A/n: This story takes places during and after Tokyo Drift. And will continue to Furious 7. Though neither appear in this chapter, this story is Han/OFC. This is simply a prelude. One that contains spoilers for Furious 7. So if you haven't seen it yet, I strongly advise you to click that back button.

Tokyo, Japan. 2015.

Dominic Toretto is a man on mission. Two missions in fact. Retrieval and payback. Retrieval, the first and most important mission, pertained to bringing one of his greatest friends home and giving him a proper funeral. Han Seoul-Oh. Original member of The Crew, The Team, and his brother in arms was dead. While not new to him, grief twisted his heart and angered him. Refusing to allow that all-encompassing ire to consume him Dom's hands tightened unconsciously on his steering wheel. Payback, the opportunity to unleash that anger would come soon. Deckard Shaw, the man who took Han from this world would ultimately feel the depth of his wrath.

After landing in the famed metropolis that was Tokyo, Dominic pulled into a parking garage located in the Shibuya district just as the sun sank halfway beneath the horizon. He got out of his 1970 Plymouth Road Runner—a muscle car known for its ability to do a quarter mile in fourteen seconds—and was instantly bombarded by a plethora of racing enthusiasts. They proceeded to throw questions and adulation at him.

"Is that a Road Runner?"

"The mileage on it must be insane!"

"How fast does this go?"

"The paint job is sick!"

"Dom right?" The last caught his attention and he looked at the boy with brown cornrows and eyes staring at him.

"Who's asking?" Dom asked in his signature gravelly tone.

"Twinkie." The boy said confidently, adjusting his baseball cap. "I'm p— was a part of Han's crew. He mentioned you a few times. There's a picture of your team in his garage."

Though he knew there weren't many alternatives for those raised in the streets, Dom found himself looking at the boy somewhat disapprovingly. Recruiting teenagers? Han, what were you thinking? With things such as racing and all it entailed, the risks would often outweigh the rewards. Not many knew better than Dom how high the stakes were. Normally he couldn't bring himself to care much about those risks because they were necessary. But since yet another member of his crew—his family—was gone as the result of one. That truth had never been more painfully apparent. Masking his contrition, he smiled at Twinkie. "Han talked about you. Told me you're quite the hustler."

Twinkie grinned at the praise. "Next to him, he said you were one of best racers the world had ever seen. I'll have to take his word for it."

"Well you're about to get a chance to see me in action." Dom surveyed the area around them, getting the attention of the race orchestrator. He leaned against the automobile and inclined his head imperceptibly, signaling his wish to race. Upon receiving one in return, he turned back to Twinkie. "I hear there's a new Drift King in town. I'd like to test his skill."

"Sean?" Twinkie concluded, looking unsure. "I don't know if he's up to it right now."

Dom crossed his arms. "Tell him I knew Han." That ought to peak his interest.

"Alright. I'll go talk to him." Twinkie made his way through an unending mass as Dom climbed into his car. He drove until he was at the makeshift starting line. Before long a Nissan Silvia S-15 Spec-R pulled up alongside him. The driver, Sean, inspected Dom's vehicle with a critical eye. Approval crossed his features when he recognized the make and model.

"Nice ride."

"I won it from our friend Han a few years ago."

"I didn't know he was into American muscle." Sean commented wryly.

"He was when he was rolling with me."

"You know this ain't no ten second race." Sean teased, quoting one of Dom's most famous lines.

Dom grinned in return. "I got nothing but time." He revved the Road Runner's engine. "You ready, kid?" He challenged.

Challenge accepted, Sean simply smirked before putting his game face on. The underlying energy around them readily intensified as the last traces of daylight disappeared. The crowd gathered as the two racers got into position. The moon began its ascent into the night's sky and the cheering grew rampageous.

The starter raised her arms. "Ready! Set! Go!" Neela lowered her arms and they took off. Layers of tire rubber adhered to the pavement and wisps of smoke exhaust from their cars casting an electrifying backdrop in their wake. Indicative of the lawless and exhilarating act that would momentarily follow.

Not fifteen minutes later the two racers were leaning against the side of the parking garage, basking in the aftermath of their latest escapade. "Han said you was fast, but not that damn fast." Sean said in his southern drawl, effectively congratulating him on his win.

"Who said American muscle can't drift." Dom boasted proudly.

Sean glanced away, visage adopting a look of contemplation. "Han said he left his enemies in his rearview. He never talked about it much."

"Always playing it close to the vest."

Sean brought out a small sack and rummaged through it, expression solemn. "We found a couple of things by the crash." He pulled out a plastic bag with a single item in it. A photo. "Wasn't much left." He remarked, handing it to Dom.

The older racer took Han's treasured belonging reverently, already guessing whose face would grace the prized picture. Surprise filled him when he saw not the slender beauty that was Gisele Yashar but another. A young woman with a tumble of black hair and hazel eyes. Dom turned the image over, reading the information scrawled across the back. He then looked to Sean, normally taciturn countenance displaying grim perplexion. He hadn't thought Han capable of moving on, but he apparently had. "Whose Ricci?"