The fluorescent lights of Apex Performance buzzed overhead as Chase Bennington torqued down the last bolt on a customer's coilover install. It was late 2004, and the import tuner scene was exploding. Twenty-four years old, grease under his fingernails, and perfectly content—that's how he'd describe himself if anyone bothered to ask. The garage smelled like motor oil and tire rubber, a scent that had become more familiar than his own apartment.
"Chase, man, come on," Nick's voice echoed from the break room for what had to be the tenth time that week. "It's two grand. Winner takes all."
Chase didn't look up from his work. "I told you already. I'm done with that scene."
Nick Cardenas emerged from the break room, twenty-six and still clinging to the street racing world like it was a lifeline. His warehouse job kept cutting his hours, and desperation had made him creative. "You're not done with it. You're hiding from it. There's a difference."
"Call it what you want." Chase stood, wiping his hands on an already filthy shop rag. "I've got a 350Z coming in tomorrow that needs a full suspension setup. That's my concern."
"Your concern should be helping your roommate not get evicted." Nick leaned against the workbench, arms crossed. "I'm two months behind, Chase. Two months. The landlord's not playing around anymore."
Chase had known Nick since high school, back when they'd both been stupid kids with fast cars and no sense. Nick had never quite grown out of it. Chase had—or at least he thought he had—after watching his friend Marco wrap a Civic around a telephone pole back in 2001. Marco had walked away, barely, but the image of that crumpled metal had been enough for Chase to park his own car and pick up a wrench instead.
"So get a second job," Chase said, though he knew it was a weak suggestion.
"There is no second job. Not one that pays fast enough." Nick pulled out his phone, showing Chase a flyer for an underground circuit race. "Three laps. Industrial district. Saturday night. I've been building the Subaru for months—you know this. It's ready. More than ready. But I can't drive for shit, and we both know it."
Chase glanced at the flyer. The Subaru in question was a 2003 Impreza 2.5 RS that had been gradually coming together in Nick's half of their shared garage. Nick had the enthusiasm but not the skill. He'd installed decent parts—Apex Performance employee discount helped—coilovers, intake, exhaust, a reflash from a local tuner, nothing wild but solid. Putting parts on a car and actually driving it were two different skill sets.
"You'd split it?" Chase asked, and immediately regretted the question. It sounded like he was considering it.
Nick's face lit up. "Sixty-forty. You get sixty. That's twelve hundred bucks for one night's work, man. You spend longer than that building someone else's dream car."
Chase stared at the Nissan Skyline poster on the garage wall—a relic from the early 2000s tuner craze that was still going strong. Olympic City had been heating up over the past few years, the place where legends were being made on three-mile stretches of industrial asphalt. The Fast and the Furious had come out in 2001 and suddenly everyone wanted a modified import. 2 Fast 2 Furious earlier this year had only made things crazier. Every kid with a Civic thought they were the next street racing king.
"One race," Chase finally said, the words tasting like a mistake even as they left his mouth. "You pay rent, we're square, and I'm out."
Nick grinned. "One race. That's all I'm asking."
Saturday night arrived with the particular electricity that only illegal street races could generate. Chase sat in the passenger seat of Nick's Subaru as they rolled through the industrial district, the boxer engine rumbling with a lumpy idle courtesy of the reflash Nick had gotten from a tuner shop in Chinatown. The car wasn't a monster—maybe 220 horsepower to the wheels, solid for a naturally aspirated build—but it was balanced, and the suspension setup Chase had dialed in himself would handle the circuit's tighter corners.
Cars lined the empty lot adjacent to an abandoned plastics factory. Modified Hondas, Acuras, a couple of Nissans, even an old Supra that looked like it had seen better days. The aftermarket scene was booming in 2004—everyone was running body kits, underglow, custom paint jobs. Import Tuner and Sport Compact Car magazines were selling like crazy, and every kid wanted their car to look like it rolled out of a Tokyo drift video. Chase recognized some faces, felt the old muscle memory kicking in—the way people sized each other up, the way eyes lingered on wheel fitment and ride height, judging builds before the racing even started.
"There's the organizer," Nick said, nodding toward a guy with a clipboard standing near a Golf R. "Fifty-dollar entry. Winner gets the pot minus organizing fee."
Chase climbed out, keys in hand. The night air was cool, carrying the smell of burnt clutch from an earlier burnout. He'd forgotten how much he'd missed this—not the racing itself, but the culture. The understanding that everyone here spoke the same language of compression ratios and gear ratios and the perfect apex.
A woman stood near a baby-blue Honda Civic with a custom body kit and neon underglow, watching the crowd with sharp eyes. She was maybe his age, dark hair pulled back, wearing a jacket covered in racing patches. Something about her attention felt deliberate, like she was cataloging every car and driver for later reference.
