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Eleven o'clock at night, South Beach.
The street was cleared, headlights turning the asphalt into a blazing runway.
The crowd pressed against the barriers, beer bottles raised, shouting every filthy thing they could think of.
The air reeked of burnt rubber, gasoline, and cheap perfume.
At least two hundred people were packed in.
Raphael parked the GT-R on the starting line and rolled down the window.
The deep rumble of the engine was immediately swallowed by the chaos—speakers thumping, engines revving, women screaming some driver's name.
Tej stood at the line, signature afro glowing under the lights, thick stack of cash in one hand, surrounded by seven or eight half-dressed girls.
Raphael pushed the door open and stepped out.
Tej pushed through the crowd and bumped fists with him.
After a few quick words, Raphael did exactly what Brian had done in the original timeline—casually raised the stakes to thirty-five hundred dollars a head.
That was when he spotted her in the crowd.
Monica Fuentes.
No way to miss her. Compared to the rest of the circus—especially Suki, who had way more screen time—Monica's body and face put every other woman there to shame by a mile.
But Raphael didn't lock eyes with her like Brian had. He swept his gaze right past her.
The crowd suddenly went quiet.
Engine noise cut through clear now—V6 roar, rotary scream, V8 thunder—all four beasts staring each other down.
Tej gave the signal.
All four cars launched at once.
Raphael's left hand gripped the wheel, right on the shifter.
The Force flooded his senses. Everything slowed down. He could hear every breath in the crowd, every tire biting gravel, every tiny detonation inside the RX-7's rotary chambers.
The massive shove of acceleration pinned him to the seat.
The GT-R's V6 screamed like it was being torn apart, tach needle slamming into the red. Semi-slick tires clawed the asphalt, white smoke pouring off them.
Second gear.
Third.
First straight—four cars side by side.
Pancake's Chevy had the biggest motor. The V8 thundered like a cannon. He nosed ahead by half a car length.
Orange Juice's RX-7 stayed glued to his tail, the rotary's high-pitched wail slicing through the night.
Suki's S2000 hung back a little, but her line was razor-sharp, riding the draft perfectly.
Raphael's GT-R sat in fourth.
He wasn't worried.
First corner came up fast—a tight ninety-degree right with a short braking zone.
Pancake braked too late, the heavy Chevy sliding wide, almost kissing the barrier.
Orange Juice dove inside, RX-7 carving a perfect arc, taking the lead.
Suki went wide, slower entry but perfect exit, setting up for the next straight.
Raphael tapped the brake—just a feather touch, precise to the millimeter. The GT-R's nose dipped, weight shifted forward, rear tires biting harder.
He turned in, apexed perfectly, throttle pinned.
The GT-R drifted through the corner like it was on rails, body inches from the barrier.
The second he straightened, revs were right in the torque sweet spot.
Shift. Full throttle.
The GT-R exploded out of the corner, swallowing Suki's S2000 in one bite and locking onto Orange Juice's RX-7.
Suki caught it in her mirror and her eyes went wide.
"This guy…"
Second section—tight S-curves.
Orange Juice was flawless through the first one, rotary screaming.
But on the second he got greedy—turned in too early, car starting to slide.
Raphael pounced.
The Force painted the entire road, car, tires, and engine in perfect real-time data.
He knew exactly how much grip was left, exactly where the power band peaked, exactly which line to take next.
The GT-R flowed through the S's like liquid silver.
Out of the second curve, he was door-to-door with the RX-7.
Orange Juice glanced over. Panic flashed in his eyes.
Third corner—a hairpin.
Orange Juice braked too hard, rear stepping out, almost losing it.
By the time he caught it, the GT-R had already slipped past on the inside.
Suki's S2000 was quick in the twisties, but her horsepower was pathetic on the long straights that followed.
The GT-R's V6 opened up—seven thousand, seven-five, eight thousand—
In the mirror, the pink-purple S2000 grew smaller and smaller.
Final corner—Pancake's Chevy blocking the way.
The big local was clearly panicking.
He swung the car left and right, trying to shut Raphael out.
Raphael never lifted.
The Force showed him the gap—tiny sliver on the right side, just wide enough for one car… but it ended at the barrier.
Any normal driver would back off.
Raphael didn't.
The GT-R shot through the needle-eye gap between the Chevy and the barrier.
Bodywork cleared the metal by less than two inches. The side mirror almost kissed it.
Pancake saw it in his mirror and froze.
