⌜ OVERDR1VES ⌟ a neon - streaked blur of speed and sin — where engines growl, stakes climb, and legends are written in tire smoke and adrenaline. built for FASTHQ, fueled by kol, and running on pure momentum — NO BRAKES. NO MERCY, just the hunger to burn past the redline.
𝙳𝚁𝙰𝙵𝚃𝚂 10 ⌯ 𝙾𝚆𝙴𝙳 03 ⌯ 𝙸𝙽𝙱𝙾𝚇 23
ARES ⌭ rome oh, 30. racer, rodani prowlers. a fallen king of the streets, clawing his way back with fire in his veins and no mercy in his hands. every loss is fuel, every win a war cry. read more ...
SINN ⌭ sinthorn rattanasiri, 29. import model, nariza bois. the neon prince draped in leather and temptation, a name whispered like a warning. read more ...
MAGNUM ⌭ marcus langston, 31. mechanic, rodani prowlers. the architect of speed, a builder of legends. ex - military, all precision and purpose, with a moral code that holds stronger than any engine he tunes. read more ...
TASK #001 ⋰ THE RIDE. rome alternates between two cars — PORSCHE 911 GT3 RS and a NISSAN 350Z — each serving a different purpose on the streets. his choice of car for a race depends on his mood and the kind of statement he wants to make. but over time, after countless runs and careful observation, he's found himself favoring the PORSCHE 911 GT3 RS as his primary race car. its raw power, precision handling, and sheer performance make it the undeniable choice when winning is the only option.
what is the make and model ?
❝ Porsche 911 GT3 RS, 992 model. that's the one i race the most now. it's a precision weapon, built to devour corners and spit out anyone who doesn't know what they're doing. ❞
does it have a name ?
❝ TYPHON. named after the greek monster — because it eats everything in its path. ❞
what does it look like ?
❝ shark blue. deep, bold, catches the light just right. stands out just enough without being obnoxious. low stance, aggressive aero, rear wing like a goddamn jet. even standing still, it looks like it's ready to kill. ❞
any particular notable features ?
❝ rear - wheel steering, insane aerodynamics, and the kind of grip that makes you feel untouchable. you throw it into a corner, and it doesn't hesitate — it just holds. no slip, no wasted movement. it does exactly what i need it to do, the second i need it to. ❞
how did you obtain your car ?
a flicker of something unreadable crosses his face before he exhales through his nose. ❝ it was a gift. not the kind you ask for, not the kind you refuse. came with expectations, but i don’t owe anyone anything anymore. ❞
how long have you owned it ?
❝ not as long as my other car, but long enough to make it mine. long enough to know it's the only thing i trust when i need to prove a point. ❞
what was the first modification ?
❝ ecu remap. it was already a beast, but i wanted more bite. adjusted the throttle response, tweaked the power delivery. and the exhaust — had to make sure it sounded as mean as it drives. ❞
what is your favorite feature ?
❝ that rear wing. keeps it planted, lets me push harder, faster. and the way it downshifts ? music. you hear that crackle, you know i'm coming. ❞
are you planning any changes/updates ?
his lips press together briefly, then curve into something knowing.
a name forged in war, carried through the streets — a reminder that some things break, but you never will.
MAGNUM
you've heard it a thousand times. magnum. said with respect, with weight, like a title carved into steel. it sticks to you like gunpowder, like the scent of oil and smoke that never quite washes out of your skin. some think it's because of the cars, the power under the hood, the machines you've made into something damn near unstoppable. but you know better.
it started long before the streets knew your name.
the first time you heard magnum, it wasn't a name. it was a caliber. .44. a weapon built for precision, for power, for destruction in the right— or wrong — hands.
you held one in your own, back when your life was measured in deployments, in how fast you could strip a rifle, in the weight of kevlar on your chest and the roar of engines made for war, not for speed.
you weren't just another soldier. you were the guy who kept them moving, the one who made sure their wheels didn't lock up in sand, that their armor held against the kind of firepower that could turn steel into nothing but dust.