"You racing the Subaru?" A voice pulled his attention. The driver next to him had a Mazda RX-8, clean but not overdone. Mid-thirties, confident.
"Yeah," Chase said.
"First time I've seen you around. I'm Marcus." He extended a hand.
"Chase." They shook. "Been out of it for a while."
Marcus nodded toward the circuit map taped to the Golf R's window. "Three laps. Starts at the warehouse gate, loops through the container yard, back through the underpass. Watch for the third turn—there's still gravel from a cement truck last month. Caught two guys already."
"Appreciate it."
"Don't mention it. Rather race someone who knows what they're doing than scrape somebody off the guardrail." Marcus walked back to his RX-8.
Chase studied the map. The circuit was maybe two miles, tight technical sections mixed with one longer straight. The Subaru's all-wheel-drive would be an advantage in the corners, especially if that gravel was still an issue. He wouldn't have the power to dominate the straight, but he didn't need to. He just needed to be smart.
Nick appeared with a nervous grin. "You're in. Third heat, four cars. Winner from each heat goes to finals, but you just need to place top two to cash."
"Got it."
"Chase?" Nick's expression turned serious. "Thanks, man. I know you didn't want this."
"Just don't make me do it again."
The first two heats ran without incident. Chase watched from the sidelines, mentally mapping the circuit. The gravel on turn three was worse than Marcus had implied—one driver nearly lost it completely, sliding wide and clipping a barrier with his rear quarter panel. The crowd roared, but Chase just calculated. Slower in, faster out. Basic racing theory.
"Heat three!" someone called.
Chase slid into the Subaru's driver seat, adjusted the mirrors Nick had set wrong, and fired up the engine. Three other cars pulled up to the line: the RX-8, a turbocharged Civic hatch, and an older 240SX that looked like it had been built in someone's backyard. All capable. All dangerous.
The starter stood between the cars, flashlight in hand. No countdown. No Christmas tree. Just the old-school drop of the light.
Chase's hands found their position on the wheel—nine and three, relaxed but ready. He tuned out the crowd noise, focusing on the starter's shoulder, watching for the tell-tale drop before the light did.
There.
The flashlight dropped.
Chase dumped the clutch at four grand, felt the all-wheel-drive hook up and catapult the Subaru forward. The RX-8 got a better launch—rotaries always did—but Chase tucked in behind him, using the draft on the short straight before the first turn. The Civic was aggressive, trying to dive inside, but Chase held his line.
Turn one. Chase braked late but not stupid, felt the weight transfer, turned in. The Subaru's suspension compressed perfectly, and he was back on the throttle before the apex, letting the AWD pull him out. The RX-8 had gone in too hot, washed wide. Chase didn't hesitate—slipped underneath, claimed the lead.
Container yard section. Tight S-curves between rusting shipping containers that probably hadn't moved in a decade. Chase flicked the Subaru left-right-left, using every inch of pavement. The 240SX was in his mirrors now, driver skilled, looking for an opening. Chase didn't give him one.
Turn three—the gravel trap Marcus had warned about. Chase positioned the Subaru on the inside line, turned in early, felt the rear end step out slightly on the loose surface. He didn't panic, just eased off the throttle for a heartbeat, let the AWD sort itself out, then hammered down on the exit. The 240SX behind him wasn't as lucky—Chase saw the headlights swing wide in his mirror as the driver fought oversteer.
Underpass. The sound changed, became a roar of exhaust note bouncing off concrete. The RX-8 was somewhere behind, the Civic had dropped back after going off-line in the container section. It was just Chase and the circuit now, the Subaru feeling like an extension of his own instincts.
Lap two. His lines got cleaner, faster. Muscle memory from three years ago flooding back like he'd never stopped. Every brake point, every apex, every exit—perfection wasn't possible, but he could get close.
The 240SX made a move on the back straight, pulled alongside. Good driver. Really good. Chase didn't defend aggressively, just held his line, knowing turn one was coming. They went in side-by-side, and this was where AWD won—Chase could get on the power earlier, let physics do the work. He exited half a car length ahead.
Lap three. The final lap. Chase pushed harder, took risks he shouldn't have, felt the Subaru dancing on the edge of adhesion. Turn three again—faster this time, trusting the setup he'd built himself. The rear end slid out more, but he caught it, kept the momentum.
Final straight. He could see the finish line—just a line of spray paint on old asphalt, but it might as well have been Daytona. The 240SX was close, so close, but not close enough.
Chase crossed first.
The crowd was louder than he remembered. Or maybe he'd just forgotten what winning felt like. Chase climbed out of the Subaru, adrenaline still singing through his veins, hands shaking just slightly. Nick was there immediately, shouting something Chase couldn't quite hear over the blood pounding in his ears.
