The Warning
1254 Words
(Luna Vega POV)
There are two kinds of mornings in Brooklyn — the kind that smells like burnt coffee and hope, and the kind that smells like trouble.
Today was both.
The garage was still quiet when I rolled up the door. Early sunlight hit the metal shelves, turning grease stains gold. My Mustang sat there like a wounded soldier, scarred but unbowed. Every dent had a story; every scrape had a heartbeat.
I ran my hand along the hood. “We did good, baby,” I whispered. “Even if the world wants to kill us for it.”
Because it did.
Because the Syndicate never forgets humiliation — and beating their golden boy on their turf was like slapping the devil mid-prayer.
I was wiping the hood when I heard it — boots crunching against gravel.
Three men. Heavy. Confident. The kind who thought their presence alone could make you scared.
The one in front wore a leather jacket with a crimson serpent stitched on the sleeve. Syndicate mark. His grin was razor-thin. “Luna Vega.”
“Depends who’s asking,” I said, straightening up, cloth still in hand.
He smirked. “Cute. You got balls racing last night. Beating Rogue, too.”
I shrugged. “Lucky drift.”
“No such thing in the Syndicate. You embarrassed our top racer. That makes you interesting… and a liability.”
The others chuckled behind him. One cracked his knuckles like he was practicing intimidation.
I sighed, tossing the cloth aside. “You here to offer me a sponsorship or break my legs? Because I’ve got engines waiting, and your faces don’t look like they tip well.”
That wiped the smile off his face.
He stepped closer — breath smelling like cheap whiskey. “You got thirty days to pay your brother’s debt. But after that race?” He leaned in. “The interest just got personal.”
My jaw tightened. “Tell your boss I’ll pay. I always do.”
“Oh, you’ll pay, all right.” He glanced at his men. “Give her a reminder.”
The punch came fast — I ducked. The second guy lunged, and I caught a glimpse of the wrench on the table. Instinct took over.
Metal met bone.
The sound was ugly — like something cracking under pressure.
He stumbled back, clutching his jaw.
“Damn, girl!” one of them barked, spitting blood. “You got a death wish?”
“Maybe,” I said, flipping the wrench in my hand like a knife. “But I make sure someone else dies first.”
For a second, silence. Then the leader laughed — low, impressed, dangerous.
“You got fire. No wonder Rogue noticed.”
That name hit me harder than the punch I dodged. “What did you say?”
He grinned. “You think he just shows up at random? The guy you beat — he’s the Syndicate’s ghost. The moment you crossed his finish line, you painted a target on your back.”
“Let him come,” I said, voice steady. “He bleeds like the rest of you.”
They backed off slowly, muttering curses and promises. Before leaving, the leader leaned close enough for me to see the faint scar across his lip.
“Thirty days, Vega,” he hissed. “After that, we don’t come for the car. We come for you.”
He spat blood on the floor and left.
The door slammed. The silence after violence is always the loudest thing in the world.
I stood there breathing hard, the wrench trembling in my hand. My heart was racing, but not from fear. From fury.
This was supposed to be my redemption arc — not another damn debt spiral.
I sat down on the garage floor, back against the wall, and laughed. Not because it was funny. Because I was tired. Because adrenaline felt safer than despair.
The air smelled like iron and smoke. My hands shook a little, but I didn’t drop the wrench.
That was the thing about survival — once you’ve been through enough, your body starts mistaking violence for routine.
By nightfall, the city looked like a bad fever dream — neon lights, sirens, rain that wouldn’t quit.
I’d patched up the garage, closed the doors early, and crashed at my apartment a few blocks away. Small space. Peeling paint. Broken lock. My safe zone, if you could call it that.
I was halfway through instant noodles when I heard the engine.
Low. Smooth. Expensive.
It purred outside my building like a beast that knew it belonged.
I froze, spoon in midair.
Nobody around here drove cars like that — black, sleek, with tinted windows that ate light.
For a second, I told myself it was paranoia. Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
> “Step outside.”
I stared at the screen, heartbeat rising.
Another buzz.
> “Now.”
I looked out the window. The car hadn’t moved. Just idling, patient. Like it was waiting.
A voice in my head said don’t. Another voice — the one that loved the sound of roaring engines and danger — said do it.
So I did.
The rain had turned to mist when I stepped out, hoodie pulled up. The car door didn’t open. Instead, the passenger window rolled down halfway.
Inside, shadows.
And a voice.
> “You shouldn’t have won that race.”
I froze. The sound was modulated — low, distorted — but I’d know it anywhere.
Rogue.
My stomach flipped. “Maybe you shouldn’t have lost.”
He laughed softly — the kind of sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re brave. Or stupid.”
“Usually both,” I said.
He leaned closer, and for the first time, I caught a hint of his face in the darkness — jawline sharp, eyes glinting silver through the tint.
> “The Syndicate doesn’t like chaos. You created some.”
“Then maybe they need better drivers.”
That made him go silent for a beat — like he wasn’t used to being challenged.
Finally, he said, “Consider this a warning, Luna Vega.”
My name sounded different coming from him. Heavy. Dangerous. Almost… intimate.
He placed something on the passenger seat — a thick envelope — and pushed it through the window. It hit the wet ground with a soft thud.
“Your winnings,” he said. “Every dollar you earned.”
I frowned. “What’s the catch?”
He paused. “Drive better.”
Then the window rolled up.
And the car drove off — slow, deliberate, vanishing into the rain like it never existed.
I stared at the envelope. My heart was still racing. I crouched and picked it up.
Money — crisp, clean, more than I’d ever seen in one place.
But it wasn’t the cash that messed with me. It was the card beneath it.
Black. No logo. Just three words in silver print:
> Drive. Better. Vega.
I didn’t sleep that night.
I sat by the window, rain dripping from the eaves, staring at that card over and over.
Was it a threat? A warning? Or something worse — a promise?
Because when he said my name, it wasn’t just danger I felt.
It was recognition.
Like the engines in both our chests had found the same rhythm.
And somehow, deep down, I knew — this wasn’t the end of whatever that race started.
It was just ignition.
- Writer