there were nights you sat beside those machines, wiping grime from your hands, listening to the silence between orders. the military taught you efficiency. precision. but it also taught you loss. that not every engine gets a second tune - up. that sometimes, the best reinforcement in the world won't keep a man breathing. you learned the sound of finality, of things breaking for good.
and when you left ? that silence followed you.
the streets weren't kind, but they made sense. cars were easier to fix than people, and racing — well, that was just another kind of war. you built engines instead of armored transports, reinforced speed instead of survival. and somewhere along the way, magnum came back. someone called you that after a clean, brutal victory, after a tune-up so perfect it might as well have been military - grade. it stuck. it fit.
because magnum isn't just a gun, or a car part, or some flashy nickname to throw around in the streets.
it's YOU.
it's the weight of everything you've built and everything you've lost. it's the precision, the control, the promise that whatever you touch will be built to last — built to endure. because you've seen what happens when things aren't strong enough. you've seen what breaks, what burns, what never comes back.
★ open starter 4 nariza and prowlers .
★ anytime past 8pm @ coyote casino .
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤa couple of cocktails downed , tipsy with tip of nose flushed , baby speaks to no one in particular , to whoever is open to listen . 🙶 peep that guy on the main poker table ? he's been cheating . not his first time . 🙷
marcus isn't the type to jump to conclusions, but he's also not one to ignore a well - placed tip. ❝ that so ? ❞ his tone is casual, a glint of amusement sparking in his eyes. ❝ you callin' it just to stir the pot, or you got somethin' against the guy ? ❞
❝ you clean out grandpa's retirement fund or somethin' ? ❞ marcus snorts, ❝ 'cause last time i checked, witchcraft wasn't illegal — just highly profitable. ❞ shaking his head, ❝ next time, throw in a cackle and disappear in a cloud of smoke. really sell the bit. ❞
naila had no real reason to come to the shop, but she had an inkling that she'd find her favorite person here. there's not a lot of people— even those within the crew, that she actually lets get to know her. some may consider naila to be rather shallow with how much she doesn't reveal to others, often finding a way to change the topic once sharing feelings becomes involved. naila takes a quick peek under the hood of the car currently lifted by a trolley jack, announcing her presence with a whistle. she has no idea of what she's even looking at. " something told me you'd be here, " naila grins, brushing her braids behind her shoulders as she brings herself into marcus' full view. " whenever she's ready, i call first dibs. i already have an outfit in mind that'll look stunning with this paint job. " she bites back a laugh, slipping into the unoccupied passenger seat as she fixes a suspicious gaze onto marcus. " have you been avoidin' me ? feels like i haven't seen your pretty face in ages. "
there was something about working on cars that made marcus forget about the world outside the garage. the rhythmic tightening of bolts, the scent of motor oil, the quiet hum of an engine coming back to life — it was all therapeutic. he could lose hours under the hood, fine - tuning an engine like it was second nature. so lost in his work, he didn't notice the figure approaching until a whistle cut through the air. he blinked, finally registering the familiar presence hovering by the car. his face broke into a grin the moment he saw naila standing there, like she had just strolled in to remind him the world existed outside of busted engines and grease stains. angel. fitting, really. and while she wasn't the delicate, halo - wearing type, there was something about her presence that always felt like a well - timed save. marcus immediately stopped what he was doing, wiping his hands on a rag before stepping closer. ❝ look who decided to drop in, ❞ he mused, reaching out to playfully pinch her cheeks. ❝ avoiding you ? nah, c'mon. i've just been a homebody these past few days. ❞ he shrugs, grin never faltering. ❝ figured i'd give you some time to miss me properly. ❞
pouts when the customer abandons her. she hadn't even gotten to recommending the best of the best yet ! luckily for her, there's a blessed sight — marcus ! tem loves seeing prowlers come into the shop. she may or may not bother them more than regular customers, but that was all part of the love. " s'long as they rent the movie, they can breathe after. " beams up at him.
