Chapter Text
The first thing Arvid noticed was the noise.
Not the engines.
The people.
A hundred overlapping voices flooded the abandoned industrial estate outside Birmingham like static trapped between radio channels—sharp laughter, shouted bets, arguments in accents from every corner of Britain and beyond. Music thudded somewhere deeper inside the maze of warehouses, bass vibrating through cracked concrete and chain-link fences. Cigarette smoke hung in the cold night air. Someone revved an engine hard enough that the entire crowd roared in answer.
Arvid stopped just beyond the rusted gate and immediately regretted coming.
This was stupid.
Actually, no.
This was catastrophically stupid.
The kind of decision future versions of yourself looked back on while lying in hospital beds.
He shoved his hands deeper into the pocket of his hoodie and forced himself not to turn around.
You need money.
That thought alone kept him rooted in place.
His landlord had increased the rent two days ago with all the empathy of a tax collector. Another one hundred and fifty pounds starting next month, or “alternative arrangements can be discussed.”
Alternative arrangements, meaning eviction.
Arvid had spent the last forty-eight hours doing maths in the margins of his lecture notes during thermodynamics seminars.
Tuition. Rent. Food. Petrol for the rusting motorbike he used to get to university (sold for parts now, he was passing it off to someone later this week). Utilities.
The numbers did not work.
Working part-time at the garage barely kept him afloat as it was, and his flatmates were practically ghosts—off on apprenticeship placements for months at a time while he got stuck dealing with mould in the bathroom and a boiler that only worked if you hit it hard enough with a wrench.
So when he’d overheard two drunk men outside a club talking about “Saturday races” and “easy cash,” his brain had unfortunately decided to cling onto it.
Street racing.
Illegal street racing.
Exactly the kind of thing engineering students with no criminal experience should definitely investigate alone at eleven-thirty at night.
Brilliant.
Arvid pulled his hood up slightly and stepped through the gate.
Nobody stopped him.
That somehow made it worse.
The deeper he walked into the estate, the clearer the scene became.
Cars.
Jesus Christ.
Not the modified hatchbacks he’d expected from YouTube clips and half-broken forums online. These were monsters. Sleek black Mercedes lined one side of the open lot like predators resting before a hunt. McLarens gleamed under floodlights rigged illegally to warehouse rooftops. Ferraris sat low and scarlet among crowds dressed in designer jackets and expensive trainers.
People moved around them carefully, reverently.
This wasn’t random.
This was organised.
A whole underground ecosystem hidden under the nose of the city.
Arvid slowed beside a dark silver Mercedes with exposed carbon fibre detailing and had to physically stop himself from crouching to inspect the suspension setup.
Whoever tuned this knew exactly what they were doing.
His fingers twitched.
The garage he worked at mostly handled battered commuters and middle-aged men insisting their engines sounded “a bit funny.” Seeing machines like this in person felt almost unreal.
“You touch it, you lose a hand.”
Arvid jumped.
A man leaned against the warehouse wall nearby, smoking a cigarette, dark wavy hair framing sharp features. His grey leather jacket carried a silver Mercedes emblem stitched into the shoulder.
George Russell, if Arvid remembered correctly.
Not from racing. From rumours.
Even he knew the names.
The gangs running the UK street circuits were practically urban legends.
Mercedes.
Ferrari.
Red Bull.
McLaren.
Not just racing crews—organised operations. Smuggling. Theft rings. Protection networks. Gambling. Underground garages.
People disappeared around them.
Arvid immediately stepped back from the car.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
George eyed him slowly.
Then his gaze flicked over Arvid’s grease-stained jeans, the worn hoodie, and the cheap trainers.
Not a threat.
Not rich enough to belong. Not polished enough to be undercover police.
“Lost?” George asked.
Arvid opened his mouth. Closed it. “Maybe.”
The other man snorted softly. “Dangerous place to wander into by accident.”
