I'm sorry for the delay in uploading everyone, I know it's been a month and all I have is one chapter to show for it. I've sort of lost a bit of motivation for writing since I haven't been getting feedback from you guys on how to improve the story. So please, please read and review so I can improve the story for you all to read.

Also, 500+ views? You guys are amazing! Here's more Debts Left Unpaid for you as a thank you. I hope it's to your satisfaction after waiting so long. There's not much action here, more just build up and exposition for later on. Please provide me with feedback on what kind of story telling you want to see, and how I should name and give an emblem to the Player's crew now.

Chapter 6 is up.

Approximately 12 hours after my retiring to rest, I stirred up and was greeted by blinding sunlight coming through the hazy and dusty collection of glass windows. I stumble up, sore muscles and aching pains come full swing once I'm conscious enough to feel it all. My clutch leg felt limp and dull, and my arms were on the verge of snapping at the slightest movement. Nevertheless I trudged through the garage hoping this place at least had a fridge. Not like I have any space to complain, but Darius wouldn't leave me out to dry like that.

Right?

After I mutter a faint "fuck it" under my breath, I decide to get in the Camaro and hit it with a detail and a carwash and maybe grab some food too, seeing as my starving self might collapse again. My boots making thunderous contact with the hollow concrete floor, echoing off the adjacent walls. As to be expected as it was more than likely just me here, but the eerie-ness never faded. I opened the metallic door and slipped inside. I forced the key into the ignition slot, clutch down with my right foot this time, which for some reason felt stiffer to decompress than my left foot. Supposing it was just unfamiliar action, I held and let the starter go to work.

Upon my cold start, the shear amount of noise and vibration shook the walls to their core, shrinking down on itself due to the reverb the exhaust gave off. I finally sucked it up and shut the door, cranked down the windows, and stuck in some headphones as I reversed out and was about to merge on the highway. As I sat in the open drive, I scrolled through my phone, deciding what music to play on my way into town. I stopped my finger on Wolfmother's "Joker and the Thief" ,smile widely plastered on my face. As soon as I heard the opening guitar riff, I revved the motor a couple of times, Warming up the cams and the crank, ready to shred my way down the expressway.

Oil Temp : Check

Coolant Temp: Check

Thrill Factor : Awaiting Burnout.

Once the percussion hit, foot was matted to the floor, rubber spinning and smoking in my rearview, as I finally launch off sideways into traffic, nearly clipping a red minivan on the front quarter before I shift into 2nd, keeping the wheels spinning and narrowly gliding by with the sidewalls under immense stress. Once traction finally greeted me at the redline of 2nd gear, I sped through the gears of the 4-speed box reaching top speed as I meet the sign to my off-ramp. Because it was mid-day, I wasn't going to take too many risks. My radar hasn't lit up yet and I don't intend for it to. That being said I slowed down to pedestrian speed coming down into town, the streets littered with people walking in and out of shops on the main drag, jaywalkers with a wish for death, and neon signs shining as brightly as they could in the mid-afternoon sun.

The more I thought about it, the car wash could wait. I don't necessarily feel like turning too many heads today. Here's to hoping the matte and grimy finish I run currently rolls under anyone's radar. It was a Camaro, so it's going to attract attention regardless. But hunger was killing me from the inside out, so off to a shop I went.

All it took was one glance down the main drag for an open restaurant. And as luck would have it a Burger King was to my immediate left. As luck WOULDN'T have it, it was populated. Not what I wanted, but I've been taking risks the past week, so what would this hurt. I tried my best to keep engine revs low not to attract any attention, which seemed to work as I worked on reversing into an open spot on the end. I carefully step out, leather jacket flexing under the stretching of my tense muscles, and shut the door.

I walk up and into the joint to see a bunch of teenagers floating around the booths. Me being only 20, I felt right at home. One kid has his ass in the air, another group is tossing around some kids backpack, and there was an old senile couple taking refuge in the back corner, away from the barbarians up front. I step up and open the door; a chime sounds from directly above me, signalling my entrance. Luckily nobody paid attention to my presence as I saunter up to the front counter. To my surprise the place was kept unbelievably clean, to the point where I could see I had a faint scruff on my face on the black countertop at the register.