" it's so unfortunate that one of the best movies of all time has tarantino's name on it. " talking about her beloved kill bill. she pretends to dab fake tears from her eyes. " but all good art requires sacrifice. sometimes you have to deal with a tarantino to get a masterpiece. " she couldn't say the same about nicolas cage movies, though, eyes flitting down to the dvd and back up. nods at it. " have you seen nic's version of the wicker man ? what a bust. i don't think he should be in a horror movie ever again. "
something like genuine concern is laced in his tone, and that makes her fluster. all this time in the prowlers and she's still unused to anyone fretting over her. " i eat on company time ! " looks around frantically, as if her boss might pop out of nowhere. " you know i'd never let myself go too long without a snack. i bring a bunch of cherry cola, too, so i stay hydrated. do you want one ? "
marcus doesn't even try to hide the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as tem pouts at the door, arms crossed like a kid who just got told recess was canceled. poor customer never stood a chance. but the second she locks eyes on him ? he knows he's about to get steamrolled by one of her movie rants. and, like always, he lets it happen.
leaning against the counter, arms folded, he watches as she goes off about kill bill, tarantino, and the deep, philosophical agony of great movies being tainted by bad directors. marcus just smirks. ❝ right. like how i gotta sacrifice my patience every time i walk in here, huh ? ❞ but there's no real bite to it — just that familiar, big - bro teasing. then she sets her sights on the wicker man, and he swears she physically shudders. ❝ nah, don't do my boy nic cage like that, ❞ holds up a gone in 60 seconds dvd in defense. ❝ man might not belong in horror, but he's got other talents. ❞
a slow exhale slips through his nose, arms still crossed as he levels her with that look — one only an older gives when a younger sibling is digging their own grave with pure nonsense.
❝ tem. ❞ his voice is patient but firm. ❝ cherry cola ain't hydration. and i know damn well you call a snack 'dinner' if you're busy enough. ❞ and before she can argue, marcus is already pushing off the counter, tilting his head toward the door. ❝ you want somethin' to eat ? i’ll grab it for you. tell me now, or you're gettin' whatever i think looks like real food. ❞ he pauses, teasing. ❝ there's a spot down the block. pick somethin' before i decide on a salad just to piss you off. ❞
she'd say rome is a pleasant surprise ( he is ), but then he mentions the crumbs on her shirt and she enters panic mode trying to brush them off. clears her throat as she stands. this is where she'd give off her world famous greeting ( nevermind that some customers walked off right after hearing it ), but she knows rome. " well, sarah was on her break. " lie is clumsy. one last brush of her shirt to make sure there's no crumbs left, and then her tongue sweeps over her teeth just in case there's bread stuck there. how embarrassing ! this was the ares, one of the coolest racers. " we do ! i think. let me check if whoever rented it last brought it in. " she's never seen any jason bourne, but maybe she should. if rome likes it, it must be cool. " here it is ! anythin' else you're looking for ? can i get you to take the kill bills ? it'll be my 15th time renting them out to someone this year. i'm pushing for 100. "
rome leans against the counter, watching the little one descend into full - blown panic mode over a few crumbs. scrubbing at her shirt like her life depends on it, throwing in a half-assed lie about ‘ sarah ’ being on break. the excuse is so clumsy it almost makes him laugh. almost. the whole ordeal is ridiculous. entertaining, though. with a slow tilt of the head, his eyes narrow with mock suspicion, ❝ what's in it for you, huh ? you got a tarantino quota to hit, or are you just trying to brainwash miami one rental at a time ? ❞
💛 — nursing a martini mari tucks herself into the bar stool back to the remaining club goers. having not made it to 12welve on valentine’s day visiting felt like a grand idea a few hours ago. reality more depressing as she stays glued to the side rather then her usual place on the dancefloor. metaphorically licking her wounds from a mere few days prior. she’s fully sure the world is out to get her as an all too familiar presence enters her peripherals. “ can you just not tonight ? “ voice stern dripped in annoyance.