Before Arvid could answer, movement across the lot drew attention away from him.
The crowd shifted. Not subtly. Like iron filings reacting to a magnet. People moved aside instinctively as a group approached from the far entrance of the estate.
Red Bull.
Arvid recognised the emblem immediately—dark navy jackets marked with the red charging bull insignia.
The man at the centre walked like the entire city belonged to him.
Max Verstappen.
Arvid had heard stories about him even before tonight. Everyone had.
Half Dutch, half demon, according to online forums. Leader of Red Bull. Untouchable in races. Violent when crossed.
People stopped talking when he passed. The atmosphere changed entirely around him, conversations lowering instinctively.
Beside Max walked another driver Arvid recognised from descriptions.
Liam Lawson.
Blond curls. Blue eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
He looked younger than Arvid expected, though not softer. Nothing about him was soft. Tattoos disappeared beneath the sleeves of his jacket, rings flashing under floodlights as he lit a cigarette one-handed.
At his side was Isack Hadjar.
Short dark hair. Brown eyes.
Close enough to Liam that they brushed shoulders as they walked.
Couple. That part apparently wasn’t a secret.
The crowd parted for them easily.
Racing Bulls. Red Bull’s younger branch crew. Meaner reputation. Less restraint.
Arvid looked away quickly before anyone noticed him staring.
His pulse had started climbing unpleasantly. This had officially gone beyond “secret local races.” These people were criminals. Actual criminals.
You should leave.
Instead, he kept walking deeper into the lot.
Because he was an idiot.
oOo
The races were held behind the warehouses.
Not on tracks. On actual streets.
Arvid followed the crowd through an underpass and emerged onto what looked like a closed industrial route cutting through the edge of the city. Barricades blocked intersections. People crowded rooftops and parked vans overlooking the roads.
Spotters.
Escape routes.
Police scanners crackled from somewhere nearby.
Christ. This was professional.
Cars lined up near the starting point while people placed bets with terrifying amounts of cash exchanging hands openly.
Arvid stayed near the back.
Observe. Leave. Maybe come back later with an actual plan.
That was sensible.
Then someone shouted.
“Racing Bulls on tonight!”
The crowd erupted immediately.
Liam appeared first, climbing into a dark blue Nissan Skyline with matte black detailing. The engine snarled alive beneath his hands.
Arvid forgot to breathe for a second.
Beautiful.
Not just expensive.
Balanced.
Every modification served a purpose. Weight distribution adjusted perfectly. Aerodynamics customised cleanly instead of showily.
The engineering alone made his chest ache.
Isack leaned into the driver-side window briefly, saying something that made Liam grin.
Not a polite grin. Sharp. Dangerous. Intimate.
Then Isack slapped the roof twice and stepped back.
Another car rolled forward opposite Liam’s. Ferrari.
Carlos Sainz climbed out briefly to acknowledge the crowd before getting back behind the wheel.
Someone near Arvid laughed nervously. “Lawson’s gonna kill him.”
“He nearly put Sainz through a barrier last month.”
“That was Sainz’s fault.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
Arvid’s stomach tightened. They spoke about near-fatal crashes like football scores.
A woman carrying betting slips pushed through the crowd. “Money down now or shut up!”
People surged around her immediately.
Arvid stayed still. He had exactly forty-three pounds in his bank account. Not exactly gambling money.
Engines revved.
The sound hit physically.
Liam rolled his shoulders once behind the wheel, his expression gone flat and focused. Isack moved to stand beside the start line, hands tucked into his pockets.
He looked calm. Used to this.
Like watching someone stand beside a storm they trusted completely.
The signal dropped.
Both cars launched forward violently.
The crowd screamed.
Arvid physically flinched.
Tyres shrieked against the road as the Skyline shot ahead, taking the first corner terrifyingly close to the barriers.
Jesus Christ.
They were flying. Not metaphorically. Actually flying.