Shit, all this stress and running around really takes a toll on me.

"How can I help you, sir?"

My reverie was interrupted by a flimsy pale teen with glasses shifting me glances. I point to my meal on the board, hoping he isn't brain dead and can read a hand signal. To my chagrin he had no idea what I was looking for. I wasn't up for restaurant counter conversation.

"He wants a #3, Trevor."

I glance behind me and see one of the kids from earlier helping me out. I faintly smirk and give him a nod in appreciation, as I didn't really feel like exercising my vocal cords anytime soon. And with that my order was set in, and I was about to sit down, and I heard a bunch of excited whispers. I glance out the window to see what the commotion was. Bad idea.

"Yo, check out that sick ride!"

"You see that grime dude, bet whoever drives that Camaro runs it HARD! You see the brake dust on those wheels right?!"

"What's a 'Camaro'? You boys…"

I spun on the heel of my boot and shifted towards a table as far away from the window as possible. I knew it was a matter of time before they found out, and I wasn't in any condition to run a 100m sprint out to my door and peel out. Instead I did my best to play it cool, plausible deniability being my best option.

"Hey buddy! You know whose car that is?"

I didn't want to look back, but I knew he was addressing me. I shook my head no and kept my gaze down at my phone, incase any impromptu from Neville or by some ungodly chance anybody else had something going on tonight. I heard the flexing of the booth material and I knew he was away. I could feel his gaze on me though; he knew it was mine, but wasn't going to go after me unless everyone else knew. Gotta hand it to him, he's got perception.

The next half hour had me grab my food, eat in strained silence, and finally walk out the door, everyone who was there initially kept their same spot. My boots crunched against the rough parking lot gravel on my way back to the Camaro. I figure skip the wash, and start scouring for parts or One Stop Shops; that seemed like a better plan to me. I felt every single pair of eyes on me as soon as I got in the car, and my suspicions were confirmed when I glanced over to the window. As I put the key in the ignition, I had this "urge" to rev my engine a bit too loudly. In the process of cold starting plus having other cars parked near me, the end result consisted of a ratchet symphony of car alarms and flashing lights.

Before anyone could run outside and stop me I began to peel out of the parking lot into oncoming, until merging back into my lane. I looked around to see if I could locate a 'One Stop Shop' anywhere nearby to upgrade my machine's potential. I eventually ventured towards the outskirts of Kempton towards the backroads and up near the winding trails of the coast roads near the boardwalk. Surely enough after searching for what felt like years, I had found my destination on the waterfront. It had no sign, so I park outside and knock on the flimsy metal gate hoping to gain entry. The only thing I was greeted with was a sign that says "REV IT"

So I did just that. I decompressed the clutch, slid the connecting rods from my shifter into neutral, and floored the gas pedal. My RPM's climbed instantly, with the raw power emanating from the motorcore and the exhaust. She was one bad bitch. After bouncing off the rev limiter on the tach, I eventually eased out of it and let the car idle. It's menacing and deep, throaty growl still sent shivers up through the leather seat into and up my spine.

It took not even 30 seconds for the garage door to open and for me to park on the open showroom floor. I was greeted by my wingman, Rog. Never in a million years would I have thought he'd have been around. His bald head, big built figure, and a black and red kitted out GTO directly behind him brought back a wave of memories.

"Welcome to AutoZone kid. It's been a long time since Rockport huh? You didn't hear from me once you took down Razor and you're more than likely wondering why. I got outta town before Cross and his pussy-whipped sidekick sent the entire fleet after you getting your ride back. I opened this place up once you dethroned and turned in the Blacklist."

