He inhaled again, a lungful of something that smelled wrong and right at the same time: oil, burnt rubber, hot metal, the faint citrus tang of polish. A thousand memories collided: the sting of gravel under tires, the laughter after a night win, the weight of a helmet under floodlights. He opened his eyes.
He wasn't in the hospital. He was on his back on a concrete floor that vibrated with the bass of a music system. Above him, a patchwork ceiling of corrugated metal and stained insulation the inside of a garage swam into focus. Sunlight cut the air differently here, gilding dust motes that danced like confetti over a championship podium. A scent of gasoline hung thick as incense.
Jeff pushed himself up. His hands were calloused, but not exactly his hands; the knuckles were scarred in a way he didn't recall, fingers accustomed to wrenches more than papers. He tasted copper on his tongue and realized he had blood on his lip. There was a leather jacket draped over his shoulders, heavier than any he'd owned, and a patch on the back stitched with a single word: FAMILY.
A laugh rough, familiar, and oddly comforting came from the shadows. A man leaned against an old Mustang, a silhouette carved in chrome and sunlight. He stepped forward and the face that filled Jeff's vision was not a stranger's. It was a face that wore the road like a second skin: sun-creased, eyes like cooled pistons, grin sharp enough to cut tension.
"Took you long enough, mate," the man said, the accent wrapping around the words like rope. "We thought you were gonna ghost us for good."
Jeff's mouth opened. He had a hundred questions chained behind his teeth: Where am I? Who are you? Is this death or debt or something in between? But the garage answered first, in the only language it had: a rev of an engine, the scrape of a tire on concrete, the metallic click of a hood being shut.
Around him the place hummed with life: payphones plastered with stickers, a pinboard of wanted posters and neon flyers for street races, a row of helmets like ancient helmets in a trophy case. Tools hung like religious artifacts. A crew moved with practiced chaos one calibrating a turbo, another sketching lines across a blueprint, a woman with soot across her cheek instructing like a general.
Jeff staggered up, each step a confession. The man who'd spoken the one with the sharp grin tossed him a set of keys. The metal rattled, a small clattering sound that seemed to echo an earlier life.
"You could say you died on the old circuit," the man said. "Or you could say you got a new start. Both sound about right. Name's Marco. We don't do funerals here we do laps."
Before Jeff could reply, a voice thundered in his skull, mechanical and divine at once.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZED]
Congratulations, Jeff Remy. Your deeds in life have granted you a second chance.
Novice Gift Pack Granted:
One Car Transformation Opportunity — turn any vehicle into an unstoppable force of the street.
40 million in cash.
Multiple safe houses worldwide.
Master-level hacking and tracking skills.
Shooting mastery.
Jeff froze. The words weren't heard so much as burned into his mind, each syllable shifting reality itself. A HUD blinked faintly across his vision: stats, maps, inventories, all slick as if pulled from some digital racing sim.
He glanced at Marco, who seemed unbothered by the phenomenon. The older man smiled knowingly, like he had seen this kind of thing before.
"Systems, gifts, chances call it what you like," Marco said, his voice low and steady. He stepped closer, placed a hand on Jeff's shoulder, and spoke with the gravity of a final lap: "Live this life well, Jeff. With no regrets."
Then, as if he had never been there, Marco vanished. No sound, no trace only the faint smell of gasoline where he had stood.
Jeff stood in the middle of the garage, his pulse racing like an overrevved engine. The keys in his hand felt heavier now, weighted with possibility. He had wealth, skills, tools, and a system that could bend the rules of machines themselves.
For the first time, he felt no regret. Only hunger.
This was not a second chance he would waste.