People climbed fences to watch the disappearing taillights while engines echoed through the industrial district.
Arvid stared after them, heart hammering.
He understood suddenly.
Why people came here.
Why they risked it.
It wasn’t only the money.
It was the feeling.
The sheer impossible adrenaline of it.
For a brief second, he imagined himself behind the wheel instead.
Then someone crashed.
The distant impact echoed through the night.
The crowd collectively roared.
Arvid froze.
Not cheering.
Actually froze.
Nobody else looked alarmed.
A man beside him laughed. “That’ll be the Ferrari.”
Arvid stared at him and his mouth moving too quick for him to stop it.
“You don’t care if someone’s hurt?”
The man blinked.
Then barked out a laugh.
“Oh, you’re new-new.”
Shit.
Arvid immediately stepped backwards. Too late.
The man’s expression sharpened.
“Wait. Who the fuck are you?”
Nearby heads turned.
Arvid’s stomach dropped. “I’m just watching.”
“Yeah?” another voice said. “Never seen you here before.”
People were looking now.
Too many people.
Panic crawled cold down Arvid’s spine.
The man stepped closer. “You police?”
“What? No.”
“Then who invited you?”
Nobody.
Wrong answer.
Arvid saw suspicion shift across several faces at once.
This place survived because outsiders stayed out. And he looked exactly like an outsider.
He did the only intelligent thing his panicking brain could manage.
He turned and disappeared into the crowd.
“Oi!”
Shit.
Arvid shoved between people quickly, head down beneath his hood. Bodies slammed into him from all sides while shouting rose behind him.
Don’t run. Running makes you guilty. He walked faster.
“Blue hoodie!”
Fuck.
Arvid darted around a parked van and nearly collided with someone solid enough to stop him cold.
A hand caught his arm automatically.
Strong.
Steady.
Arvid looked up straight into sharp blue eyes.
Liam Lawson.
Up close, he looked worse somehow. Not uglier. More dangerous.
Sweat dampened blond curls at his temples from the race, and there was blood smeared lightly across one knuckle. His own? Someone else’s?
Arvid genuinely did not want to know.
Liam glanced toward the shouting behind him before looking back at Arvid. Then down at the hand still gripping his sleeve.
Too nervous.
Too skinny.
Poorly dressed.
Isack appeared beside Liam seconds later, breathing slightly harder from weaving through the crowd.
“There you are,” he said before noticing Arvid properly. “Who’s this?”
“Don’t know yet.”
Arvid tried pulling his arm free.
Liam’s grip tightened instantly. Not painfully. Effortlessly.
“You’re making people nervous,” Liam said.
His accent curled around the words smoothly, New Zealand softened slightly by years in Britain.
“I was leaving.”
“Funny thing about that,” Isack said mildly. “You started leaving after someone asked who you were.”
Arvid’s brain scrambled desperately for a believable explanation. “I heard about the races.”
“From who?”
“A club.”
“That narrows it down.”
Arvid clenched his jaw. This was bad. Very bad.
People had started gathering nearby now, drawn by tension the same way sharks smell blood.
Liam studied him silently.
Arvid became acutely aware of how ridiculous he probably looked standing between two infamous street racers wearing clothes stained with engine grease.
Then Liam’s gaze paused. On the stains. Something shifted slightly in his expression.
“You work on cars?”
Arvid hesitated. “…At a garage.”
“What kind?”
“Mostly repairs.”
“Yet you were looking at suspension setups earlier.”
Arvid blinked.
George. He must be a gossip, then. Made sense.
“I like engineering,” Arvid admitted cautiously.
Isack tilted his head. “University?”
Arvid said nothing. Which was answer enough apparently.
Liam barked a short laugh.
“Oh my god, he’s a student.”
“That explains the hoodie,” Isack said.
“Fuck off.”
Despite himself, Arvid frowned. “You’re both literally criminals.”
Isack looked delighted.
