Chapter 8: The Old Man’s Offer

  The pack screamed back into view eleven-ish minutes after launch—taillights bleeding red across the tunnel exit, engines howling like they were still chasing ghosts. The white RX-7 FD crossed the invisible finish line first, nose low, underglow strobing, rear tires smoking from the final drift exit. The driver popped the door, stepped out to roaring cheers, dark hair, leather jacket, and a grin that said he’d just cashed in big.

  Carson stayed at the barrier as the crowd surged. He clapped when the others did, a quiet “Nice run” slipping out when the winner walked past, still buzzing from adrenaline. The guy—mid-twenties, rune infused tattoos crawling up his neck, all glowing a frosty blue—nodded back, fist-bumping a few spectators.

  Carson lingered, congratulating a couple more drivers as they cooled their brakes. “Hell of a launch on that FD,” he said to the winner. “You carried the angle through the whole tunnel.”

  The guy laughed. “Thanks, man. You race?”

  Carson shook his head. “Not yet. Just cruisen the Chevro-legs.”

  A few of them chuckled—good joke, and understanding. “We’ve all been there,” one said. “Grind it out. City’ll give you something when you’re ready.”

  They were friendly enough. No gatekeeping. No sneers. Probably because he showed up with empty pockets and no ego—just eyes wide and respect in his voice. In Ridge Haven, that counted for more than flash sometimes.

  “Kid.”

  Carson turned. The voice belonged to a small, elderly Asian man who’d been standing quietly on the sidelines the whole race. Wiry build, faded denim jacket, cigarette dangling unlit from his lips. His eyes were slits—almost closed, like he was perpetually squinting at something far away. Gray hair buzzed short, skin like old leather. He moved slow, deliberate, but there was nothing frail about him.

  “You said no wheels,” the old man rasped, voice like dry gravel. “I got one. ’96 RX-7. FD3S. Not pretty. Been sitting in my garage longer than you’ve been breathing, probably. Rust on the rockers, interior smells like mice and old gas. Engine turns over, but it coughs like it’s got tuberculosis. Needs love. Lots of it.”

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  Carson’s pulse kicked again—different this time. Not spectator buzz. Owner buzz. “You selling?”

  The old man shrugged one shoulder. “Not exactly selling. More like… unloading. I don’t drive no more. Knees shot. Eyes worse. Figured I’d find someone who looked hungry enough to fix it instead of letting it rot.”

  Carson glanced around—no crowd pressing in, just the dying echoes of the meet winding down. “How much?”

  “Call it a favor price. Two grand, as-is. But you gotta take it off my hands. I need the space.”

  Two grand. Carson’s cash sat at $290. Debt at $3900. And rent in thirteen days $200. He could scrape together maybe another few hundred over the next week if tips stayed good and he ate cheap. But he had no access to the parking stall—or a vehicle until he pays his debt at the General.

  “I’m interested,” Carson admitted. “Really interested. But I don’t have access to entry level vehicles yet. Working off hospital debt, crashing in a rented room.”

  The old man studied him for a long beat, those near-closed eyes somehow seeing everything. Then he nodded once, like he’d expected the answer.

  “Thirty days,” he said. “I’ll hold it. Keep it covered, keep the battery on trickle. You come up with the two grand in thirty, it’s yours. You don’t… well, I’ll find someone else. But I’m betting on you, kid. You got that look. The one that says you’ll bleed for a rotary if it means getting behind the wheel.”

  Carson swallowed. Thirty days. That lined up almost exactly with the hospital quest deadline—clear the debt or face Enforcer pursuit. High risk. High reward.

  “What’s your name?” Carson asked.

  “Call me Hiroshi. Garage is in the old warehouse district, off 17th service road. Red roll-up door, number 42. Ask for me when you’re ready.”

  Hiroshi fished a crumpled business card from his pocket—yellowed, edges frayed. Handwritten in sharp marker: Hiroshi’s Storage – No Questions. A phone number scrawled below.

  Carson took it, folding it carefully next to his cash.

  “Thanks, Hiroshi. I’ll be there.”

  The old man gave a small nod, then turned and melted back into the thinning crowd like smoke.

  Carson stood there a moment longer, the card burning a hole in his pocket.

  The System chimed—quiet, almost conspiratorial:

  [Quest Chain Update: From the Sidelines – Wheel Acquisition]

  New Objective: Secure a Vehicle – Acquire your first car within 30 days. Reward: +500 XP, Vehicle Ownership Unlock, +1 Level (guaranteed).

  Bonus: Purchase from Hiroshi – +100 Street Cred, Rotary Affinity Trait (Passive).

  Failure: Quest chain resets. Vehicle opportunity lost.

  He exhaled, a faint fog on his breath—it was kind of chilly during the nights; he was thankful for the windbreaker. He looked at his Main Quest now: paying back Ridge Haven General: $3700 completing that gave him basic vehicle unlock—Entry Class. Even he knew that the RX-7 wasn’t entry class. He didn’t know how cars were categorized—but if he had to say, Legendary—Skyline ranking.

  Carson turned toward the safe house, steps lighter despite the exhaustion.