Southern California looked different after midnight.

The freeways became ribbons of headlights. Palm trees disappeared beyond warehouse roofs, and empty industrial lots became temporary kingdoms for teenagers, mechanics, collectors, and anyone with a beautiful car to show off.

Malachi Baptiste had found his people there.

He hadn’t grown up in California. New Orleans was still home in the way it lived inside him: his family, his music, his food, and especially his unmistakable Louisiana accent. California had been home for years now, but whenever Mal got excited, Louisiana slipped right back into his voice.

His family never quite understood his obsession with cars.

His mother called his project car an expensive lawn ornament.

His grandmother called it “that loud thing.”

Mal called it his future.

At seventeen, he’d spent years learning everything he could about engines, restoration, imports, and custom builds. Someday, he wanted his own garage, somewhere he could build cars and teach other kids how to do the same.

For now, he had Jasmine and Nico.

Jasmine Reyes was fiercely competitive, sharp-tongued, and devoted to her heavily customized Honda. She could argue about a modification for an hour, then spend another hour proving she was right.

Nico Vargas was quieter, analytical, and practically encyclopedic when it came to Japanese cars. His modest-looking import concealed a build that had taken years of patience.

Together, they were regulars at Southern California’s underground car meets.

Tonight was no different.

The industrial lot beneath the freeway glowed with headlights and neon accents. Music spilled from open car doors. Engines rumbled through the darkness while crowds gathered around polished builds, debating modifications and admiring each passing car.

Mal leaned against his own project, trying not to think too hard about how unfinished it still was.

Jasmine was criticizing his suspension.

Nico was inspecting another build nearby.

Mal was defending himself with increasingly ridiculous arguments.

Then headlights appeared at the entrance.

A car rolled slowly into the lot.

Mal looked up.

A Toyota Supra.

Low, immaculate, completely customized, and glammed out with enough personality to make half the parking lot turn its head.

Mal stared.

Then he saw who was driving.

Guest stepped out.

There was no hesitation, no searching for approval, no uncertainty about whether she belonged. She simply stood beside her car like she already knew exactly what she’d built and exactly why she was there.

Mal’s mouth fell slightly open.

Jasmine noticed.

Then Nico.

Neither said a word.

Mal didn’t even realize they were watching him.

For once, he wasn’t thinking about horsepower, modifications, or whether his own car was good enough.

He was thinking about the Supra.

Then the girl standing beside it.

Somewhere behind him, his poor project car seemed to develop a sudden, profound sense of shame.

Not for itself.

For him.

Because Malachi Baptiste, who could usually talk his way through anything, had just completely forgotten how to speak.