The sun had begun to rise outside the grimy windows, casting narrow gold shafts through the garage's dusty air. Shepherd crouched near the rear of the building, hidden between a stack of tires and a rusting hydraulic lift. He hadn't slept. His thoughts raced faster than any engine he'd ever built.
The Rift Core in his chest continued its slow, steady pulse—warmth and power fused to his body like a second heart. He didn't know how long he had until someone noticed the damage he'd left when he arrived. A scorch mark on the bench. A radiation signature, maybe. A literal tear in space and time.
But nothing had come yet. No alarms. No men in black. Just… Rio. Or at least that's what the cracked map on the garage wall suggested.
"Brasil…" he muttered under his breath, brushing fingers along a dusty license plate nailed to the wall. "What the hell are you doing here, Fox?"
He found the back door and eased it open into a narrow alley behind the shop. Heat slapped him like an open flame. The city beyond buzzed with noise—engines, shouting, music echoing from cracked speakers mounted on street corners. The rhythm of a place alive with tension.
Rio de Janeiro. 2011.
That's when it clicked.
His mind scrambled for context. The car builds. The street layout. The NOS tanks. The music. It all added up to something impossible.
This is the world of Fast Five.
He stood there stunned, like a man waking into a dream where the rules were wrong but familiar. In this reality, Dominic Toretto and his crew were plotting a heist against a corrupt drug lord. It shouldn't be real—but it was.
And he had just landed in the middle of it.
Shepherd pulled his hoodie tighter around his shoulders. His clothes were slightly charred at the edges, but passable. Just another sunburned gringo drifting through the city. With no ID, no money, and no known contacts, his only advantage was the one thing humming under his skin: the Rift Core.
He needed information. Gear. A place to think.
But first, he needed to blend in.
Two Hours Later
A stolen backpack. A new shirt. Cheap sunglasses from a street vendor. It wasn't glamorous, but it worked.
He kept his head down as he moved through the dense crowds of downtown Rio. On every corner, someone sold something—fruit, knock-off watches, bootleg DVDs. Shepherd paid attention to the cars more than the people. Street racers tuned their rides with the same reckless artistry he once saw in prototype labs. It was primitive… but brilliant.
He followed the sound of engines to a makeshift street meet tucked beneath a railway bridge. Chrome flashed in the sunlight. Reggaeton pounded from portable speakers. A dozen tuned cars lined up—imports, muscle, customs—and crowds gathered like it was religion.
He watched from the edge.
And then he saw her.
A woman leaned against a candy-red Mazda RX-7, flame decals curling up the sides. She wore tactical pants, a sleeveless top, and aviators that gleamed like fire. Her expression was pure calculation as she eyed the competition.
Letty? No… not her. Similar energy, but younger.
A racer—dangerous and sharp.
He was about to turn away when something tugged at his senses.
The Rift Core.
It pulsed harder, like it had recognized something nearby.
He scanned the crowd. A tall man with a goatee leaned against a matte-black muscle car. A charger—no, a variant. American build, modified grille, bulletproof glass. He was talking to another man, shorter, stockier, dressed like a cop but with none of the posture.
Then it clicked.
Dom isn't here. But his crew is.
These were associates. Early contacts. People working logistics before Dom showed up on scene.
Shepherd stepped back from the crowd.
If he approached now—out of place, unannounced—he could spook them. Worse, he could get flagged as a cop, or worse, a rival gang scout. But he also realized something else: he had a name here.
If he was Dominic Toretto's cousin from his mother's side… someone, somewhere in this city already knew he existed. That identity would protect him—once he played it right.
For now, though, he'd wait. Watch. Learn the landscape before he made his move.
Because in a world like this, even family gets tested at 120 miles per hour.