sinn doesn't need to look to know who's talking. the irritation in mari's voice is like a signature — sharp, unmistakable, and aimed right at him. amusement tugs at the corner of his lips as he steps up beside her, hands sliding lazily into the pockets of his jacket. ❝ relax, sweetheart, ❞ he drawls, barely sparing her a glance as he signals for a drink. ❝ didn't realize your pity party came with a guest list. ❞
he finally turns his gaze toward her, eyes gleaming with curiosity rather than his usual arrogance. ❝ what's with you tonight ? ❞ he asks, tipping his chin toward her untouched drink. ❝ didn't think brooding in a corner was your style. ❞
❝ mentally or physically ? ❞ voice lighter than the weight behind the question. he doesn't push, but there's an unspoken offer in his tone. if it's just exhaustion, fine. but if it's something more — something heavier — know that as a friend, sinn's not about to just brush past it.
no matter how far sinn strayed from his past, one thing always remained — a steaming bowl of khao tom (ข้าวต้ม), thai rice soup, the only comfort he'd allow himself when sick. it wasn't something he talked about, not to the bois or even his closest friends, but whenever fever weighed him down or he's feeling like hell after a long night, that was the only thing he could stomach.
as a child, his mother would make it for him with a tenderness he rarely saw in her otherwise poised demeanor. she would wake before dawn, simmering jasmine rice in a light, fragrant broth with garlic, coriander, and a dash of white pepper. the scent alone would wrap around him like a warm embrace. sometimes, she'd add minced pork or soft-boiled eggs, gently stirring as she sat by his bedside, reminding him to eat while her cool hand pressed against his forehead.
in thai culture, ข้าวต้ม wasn't just food — it was healing. a staple in many households, especially for the sick, the elderly, or those seeking warmth on rainy days. simple yet deeply nourishing, it was a dish meant to restore balance, much like how the thai belief in harmony extended to food itself. it wasn't just about eating ; it was about care, about slowing down, about the quiet moments where love was shown through actions rather than words.
now, living miles away from bangkok, with his life tangled in the chaos of miami's underground, sinn had no one to make it for him. but on the rare nights he found himself feverish, staring at the city lights through half - lidded eyes, he'd drag himself to the kitchen. the motions were muscle memory — boiling the rice until it turned silky, crushing garlic with the side of a knife, letting the broth take its time. it never tasted quite the same as his mother's, but it was close enough.
and for a fleeting moment, with each warm spoonful, he could almost hear her voice again — soft, unguarded, telling him to rest.
for posterity's sake, let it be known that rome and ava have never been sentimental creatures. those afflicted by, or with a predisposition for such a malady, have a habit of collecting and hoarding; mementos, memories, little gifts engraved at a jewelry store, and pictures taken to savor life's sweetest moments. they're both old enough to know better, aren't they?
''are you still breathing?'' it goes without saying that she doesn't need an answer, but a simple thank you is too redundant, and a roll of her eyes would be overly arrogant. after all, ava amarin has always known that she's beautiful. beauty, for her, is a currency, only a means to an end. ''you look great, too.'' she doesn't really know where she's going with this, or why she decided to approach him, but she can't simply leave again without getting one good and proper look at him.
somewhere in the back of her mind, it's still 2005. somehow a part of her will always be 25 and in love. with him. with life. love's never lost — it's only given a new place to inhabit. ''listen, don't think, romeo, and — '' straightening her already faultless posture, she extends a slender hand towards him, suspending it in the vitiated air as if expecting an old-fashion kiss. ''come dance with me for just three minutes and forty-five seconds, forty-four actually, because that's how much we have left.''
if rome were the sentimental type, he'd admit that slow dancing had always been their thing. that no matter how fast life moved back then, how loud the world got, how tangled everything became, when he had ava in his arms, it all just slowed down. it was cliché — fuck, he knew that — but clichés exist for a reason. because there was something about the way she fit against him, the way she moved like she knew exactly where his hands belonged, the way they could sway to nothing at all and make it feel like a symphony. it was just them. always just them. even when there was no music, they danced.
if he could turn back time, he would. but he knew better. but then again, she isn't just some ghost of the past. she's here. in front of him. and it's rare to see this beauty nowadays. rare to have her within reach, to have her eyes fixed on him with that same unreadable intensity he remembers. and even though he shouldn't — trust, he doesn't — dwell on the past too much, he thinks maybe just this once, just for three minutes and forty - four seconds, he'll let himself get lost with her again. and rome oh is only human. so sue him — whatever.
his gaze shifts from her outstretched hand to her face, searching. he should say no. he should smirk, deflect, make some careless joke about how she's the last person he expected to be sentimental tonight. instead, he exhales, slow and measured, before setting his drink aside.
