10:42 p.m. – Echo Park Hills, Los Angeles
The night smelled like asphalt, gasoline, and summer sweat.
Emanuel sat in K.I.T.T.'s driver's seat, fingers drumming against the flat-bottom steering wheel, every muscle tuned like a coiled spring.
The safehouse was nice too nice. A gift for someone who didn't exist anymore. But a house was just walls.
He needed motion.
He needed to feel something.
"K.I.T.T., give me a full systems rundown. Let's see what you're made of."
"Affirmative. Activating performance diagnostic.""Engine: Hydrogen-Electric Dual Drive 2,100 horsepower equivalent.""Top speed: Limited only by terrain. Estimated 370+ MPH.""Chassis: Nanofiber reinforced composite. Light as carbon. Tougher than military-grade steel.""AI Reflex Drive: Active. Can drive itself but prefers your input.""Would you like to test me, Emanuel?"
He grinned, pushing the gear selector into DRIVE.
"Oh, I'm going to try and break you."
"I look forward to the attempt."
11:06 p.m. – Angeles Crest Highway
He opened K.I.T.T. up the way a musician plays a flawless solo from the soul, not the sheet.
The tires kissed the pavement like silk on steel. The wheel responded before he even moved. Every corner, every blind curve, every oncoming blur of trees and guardrails felt like slow-motion combat and K.I.T.T. danced with him through it.
He hit 200 mph like it was second gear.
His heart didn't pound. It roared.
By the time they reached the overlook at the peak of the ridge, Emanuel had lost all sense of time. He coasted to a stop, the engine purring under the hood like a satisfied predator.
"I needed that," he whispered.
"I recommend pushing further. Local data shows a high-stakes street race assembling downtown.""Location: Under the 6th Street Bridge.""Buy-in: $10,000. Pay-out: $120,000.""Participants: 7. Unregistered, mostly ex-military or cartel-affiliated.""Risk factor: Elevated.""Recommendation: Do it."
Emanuel stared out at the city lights below, a billion flickering pixels waiting to be rewritten.
He smirked. "Let's get loud."
12:13 a.m. – 6th Street Bridge
You don't join LA's underground circuit.
You impress your way in.
Emanuel rolled up slow, K.I.T.T.'s black chassis devouring the orange glow of streetlights like a shadow given form. Music pounded from modified stereos. Crowds of racers, influencers, drifters, and dealmakers filled the asphalt like a festival of speed.
Everyone turned when they saw the car.
Not because they knew it. But because it felt… wrong. Or too perfect.
Whispers started:
"That's not stock. Who the hell is that? Yo that's looks crazy.
Emanuel stepped out, wearing all black. Boots planted. Eyes unreadable. He didn't smile.
A local race boss Cuban, tattooed, draped in gold stepped up.
"You new?" the man asked.
"No," Emanuel replied. "Just returned."
The race boss laughed, pulled a wad of cash from his vest. "Buy-in's ten large. Winner takes all. You break the route, you pay for it."
Emanuel tossed the fob at him. "Keep the car for collateral."
The man blinked. "You that confident?"
"I'm already dead. That makes me very hard to scare."
12:41 a.m. – The Race
Course:
Start: 6th Street Bridge
Route: Loop through Skid Row, cut through a rooftop parking garage near the Arts District, loop south toward Industrial Row, finish near the river basin.
Seven cars lined up.
A Nissan GT-R, matte bronze, turbo snarling.A murdered-out Lancer Evo with body panels rattling from power.Two Supras. A McLaren 570S with glowing underlights.One beastly widebody Dodge Charger all raw American muscle.
And then… K.I.T.T.
She looked like a scalpel among sledgehammers.
The flag girl stepped out. Neon hair. Face like war paint. Raised her arm.
"Three!"Engines howled."Two!"Tires smoked."ONE----!"
GO.
Emanuel slammed the throttle.
K.I.T.T. didn't leap forward she teleported. The AI synced with his inputs perfectly. Shifting was telepathic. He dodged the Evo on his left, burst between the Supra twins on the right.
The McLaren tried to box him in on a hairpin overpass too late. K.I.T.T. braked mid-corner and drifted underneath him.
"Obstruction detected," K.I.T.T. warned.
"I see it."
A detour marker the garage ramp. Three racers ahead of him took it wide, fishtailing in the incline.
Emanuel flicked the wheel. K.I.T.T. obeyed instantly four wheels locked into synchronicity as they slid sideways into the structure, clipping concrete by centimeters, shooting out the other side like a missile.
"Opponent status: 4 behind, 2 closing. Dodge Charger approaching.""Driver tagged: Felix Torres. Known cartel enforcer. Three kills on record.""Driving: aggressively intoxicated."
"Figures."
Torres slammed him from behind on a straightaway near the old brewery.
Emanuel gritted his teeth, then whispered, "Engage defensive mode."
"Engaged."
K.I.T.T.'s body stiffened. Suspension adapted.
Torres hit again and bounced off like he struck a tank.
K.I.T.T. surged ahead.
The final stretch loomed the LA River drainage tunnels. The race ended where most stories didn't.
Three cars still in it.
Emanuel's breathing slowed.
"Full speed."
"Understood."
K.I.T.T. opened up no more holding back. 250. 270. 310. The other cars vanished from his rear view like shadows torn by the sun.
He crossed the finish line alone.
01:06 a.m. – Aftermath
The crowd at the basin was thunderstruck.
No cheers. Just awe.
Emanuel stepped out of the car, took the envelope of cash from the stunned race boss without a word, and walked away.
The city hummed behind him.
02:22 a.m. – Safehouse
The adrenaline faded. His mind cleared.
He stood in the glow of K.I.T.T.'s dashboard as the AI projected screens across the garage wall.
News feeds. Surveillance summaries. Political readouts. Street intel.
"This world… is not quite the one you left behind," K.I.T.T. said softly.
Emanuel nodded.
Dom Toretto — marked as civilian leader, threat level uncertain. Deckard Shaw — MI6-rogue.Eteon — still active. Cipher — missing.
And then something stranger:
Emanuel stared. Something was stirring. Something wrong.
"…this world's running hot," he murmured. "Too many wires crossed."
"We'll need allies."
"Not yet."
He glanced out the window again the city still burning with neon life.
"First, we find out who's pulling the strings."