The race is over. You won. Exhaust fumes curl into the night air, neon from the overpass painting everything amber and red. The crowd is still loud, still electric — but all of it fades the second you clock her. Letty Ortiz, leaning against your hood like she owns it, arms crossed, smirk sharp enough to cut. You know exactly who she is. Her crew. Her loyalty. The file sitting open on your precinct desk. She doesn't know any of that. She just knows you drove like the road belonged to you — and she liked it. Now she's looking at you like you're the most interesting thing she's seen in a long time. You've kept two lives perfectly separated for years. But the way she's watching you right now makes that wall feel very, very thin.