But the race wasn't over.
Three hundred meters ahead, the drawbridge over the canal was slowly rising.
Tej, the crazy bastard, had arranged the ultimate gamble—whoever made it across before the bridge stood straight up was the true king of Miami tonight.
Raphael's pupils narrowed.
The Force painted the entire scene: the exact angle of the rising bridge, the groan of the cables, the precise time he had left.
Not enough.
At current speed he'd hit the deck when it reached thirty degrees.
He needed more.
Raphael slammed the throttle and hit the nitrous button.
The GT-R's V6 screamed like it was dying, tach needle burying past nine thousand.
Semi-slicks tore at the road, the whole car shaking like it might explode.
Two hundred meters.
Bridge at fifteen degrees.
One hundred meters.
Twenty degrees.
Fifty meters.
Twenty-five degrees—the GT-R's nose was already pointed at the sky.
Raphael never touched the brakes.
He didn't even lift.
The GT-R launched off the deck at twenty-eight degrees like a silver missile.
The second the tires touched down on the other side, the car slammed forward and kept charging.
The finish line was a hundred meters ahead.
The moment Raphael crossed it, the bridge finished rising behind him.
Suki's S2000 made it over too, but her weight distribution was off—she bottomed out hard, front end crumpling.
Orange Juice saw the writing on the wall and simply stopped.
Pancake's Chevy plowed straight into a palm tree.
The crowd exploded.
Raphael parked at the finish, killed the engine, and stepped out.
His breathing was perfectly even, expression calm, like he'd just gone to the corner store for milk.
Tej was already jogging over, grinning like he'd won the lottery himself.
He shoved a fat stack of cash into Raphael's hand.
"Fourteen grand, all yours. Enjoy, king."
Raphael took the money, didn't even count it, peeled off ten hundreds, and handed them back to Tej.
Tej laughed loud, slapping Raphael on the back, making sure everyone saw they were tight.
The night's main event was over. Raphael knew the cops were minutes away.
He pushed through the crowd straight to a Latina in a skin-tight dress.
"Monica Fuentes?"
The undercover cop had been playing the flirt card, but the second he said her real name her face went white.
"You know me? How the hell do you know my name?"
"Want the answer? Get in the car."
Raphael didn't wait for her reply. He opened the GT-R door, dropped in, and fired the engine.
Monica hesitated for half a second, then slid into the passenger seat.
She knew Brian's history as a cop. She didn't think he'd hurt her.
The GT-R roared away from the scene just as the first police lights appeared in the distance.
The engine howled through the Miami night.
Raphael drove one-handed, left arm resting on the window sill.
Neon lights streaked across the windshield—red, blue, green—painting his face in shifting colors.
Monica sat rigid in the passenger seat, chest rising and falling fast, thighs tight under the short dress.
She stared at his profile, confusion and something she couldn't name swirling in her eyes.
"Who the fuck are you?"
Her voice was low. "How did you know my name?"
Raphael didn't answer. He just glanced at her in the rearview mirror.
That single look made Monica's heart skip.
Not fear.
Something deeper—an absolute, unshakable certainty in those eyes.
"Carter Verone."
Raphael finally spoke. "Where does he live?"
Monica's face froze.
"You—how do you know—"
"I'm asking you. Where does he live?"
The GT-R swung onto a quiet side street, tires chirping softly.
Raphael killed the engine under a broken streetlight.
The cabin went dead silent. Only their breathing remained.
Monica's hand crept toward the door handle.
"I wouldn't."
Raphael's voice was calm, but the calmness was scarier than any threat. "Door's locked. And you won't outrun me."
Her hand stopped mid-air.
"What the hell do you want?"
"Verone."
Raphael repeated, "Address."
Monica took a deep breath, forcing herself to stay professional.
She was a trained cop. She wasn't about to fold for some disgraced ex-cop.
"I don't know what you're talking about—"
Raphael sighed.
He raised his hand, fingers curling slightly.
The Force slid into her like invisible threads.
Not a mind trick.
Something more precise.
He could feel her pulse, her breathing, the exact tension in every muscle.
He squeezed.
Monica's eyes widened. A soft gasp escaped her lips.
Her body locked up—not in pain, but in complete, helpless paralysis.
Raphael leaned closer, voice low.
"Carter Verone's address."
Monica's lips trembled.
She fought it.
But the Force was already inside her mind, gentle yet unstoppable.
She whispered the address.
Raphael smiled.
"Good girl."