himself anymore.
....
The moment Jacob was alone, the city stopped feeling like a playground and started feeling like a net.
The lone Crown Vic behind him stayed glued to his rear quarter, lights pulsing red-blue-red-blue, siren chewing up the night. Its engine note was low and stubborn—heavy American V8 refusing to admit it was outclassed. Jacob could almost feel the driver's frustration through the air, the way the cruiser kept committing to corners it had no business committing to, because the alternative was admitting defeat.
Jacob's gloved hands tightened on the BMW's wheel.
He'd done the right thing back there—split the others off, scattered them, broken the pack before they could turn into a pileup or a headline. But doing the right thing didn't make his chest feel any less tight.
He still heard that TV clip in his head.
The copycat crash.
The scream.
The metal folding.
He still felt the weight of Dom's eyes, the quiet warning in his voice: That ghost is going to get people killed.
Jacob swallowed hard inside the helmet and forced his breathing steady.
Then the HUD pulsed at the edge of his vision like a pupil dilating.
CHASE EVENT DETECTED
STATUS: ACTIVE
HEAT: 3 → 4
ACTIVE BOUNTY:$90,000
MULTIPLIER: x3.8
NOTE: Police response escalating (copycat crackdown / prior incident recognition)
The system didn't just recognize a chase.
It recognized him.
Jacob felt a cold wave move through his stomach. "No," he whispered, but the word vanished into engine noise and siren howl.
As if answering him, another set of lights flashed at an intersection ahead—one cruiser turning in fast, roof bar strobing, cutting toward the road like a gate closing.
Then another.
Then another, farther back, siren rising.
The chase multiplied like infection.
On the police radio—bleeding into the night, echoing off warehouses—Jacob heard urgency harden into something more aggressive than protocol.
"Unit requesting authorization—suspect vehicle believed to be 'Wanted'—repeat, 'Wanted'—initiate containment—"
Containment.
Not pursuit.
Not distance.
They weren't trying to follow him anymore. They were trying to end him.
Jacob's jaw clenched under the helmet padding.
The system's numbers ticked upward, steady as a heartbeat.
Bounty Increased: $95,000
BONUS: Extended pursuit recognized (MEDIA RISK)
TIP: Aggressive response yields higher payout
The tip made something hot and ugly flare in Jacob's chest.
He didn't want a payout.
He wanted to breathe.
But the city didn't care what he wanted, and the cops behind him didn't care either. They'd seen the footage. They'd heard the stories. They'd felt the humiliation of a ghost outrunning their helicopters and making them look small on live TV.
Now they wanted blood or metal. Something they could drag back into daylight and say: See? Not a myth. Just a man.
Jacob turned hard down a narrower industrial corridor, a place where the streetlights were farther apart and the shadows between them felt deeper. The BMW flowed into the turn like it had been poured.
The Crown Vic followed, tires squealing under weight, front end dipping hard.
A second cruiser joined behind it.
Two sirens now, harmonizing into a harsher, more desperate sound.
Jacob's breathing went shallow.
His thoughts narrowed to angles.
He took the next corner tighter than he needed to, not to show off but to force the heavier cars to brake harder, to make them choose between keeping up and keeping control. A quick straight. Another turn. The kind of route that punished mass.
One cruiser drifted wide and clipped a pothole hard enough to make its front end bounce. Jacob saw the wobble in his mirror and felt no satisfaction—only the cold realization of how close all of this always sat to catastrophe.
Then, ahead, headlights flared across the road.
A partial roadblock—two units angled in, trying to funnel him into a single lane.
Jacob's pulse spiked.
This was where the night broke people.
This was where the story ended with sparks and screaming.
He had two choices:
Brake and be boxed.
Or thread the needle and hope the world didn't shift.
Jacob's hands moved before his fear could argue.
He triggered Speedbreaker.
Reality thickened.
The sirens stretched into long, mournful ribbons. The flashing lights became slow pulses. Dust hung in the air like tiny stars.
Jacob's mind, finally given room to breathe, became terrifyingly clear.
He saw the roadblock's geometry. The smallest gap—just barely wider than the BMW's shoulders—between the rear bumper of one cruiser and the concrete edge of the lane.
He guided the M3 toward it with microscopic steering inputs, the car slicing through the opening with inches to spare. He felt the brush of air turbulence, the whisper of near-contact, but no impact came. The BMW cleared the block like a blade slipping past armor.
Speedbreaker released.
Time snapped back to full violence.
The roadblock units scrambled, one trying to swing in behind him, tires barking, but Jacob was already gone, the BMW's acceleration vicious and clean.
His stomach lurched with adrenaline.
And then the anger came.
Not anger at the cops, exactly.
Anger at the feeling of being forced into this again. Forced into running. Forced into being the thing the city hunted.
Jacob's grip tightened until his knuckles ached inside his gloves.
The Crown Vic behind him attempted a PIT—closing the angle, bumper edging toward his rear quarter panel.
Jacob felt the approach like a predator's breath.
And something in him—something that had been trying to stay careful for days—finally snapped.
Fine.
If they wanted aggressive, he'd show them what aggressive looked like.
He let the cruiser come close enough to commit.
Then he tapped his brakes—not a panic brake, not a full stomp. Just a sharp, controlled bite that shifted the BMW's weight forward for a heartbeat, then released into a throttle surge.
The cruiser's bumper kissed his quarter panel…
…and the BMW didn't fold.
It absorbed the contact like it was built for it.