Liam stared at him for one long second. Then laughed properly. The sound caught Arvid entirely off guard. Not warm. But real. And suddenly several nearby people relaxed slightly too, tension easing with Liam’s amusement.
“So,” Liam said, still watching him closely, "an engineering student comes alone to illegal races in the middle of the night. Why?”
Arvid almost lied. Then stopped. Because maybe the truth sounded pathetic enough to be harmless.
“My rent got increased.”
Silence.
Not mocking silence.
Just unexpected.
Arvid felt heat crawl up his neck immediately. “Forget it.”
“How much?” Liam asked.
“What?”
“The increase.”
Arvid frowned harder. “Why do you care?”
“Humour me.”
“…One hundred and fifty.”
Isack whistled softly. “London?”
“Birmingham.”
“Still robbery.”
Arvid folded his arms defensively. “I wasn’t planning to steal anything.”
“No one said you were.”
“But you thought I was police.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Liam grinned slightly. “Police are worse.”
Arvid stared at him.
He still hadn’t been released.
Around them, the crowd slowly lost interest and drifted back toward the races. The danger should have passed. It didn’t feel like it had.
Liam’s attention remained fixed on him in a way that made his skin feel too tight. Evaluating. Calculating.
“You know how to drive?” Liam asked suddenly.
Arvid blinked. “Yes?”
“That sounded uncertain.”
“I know how to drive normally.”
“Normally,” Isack repeated, amused.
“I’m not a racer.”
“No,” Liam agreed softly. “You really aren’t.”
There was something strange in the way he said it. Not insulting. Almost curious. Like Arvid was some bizarre animal wandering into the wrong habitat.
A shout erupted nearby as another race ended. Engines screamed in the distance.
Arvid finally managed, “Can I go now?”
Liam looked at Isack briefly. A silent conversation passed between them too quickly for Arvid to read.
Then Liam released him.
Instantly.
Like it had never happened.
“You can,” he said.
Relief hit so hard it nearly made Arvid dizzy. “Thanks.”
“But,” Isack added casually, “if you’re stupid enough to come back alone again, someone less friendly’s going to notice you first.”
Friendly. Arvid almost laughed.
Instead, he shoved his hands back into his hoodie pockets. “Noted.”
He turned before they could say anything else and walked away as steadily as possible.
Don’t run.
Don’t run.
Don’t—
“You know,” Liam called after him.
Arvid stopped reluctantly.
“If you need money that badly, there are easier ways than wandering around like prey.”
Arvid looked back over his shoulder.
Under floodlights and drifting smoke, Liam leaned against the Skyline with Isack beside him, both watching him carefully.
“Like what?” Arvid asked.
Liam’s grin returned slowly.
“Depends how good you are with engines.”
oOo
Arvid did not sleep when he got home.
Mostly because his building smelt like mould and someone upstairs decided to vacuum at three in the morning, but also because his brain would not shut up.
Street racers.
Actual fucking street racers.
And not random ones.
The names alone were enough to make headlines in certain parts of Britain.
Max Verstappen’s Red Bull crew effectively controlled half the underground circuits in the country. Ferrari handled London ports and gambling rings. Mercedes operated around Manchester and northern routes. McLaren owned territory so cleanly people joked even the police needed permission to enter it.
And somehow Arvid had spent an evening talking to two members of Racing Bulls like they were normal people.
He sat cross-legged on his mattress with his laptop open, trying unsuccessfully to focus on coursework.
Fluid mechanics blurred uselessly in front of him.
Instead, his thoughts kept replaying details.
The Skyline.
Liam’s hands on the steering wheel.
The precision of the modifications.
The way Isack watched the crowds constantly even while talking.
They’d been dangerous.
Obviously.
But not chaotic.
Disciplined.
That somehow unsettled Arvid more.
Street racing had always sounded reckless in rumours. Tonight had looked like an industry.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Arvid frowned.
Who the hell—
He opened the message.