I immediately went to protest, actually going to use my vocal chords and tell him off…

He held up one of his hands before I had a chance to speak. "I know you didn't intentionally set it up. I told you that Mia chick was bad news- to watch your back. Turns out the entire partnership lined her pockets and promoted her to Sergeant back in Rockport now. Cross is going to haunt every back alley and street corner you won't be expecting him to around here now that jurisdiction no longer applies in his line of work. And you know first-hand how his persistence warrants recklessness."

He pauses and motions for me to follow him around the shop.

"Your standard run of the mill parts emporium. Everything the One Stop Shop back home provided, now open in wider area spread across Palmont. Intakes, headers, exhaust, nitrous; You name it, it's in stock." He keeps walking around and pointing out different areas for parts and paints. After about 15 or so minutes of me getting acquainted in the place, I decided now was the time to fit some upgrades in.

"Can't sell you anything kid, before you go on writing me a list. You haven't won any races in any of the districts yet. Scouters I've recruited take data from the races, send it back to me, and I ultimately decide who can buy what here. Once you take down some of the smaller named crew territory around here, you got yourself a man for parts."

He knows I'm qualified, it had been a month or 2 easily, and yet here I was back to square one where everything essentially felt like Rockport at night. New car, new contacts, old wounds. The cycle never seems to stop repeating, and no matter how hard I try, it comes back and bites me in the ass. Royally pissed off, I just nodded and headed back to my car. Once I got in and was about to reverse out, Rog put his arm in the window and looked at me.

"Look kid, Palmont isn't industrial like Rockport is. I can tell it's been awhile since you've come around here. Off-road trails and shortcuts rarely exist in the cities; the most you'll uncover are unfinished road work areas and park entrances. Utilize those when the time comes, races will fly by in a breeze. Just be careful out there, I know you've got it all." With that he slapped the rear quarter and ushered me out into whatever daylight was left. If Rog wouldn't allow me performance, then sure as hell he wouldn't offer me bodykits or aerodynamics. Driving down the long stretch of road back into town under the sun was nothing short of breathtaking. Facing the gaseous giant face to face as I inch over the horizon, it falls further beneath until finally darkness set in, and the street racing night life accompanied the moonlight.

It wasn't even 10 minutes before I saw a small gathering on the far side of the Morgan Beach Offramp. I drove up to the host and he handed me a USB drive. I plugged it into my LCD monitor and the marked out route of the race was on for me. Looking from a bird's eye view, I was going to have to run my lines wide and roll inside. Essentially an F1 racing line, but I'll have to maintain a faint form of countersteering to ensure I don't scrub off all my speed. It being a Camaro, steel frame was the name of the game, and the name of the weight. Frankly I'm not sure my tire sidewalls can take much more abuse, nor can my rapidly balding tread either. Stakes were more than just cash now, but the car too.

I fired up the motor once again, but saw that I was below an ⅛th of a tank, and my patience was about an ⅛th of what it would've been under normal circumstances, since now I can't run it all out without some sort of failure on either end. It was fight or flight, and I felt my wings grow heavy, so the blacktop was my fighting option. I rolled up on the line against a rival crew battling for 21st Street Territory. The vinyl they adorned were yellow with red tribal siding, a trident with a flaming tail as a crew emblem. 2 Camaro's and a Charger R/T which, all seemed stock sounding. Both Camaro's idle revs sounded similar to mine, so I knew the cam profile on theirs was the same, and I'm pretty certain the most they have on them is some dry fog nitrous. The Charger was the outlier, and decided not to investigate his ride and just be wary once the race began. I don't know enough on the Hemi or Mopar as a brand to make an estimation.

What felt like 5 hours, was 5 minutes of waiting at the starting line until the flag girl ran between the row of 4 cars. Almost immediately exhaust backfire and unburnt oil turned to flames once she positioned herself center of the road. As her hands graced the horizon, the tachometer needles met their launch RPM's.

It all boiled down to reaction time. As soon as her arms reached her torso I hit the throttle, and by the time my tires absorbed all that power her arms were all the way down and I found a sliver of traction to inch me ahead of the opposition.

This is going to be one hell of a race.