The Crown Vic, heavy and off-balance from its own commitment, wobbled. Its front end dipped. The driver overcorrected.
Jacob didn't look back to admire it. He only felt the slight change in siren pitch as the unit struggled to recover.
The system chimed, almost pleased.
AGGRESSIVE EVASION CONFIRMED
BONUS: +$7,500
HEAT: 4 (rising)
Jacob's voice came out low and bitter. "Shut up."
The system didn't.
More lights appeared at a far intersection—another unit cutting in, trying to time him.
Jacob's vision tunneled.
He pushed harder.
The BMW became a streak between pools of light, the city blurring, the night compressing into a violent ribbon. He didn't just drive the route anymore—he started carving it, taking lines tighter, accelerating earlier, committing deeper.
It was dangerous.
It was addictive.
And it was personal in the worst way, because every time the sirens got louder, Jacob felt that old courtroom feeling—inevitability—trying to climb back into his throat.
You can't outrun consequences forever.
He'd outrun helicopters.
He'd outrun the sky.
But could he outrun the part of himself that liked this too much?
Brian heard about the chase the way Brian heard about everything: through noise that pretended to be routine.
He'd been driving his Mitsubishi through a quieter part of the city—head buzzing with the fight, with Vince's eyes, with Jacob's calm voice saying you're undercover like it was obvious. He'd told himself he needed space. He'd told himself he needed to sober up his thoughts.
Then his police radio—kept low, tucked away like a private sin—crackled with a word that yanked his spine straight.
"…possible 'Wanted' sighting—units respond—"
Brian's hands tightened on the wheel.
He should've called it in. Should've turned around. Should've stayed in his lane, stayed in his cover, stayed out of the ghost's orbit.
Instead he heard another voice—Bilkins, clipped and tense—cut across the air with more urgency than a normal dispatch.
"All units—do not engage solo. Wait for containment. Repeat—do not engage solo."
Brian's breath caught.
Containment meant roadblocks. PITs. Spike strips. The aggressive stuff.
The stuff that got people hurt.
Brian's jaw clenched, and he didn't know if the heat in his chest was duty or obsession.
He turned the Mitsubishi toward the sound of sirens, tires humming as he crossed lanes with controlled speed.
He told himself he was going to help.
He told himself he was going to observe.
But the truth was uglier and simpler:
He couldn't resist.
He caught the chase at an intersection where the city opened into a longer industrial artery. He saw it like a flash of myth made real—blue and silver tearing through the darkness, roof lights reflecting off the BMW's paint like the car was wearing the police's own colors as decoration.
Wanted.
Right there.
Not a rumor. Not a grainy clip on a monitor.
A living, breathing problem moving faster than he should've been able to move.
Two Crown Vics behind it, then a third joining, then another set of lights cutting in from the side.
Brian's pulse spiked.
He pressed the Mitsubishi forward and slipped into the flow a block behind, not with sirens—he had none—but with the quiet aggression of a driver who knew how to be where he wasn't supposed to be.
He wasn't chasing as a cop.
He was joining as a racer.
And that distinction terrified him, because it meant his motives were no longer clean.
The BMW hit a corner hard and clean.
Brian took it too, the Mitsubishi's chassis protesting, his hands working the wheel with practiced urgency. He stayed far enough to not be obvious, close enough to keep the ghost in sight.
For a few seconds the chase became a moving geometry problem:
Wanted ahead, impossible and smooth.
Cops behind, heavy and angry, trying to turn the road into a trap.
Brian behind them, threading through the gaps like a man trying to catch a thought before it vanished.
He watched the BMW's line and felt something cold settle in him.
It wasn't just fast.
It was disciplined.
The car didn't wobble under pressure. It didn't panic. It didn't do the messy, desperate things most suspects did when the net tightened. It drove like it had a plan.
Brian's mouth went dry.
Because he'd seen that kind of calm before.
Not in a criminal.
In a professional.
In someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
Brian's mind flicked—unbidden—to Jacob Cooper: the way he'd driven the Supra, the way his calm had felt practiced, the way he'd spoken to Brian outside Dom's house like he wasn't afraid of him.
Brian swallowed.
No. Not possible. Too many coincidences. Too easy.
And yet…
Ahead, the cops tried another aggressive angle—two units attempting to box the BMW at the next intersection, one swinging wide to cut off escape.
Wanted didn't brake.
Wanted didn't hesitate.
The BMW simply moved—a precise slide into the only gap that existed, like it had been waiting for the police to commit to the wrong answer.
Brian watched it happen and felt his stomach drop.
He had never seen a suspect drive like that.
Not outside a track.
Not outside a video.
The sirens multiplied again—more units joining, more voices on the radio, more aggression hardening the night. The city was waking up in anger.
Brian pushed harder, closing distance until he could see the BMW's rear end clearly, the livery sharp under streetlight.
His heart hammered.
He wanted—stupidly—to pull alongside.
To look through the driver's window.
To see a face, or a helmet, or anything human he could anchor to.
Because right now it felt like chasing a machine.
And machines didn't feel guilt when they hurt people.
Brian's radio crackled again—someone calling for spike strips two blocks ahead.
Brian's throat tightened.
The chase was about to turn from dangerous to lethal.
And Brian—stuck between badge and street, duty and obsession—realized he'd just joined the worst kind of race:
One where the finish line was either a capture…
…or a crash.
And Wanted, up ahead, started driving like he'd decided he wasn't losing either way.