Chapter Three: Pressure Builds

The next day was hotter than usual. Heat shimmered off the asphalt like waves. Dom had asked Saint to help Jesse with a custom ECU install on an Eclipse out back of the Market. Saint, shirt half-unbuttoned, was elbows-deep in wiring while Jesse rambled on about turbo lag and coil packs.

"So what's it like in London?" Jesse asked, tightening a bolt.

Saint wiped sweat off his brow. "Cold. Grey. Fast."

"That's all you got?"

Saint smirked. "Not much to tell."

But there was. There was always more. Saint's hands slowed for a moment, a flicker of something darker in his eyes. Memories he kept buried. A flash of red lights in the rearview. Shattered glass. Screams swallowed by sirens. His jaw tightened. The sound of rain hitting concrete. The sight of a friend's blood on his shoes. The last time he saw his brother alive.

"You okay?" Jesse asked, noticing the pause.

Saint nodded. "Yeah. Just lost in thought."

They finished up the install and headed toward the front when they heard the revving of high-end engines in the distance. Dom stepped outside, wiping grease from his hands, frown forming.

A line of motorcycles roared into view, flanking a sleek black S2000. The lead rider pulled off his helmet and stepped off like he owned the street.

Johnny Tran.

He approached with a controlled swagger, his eyes scanning the scene until they landed on Dom—and then, curiously, on Saint.

"Dominic," Johnny said coolly.

Dom didn't move. "Tran."

"I heard you had a new racer in your circle. British, fast, cocky."

Saint crossed his arms. "That's one way to say hello."

Johnny smirked, but there was no warmth in it. "You race like your rep says?"

"I race better."

Johnny stepped closer, tension thick in the air. His crew stayed near their bikes, silent and still.

Dom stepped in before things escalated. "You're not here for a race."

"No," Johnny said, gaze still locked on Saint. "Just wanted to see the import everyone's talking about."

Saint didn't back down. "Now you have."

Tran's smile sharpened. "I'll be seeing you again, London."

They roared off as fast as they came, and the street quieted again.

Dom turned to Saint. "Keep your distance from him. Tran doesn't play games."

Saint gave a small nod, but his eyes were already following the black S2000 until it vanished around the corner.

Inside, Mia stood behind the counter, pretending to organize receipts she'd already stacked twice. When Saint walked in, the door's bell gave him away.

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes calm but unreadable. "You always this quiet when you've got company?"

Mia didn't look up right away. "Only when the company's not really talking."

A beat passed. Saint's smirk was slight, but real. "Fair. You always eavesdrop from the window?"

That earned a glance from her—sharp, but curious. "Just making sure no one dies on my doorstep."

"Not planning on it," Saint said. "Today, anyway."

Mia exhaled a soft laugh, then motioned to a stool by the counter. "Sit."

He did.

"Iced tea?" she asked.

Saint nodded. "Sure. Long as you're not spitting in it."

Mia poured two glasses, slid one his way. "No promises."

They sat in a brief, quiet rhythm—two people circling something neither could name yet.

"You always look at people like that?" she asked suddenly.

Saint raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"Like you've already sized them up and decided how far to let them in."

He didn't answer right away. "You always ask questions that cut?"

Mia met his gaze evenly. "Only when I want to know the truth."

Saint's eyes softened just a fraction. "I guess I'm not used to places where people care."

Mia nodded slowly, her voice gentler now. "Then maybe you've been looking in the wrong places."

Saint looked at her, really looked at her—for once not trying to read or gauge. Just being.

"You ever get tired of being right?" he asked.

Mia smiled, a little more warmth this time. "Only when it scares people off."

Saint clinked his glass lightly against hers. "Not scared."

Letty leaned in from the doorway, arms folded, watching the moment stretch and simmer.

"You two gonna make out or should I come back with popcorn?"

Mia rolled her eyes, blushing despite herself. Saint just chuckled.

Letty smirked. "Trouble. I knew it."

Later that night, as the garage cleared out and the sun dipped low, Saint found himself alone, cleaning his tools. Jesse lingered nearby.

"You ever gonna tell me what you're running from?" Jesse asked, voice quieter than usual.

Saint didn't look up. "Maybe one day."

The air shifted. A black SUV parked across the street. Tinted windows. No one got out.

Jesse frowned. "That look like Feds to you?"

Saint's gaze hardened. "They're not here for you."

Jesse took a cautious step closer. "They here for you?"

Before Saint could answer, Saint's burner phone buzzed inside his jacket. He checked it.

UNKNOWN SENDER: "They're getting close. You need to move."

Jesse saw the flicker in Saint's face. "You in some deep shit, huh?"

Saint exhaled slowly. "I used to run with a crew back in London. Boosters. One job went sideways. Someone flipped. Bodies dropped. I got out."

"Why come here?" Jesse asked.

Saint looked down, then up—honest, maybe for the first time. "Because the last thing my brother said to me before he died was, 'Go somewhere new. Be better.'"

A long pause.

Saint added, voice low: "His name was Cassian. He was the one who taught me to drive."

Jesse looked like he wanted to say something, but just gave a nod instead. "You ever wanna talk more... I'm around."

Saint nodded.

As Jesse turned away, Saint whispered almost to himself, "Cass... I'm trying."