❝ still breathing, ❞ he murmurs, taking her hand in his, calloused fingers closing around hers like muscle memory. a perfect fit. always. he could tell her she looks great too, but that would be redundant. rome knew an ava amarin doesn't need the validation, and besides, beautiful was never just an aesthetic with her — it was a weapon, a currency, something wielded with intention.
rome doesn't think. he lets her pull him in, his free hand finding its place at her waist. the music shifts, something smooth, unhurried. perfect timing. thumb brushes absently over her knuckles. ❝ three minutes and forty - four seconds, huh ? ❞ his head tilts slightly, smirking just a little. ❝ better make 'em count, then. ❞
you don't remember much about the day your father fell from grace, but you remember the silence. the kind that stretched so thick it felt like drowning.
it was early morning in seoul when the first whispers surfaced. you were ten — old enough to understand, too young to grasp the full weight of it. the television was on, your mother standing stiff in the kitchen, gripping the counter like it was the only thing keeping her upright. the smell of doenjang jjigae hung in the air, but neither of you touched your bowls. the news anchor's voice was unnervingly calm, detached even, as the breaking news banner blared across the screen.
“오진석, 대규모 투자 사기 혐의로 체포…수천억 원 피해”
( oh jinseok arrested for large-scale investment fraud… billions lost in damages )
at first, the words didn't register. they were too big, too formal, too unreal. you had to hear them again, slower this time. your father's name. his company's name. FRAUD. EMBEZZLEMENT. ARREST. the words crawled into your ears, dug into your brain like they were carving something permanent.
you turned to your mother, but she didn't look at you. didn't move. just stood there, staring blankly at the news, her face eerily pale, her lips pressed so tightly together they looked bloodless.
❝ 엄마...? ❞ you tried, voice small.
nothing.
the screen flickered with images : men in suits, flashing cameras, the back of your father's head as he was pushed into a patrol car, his wrists bound in silver. his face wasn't visible, but you didn't need to see it to know — he was guilty.
GUILTY.
the word felt foreign when applied to your father. the same man who brought you to amusement parks, who taught you how to tie your shoes, who ruffled your hair and told you to be strong. but in that moment, all you saw was a stranger.
and then, everything changed.
you didn't go back to school after that. 엄마 wouldn't let you. the moment the news spread, whispers turned into stares, stares into hushed conversations, hushed conversations into outright avoidance. you had been oh jinseok's son yesterday. today, you were the son of a criminal.
your mother never said it aloud, but you could see it in the way she kept the curtains drawn, the way she flinched at every knock on the door. you weren't safe — not from reporters, not from former colleagues demanding answers, not from the families of those your father had ruined.
the next few days blurred into a haze of unanswered phone calls and unopened letters. your mother stopped leaving the apartment. you stopped asking when you could go outside again.
and then one night, as she packed what little you had left into two worn suitcases, she finally spoke.
❝ 바롬아… 이제부터 우리, 조용히 살아야 해. ❞
(barom-ah… from now on, we have to live quietly.)
live quietly. as if your entire life wasn't already collapsing. as if silence could erase the weight of your father's sins.
you didn't argue. you didn't ask questions. you just nodded, swallowing down whatever words you might have said.
by the time you stepped off the plane in miami, your father's name had become a curse back home. oh jinseok — once a respected businessman, now just a disgrace. people spat his name like it was poison. and you ? you carried it with you, even when you stopped speaking it out loud.
even now, years later, you still wonder. did he think about you when he ran ? did he even care ?