Marcus walked over, that same confident smile. "Hell of a drive. Especially for someone who's been 'out of it for a while.'"
"Got lucky with the AWD," Chase said, though they both knew it was more than that.
"Luck had nothing to do with it." Marcus nodded toward the Subaru. "You built that suspension setup?"
"Yeah."
"Thought so. Only a mechanic drives that smooth." He clapped Chase on the shoulder. "Finals are in twenty. You're in."
The woman from earlier—the one with the Civic—approached as Marcus walked away. Up close, Chase could see the patches on her jacket were from races all over Olympic City, some dating back to the mid-2000s glory days. She had the look of someone who'd seen a thousand races and could predict the outcome before the light dropped.
"Samantha," she said, extending a hand. "You're new."
"Chase." He shook her hand. "Not new. Just been away."
"Away doing what? That wasn't beginner driving."
"Working. Wrenching. Staying out of trouble."
Samantha's smile was knowing. "Trouble's relative. That was clean racing. Respectful. Half these guys would've punted the 240SX into the wall on turn three just to make a point. Too many people watched Tokyo Drift footage and think that's how you're supposed to drive."
"No point in wrecking someone else's build."
"Most people don't think like that." She studied him for a moment. "You're going to win finals."
"You sound pretty sure."
"I've been watching this scene since before you could drive. Trust me." She started to walk away, then paused. "Olympic City needs more drivers like you. People who actually give a shit about the craft."
Chase watched her disappear into the crowd, feeling something shift in his chest—pride, maybe, or purpose. Emotions he'd been suppressing under three years of deliberately staying grounded. The scene was different now than it had been in 2001. Bigger. More organized. More money flowing through.
Nick found him with a water bottle and a manic grin. "Dude! That was insane. You looked like you were on rails!"
"It's a good setup," Chase said, deflecting.
"It's not the car, man. It's you." Nick's expression turned serious. "I forgot how good you actually are. We all did. You did."
Chase didn't respond. He'd spent three years convincing himself that walking away had been the mature choice, the responsible choice. But sitting in that Subaru, feeling the steering wheel fight back through fast corners, hearing the boxer engine sing—nothing in the garage had felt like that. Nothing came close.
The finals were almost anticlimactic. Three cars: Chase in the Subaru, a built S2000 that had won heat one, and a heavily modified MR2 that looked fast but handled like it was on ice. The S2000 was Chase's only real competition, driver skilled, car properly sorted. But Chase had momentum now, confidence, and three laps of knowing exactly where the grip was.
He won by four car lengths.
Two hours later, Chase and Nick sat in the Subaru outside their apartment, engine ticking as it cooled. Nick counted cash for the third time, still grinning like an idiot. Fourteen hundred dollars for Chase after Nick had taken his share for rent. Not life-changing money, but enough to matter.
"So," Nick said carefully, "there's another race next Saturday."
"No."
"Double the pot. Bigger circuit. Some serious builds showing up."
"Nick—"
"I'm not asking you to commit to anything. Just saying it's there. If you want it." Nick pocketed his cash. "Thanks, man. Seriously. You saved my ass tonight."
Chase watched Nick disappear into the apartment building, leaving him alone with his thoughts and a stack of bills that felt heavier than it should. His phone buzzed—a text from Samantha, number apparently acquired from the race organizer: Good racing tonight. Olympic City could use someone with your talent. Think about it.
He thought about it.
More specifically, he thought about the way the Subaru had felt at the limit, the way his hands had remembered exactly what to do, the way the crowd had reacted when he'd slipped past the RX-8. He thought about the garage at Apex Performance, about building other people's dreams for barely above minimum wage, about the Mitsubishi Eclipse that had been sitting in their garage for two years—his Eclipse, his first car, the one he'd parked after Marco's crash.
Chase pulled out his phone—a Motorola Razr that was still pretty new—and opened the photos. There it was: a 1999 Mitsubishi Eclipse GSX, Turquoise Green Pearl paint faded and dusty, but still beautiful underneath the neglect. He'd bought it at seventeen in 2000, learned to drive stick in that car, won his first three races in that car before everything went wrong with Marco.
The car had potential. He'd known that when he'd parked it, known that with the right parts and the right tuning, it could be something special. He'd just been too scared to find out.
Not anymore.
Chase started the Subaru back up, drove it into their garage, and backed it out again. In its place, taking up the space where Nick's car had been, sat the Eclipse. He climbed out, wiped dust off the hood, looked at his distorted reflection in the paint.
Monday, he'd start sourcing parts. Wednesday, he'd pull the engine and start the rebuild. By the end of the month, the Eclipse would run again.
And maybe—just maybe—Chase Bennington would remember what it felt like to be more than just a mechanic.
He'd remember what it felt like to be a driver.