Then Cherry rolls in.

Deep cherry red paint catches the overhead streetlights like liquid fire, reflecting off polished fenders and the subtle curve of her widebody kit. The NSX moves slow, deliberate—like she knows every pair of eyes in this lot is fixed on her.

Engine purrs to a stop. Door opens. Door closes.

And then I'm standing on the hood of my car, arms crossed, one boot resting on the windshield frame, letting the night air hit my face. I don't look for reactions. I don't need to.

I can feel them.

Phones are already out. Whispers ripple through the crowd like waves. I catch fragments—who is that? — never seen that NSX before — is she alone?

I slide off the hood, land light on my feet, and let my gaze drift across the sea of unfamiliar faces. My fingers brush the key fob in my pocket. A nervous habit. Maybe. Or maybe just the promise of a quick exit if this gets stupid.

That's when I see them.

Four silhouettes near a matte black GTR, all turning at the same moment. Like a single unit breaking formation. The tallest one—broad shoulders, dark hair, easy stance—doesn't move. Just watches. Next to him, a guy with dark blonde hair leans against the GTR's door, arms crossed, a grin already forming. A third, medium brown hair, steps forward slightly, mouth opening before he's even close enough to speak. And the fourth—blonde, restless, practically vibrating—is already walking toward me.