Unknown:
If this is a police sting operation, you’re doing terribly.
Arvid stared.
Then another message arrived immediately.
Unknown:
Also, George says your trainers are tragic.
Arvid sat bolt upright.
How the fuck—
Unknown:
Relax. You gave your number to the betting girl when she asked if you wanted updates.
Right.
He had.
Idiot.
Arvid typed back before he could reconsider.
Arvid:
You’re not helping your “friendly” reputation.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Unknown:
That was Isack. He stole my phone.
Unknown:
Your trainers ARE tragic though.
Arvid snorted despite himself.
Arvid:
You people are unbelievable.
Liam:
You came to a criminal gathering dressed like an exhausted engineering student. We’re not the unbelievable ones here.
Arvid:
I am an exhausted engineering student.
Pause. Then:
Liam:
Fair.
Arvid hesitated.
He should stop replying.
Definitely.
Instead:
Arvid:
How did you even get my number from the betting girl?
Liam:
Money.
Right.
Of course.
Another pause stretched.
Then Liam sent:
Liam:
You really don’t belong there.
Arvid stared at the screen.
Something about the message irritated him immediately.
Arvid:
Didn’t realise criminal organisations had dress codes.
Liam:
They have survival instincts.
Arvid:
You think I can’t handle myself?
Liam:
I think if Ferrari had spotted you first, you’d probably be in a river.
Arvid stopped typing.
Because somehow he believed him.
The typing bubble appeared again.
Liam:
Still want money?
Arvid’s pulse jumped annoyingly.
Arvid:
Depends what you’re asking me to do.
Several seconds passed this time before the next message came through.
Liam:
Can you rebuild an RB26 engine?
Arvid stared at the message.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Arvid:
… Probably.
Liam:
Probably isn’t confidence-inspiring.
Arvid:
I said 'probably' because I’ve never had the chance to try, not because I don’t know how.
Liam:
Cocky for someone with tragic trainers.
Arvid rolled his eyes.
Then stopped.
Because he recognised the engine model. And because rebuilding one paid serious money.
His fingers hovered above the keyboard.
Arvid:
Why would you trust a random stranger with that?
This time the response took longer.
Liam:
Don’t know yet.
Then another:
Liam:
But you looked at my car like you wanted to marry it, which usually means you’re useful.
Arvid choked on absolutely nothing.
Before he could answer, another message arrived.
Liam:
Meet us tomorrow. Garage in Digbeth. Noon.
Followed immediately by an address.
No question mark.
Just expectation.
Arvid stared at the screen for a long time.
This was how people died in documentaries. He knew that. Objectively.
Yet underneath the fear was another feeling entirely.
Curiosity.
Dangerous, consuming curiosity.
Because for the first time in months, maybe years, something felt bigger than lectures and overdue bills and exhaustion.
Something alive.
His phone buzzed once more.
Liam:
And wear better shoes.
oOo
By eleven-thirty the next morning, Arvid had almost convinced himself not to go.
Then his landlord emailed another reminder about rent. So.
Digbeth it was.
The address led him to an old warehouse tucked between abandoned factories and graffiti-covered rail bridges. Nothing marked the building externally except faded red paint across one metal shutter.
No signs.
No names.
Still, expensive cars sat parked nearby with enough security cameras hidden around the street to make Arvid nervous immediately.
He nearly turned around.
Then the side door opened. Isack leant halfway out, holding a coffee. “You came.”
“You sound surprised.”
“A little.”
Arvid eyed him suspiciously. “This is the part where I get murdered, right?”
Isack considered it.
“Nah. Too much paperwork.”
Then he disappeared back inside.
Arvid stared after him.
What the fuck.
Eventually he followed. The warehouse interior stopped him dead. It wasn’t a garage. Not really.
It was a fortress disguised as one.
Half a dozen cars sat under bright workshop lights while mechanics moved around them with terrifying efficiency. Tools lined walls in precise order. Computer systems displayed diagnostics across multiple monitors.
Everything smelt like petrol, hot metal, and money.
A Ferrari engine rested stripped apart on one workbench. Arvid nearly walked straight into it before catching himself.
“Careful,” someone called lazily.
He looked up.
A man—a stitched name tag on his overalls read 'Daniel Ricciardo'—sat atop a toolbox nearby eating crisps like this wasn’t an illegal operation worth millions. “You break that, Yuki cries.”
“Daniel,” Isack called, “stop scaring the civilian.”
“He looks scared already.”
Fair.
Arvid probably did.
Then another figure emerged from beneath a lifted car. Yuki Tsunoda. Presumably.
Grease streaked across his arms as he pulled off gloves and looked Arvid over bluntly. “This him?”
“Unfortunately,” Liam answered from somewhere behind them.
Arvid turned.
And forgot what he was about to say.
Liam had changed clothes since last night, dark jeans and a fitted black shirt replacing racing gear, but somehow looked even more dangerous in the daylight.
Less myth. More real. Which was worse.
“You’re late,” Liam said.
Arvid frowned automatically. “It’s eleven thirty-two.”
“Exactly.”
“You said noon.”
“I wanted to see if you’d argue.”
“That’s psychotic behaviour.”
“Thanks.”
Isack hid a smile behind his coffee cup.
Liam jerked his head toward the back of the garage. “Come on.”
Arvid followed cautiously through the maze of cars.
Every single machine here was immaculate.
Not showroom perfect. Functional perfect. Built by people obsessed with performance.
He caught himself slowing beside a partially dismantled Audi R8.
Twin turbo conversion.
Custom intake manifold.
Jesus.
“You can stare later,” Liam said without looking back.
Arvid flushed slightly and kept walking.
The RB26 engine sat on a metal stand near the rear workshop. Half disassembled already.
Liam folded his arms. “Tell me what’s wrong with it.”
Arvid blinked.
“You’re testing me.”
“Obviously.”
The others watched openly now.
Great. No pressure.
Arvid stepped closer to the engine slowly.
Focus.
Ignore the criminals.
Ignore the fact that one of them was currently close enough to read over his shoulder.
He examined the setup carefully.
After several moments, he reached for one component automatically.
“Whoever installed this turbo configuration adjusted boost pressure too aggressively,” he muttered mostly to himself. “There’s stress damage here.”
Silence.
Arvid kept going. “And the fuel mapping’s compensating badly. Probably running rich at lower RPMs.”
Nobody interrupted.
He frowned harder, inspecting another section. “The crankshaft bearings are worn unevenly too. Alignment issue maybe? Unless someone drove it like an absolute maniac.”
A snort behind him.
“Definitely that one,” Daniel said.
Arvid finally looked up.
Every single person was staring at him differently now. Liam especially. Not suspicious anymore. Interested.
“Told you,” Liam said quietly to Isack.
Arvid straightened slowly. “Told him what?”
“That you weren’t lying.”
Something warm and uncomfortable twisted low in Arvid’s stomach. He ignored it aggressively.
“So what now?”
Liam leant against the workbench. “Now we see if you’re smart enough not to get yourself killed around here.”
Arvid crossed his arms.
“And if I’m not?”
A grin spread slowly across Liam’s face. “Then Isack gets attached to you, and we all suffer.”
“Fuck you,” Isack said automatically.
Too late.
Arvid had already noticed the fondness hidden underneath it.
And somehow, impossibly, despite the danger and the gangs and the criminal empire quietly unfolding around him—
He smiled.
Just slightly.
Enough for Liam to notice. Enough for Liam’s expression to sharpen in response. Like he’d discovered something interesting. Something worth keeping an eye on.
Outside, somewhere far beyond the warehouse walls, engines roared through Birmingham streets. The underground racing world kept moving.
And Arvid Linblad had just stepped directly into it.