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FIVE SECONDS TO FREEDOM | 01

"corporate by day, streets by night"

"The thing about living a double life is that eventually, the lines blur. And when they do, you realize one of those lives was never really yours to begin with."

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↦author's note: Hi. Hello. Yes. It's me again. Back on my bullshit. (╯□_□) Welcome to the fic where I apparently decided that "you know what would go crazy? If Jimin was Latino, dangerously charming, emotionally layered, and casually obliterated me with a phone call to his baby brother." So here we are. This story is set in Tokyo's underground street racing scene because I have exactly two moods: high-octane chaos and identity crisis. And guess what? This fic is both. We're following a Y/N who is not the typical "relatable girly with a shit job and a dream." No. This Y/N has money. Like money money. Corporate-heiress-pressure-cooker-money. Unrelatable? Maybe. But I wanted to explore what it means to be trapped even when you "have it all." Because sometimes your prison has marble floors and a driver's license with your dad's last name on it. And then there's Jimin. Who, yes, is Latino in this one. Because the power. The flavor. The emotional complexity. Because I couldn't stop thinking about the boy who speaks different languages depending on who's listening and smokes like it's the only thing keeping his hands from shaking. And because I desperately wanted to give him a backstory that feels lived in—messy family dynamics, financial trauma, and protectiveness so sharp it's basically a character flaw. (Also, his pet names are lethal. Just sayin'.) This fic is about duality. Public image versus private life. Corporate obligation versus personal freedom. The daughter and the driver. The mechanic and the monster you have to be to survive in a world built for people who look like your father. Jimin and Y/N exist in parallel—each of them double-lifing through their days, hiding parts of themselves behind steering wheels and sarcasm. And I'm obsessed with the way their masks crack in front of each other. ALSO. Yes, Jimin speaks a lot of Spanish here. And I did include translations in parentheses where it matters to the narrative. For short expressions or filler phrases that don't really add anything to the dialogue (like "ay, pues" or "nah, hermano"), I either left them be or translated them only if it shifted the tone/context. If you're wondering "what did he just say," trust me—if it's important, it's already translated. And if it's not important, it's flavor, not plot. You're safe. You don't need Duolingo. (But like… maybe you want it after this fic. I won't judge.) This chapter ended up… long. Because I love suffering and also because I have zero restraint when it comes to character psychology, apparently. So if you're here for racing scenes and sexual tension and moral ambiguity and emotional repression in leather jackets? Buckle up. We're going full throttle from here. Edit: reminder that chapter 1 takes place 6 months after the prologue!

The Hayashi legacy weighs forty-seven million yen per quarter, and tonight it feels like every yen is sitting on your chest.

You walk out of the conference room with that smile still glued to your face—the one you've perfected over more than twenty years of being the perfect daughter, the ideal heiress, the future of Hayashi Motors Corporation.

Each step brings you closer outdoors. Each step means a flick of your kitten heels against the marble floor of the corporate building. Each step means freedom.

"Excellent points during the quarterly review, Y/N-san," your father had said, pride gleaming in his eyes as the board members filed out. "Your suggestions for the new electric vehicle division show remarkable foresight."

You'd nodded. Smiled. Thanked him for his confidence in your vision.

You hadn’t mentioned that you'd spent the last three hours fantasizing about ramming your pen through the mahogany table when Nakamura-san had questioned your engineering credentials for the fifteenth fucking time.

Or that when board member Sato had asked if you thought you were ‘ready for such responsibility at your age,’ you'd wanted to remind him that you've been rebuilding engines since you were sixteen and probably know more about automotive dynamics than his entire golf club combined.

But Hayashi daughters don't lose their composure. Hayashi daughters smile politely and prove themselves through results, not outbursts.

Hayashi daughters are perfect.

The elevator ride down is not—because it feels endless.

Forty-three floors of suffocating corporate air, each ding marking another level between you and the person you actually want to be.

Your reflection stares back from the polished steel doors—black Armani blazer, pearl earrings, hair pulled back in a sleek chignon that your mother's stylist spent an hour perfecting this morning.

You look exactly like what you are: the face of Japan's automotive future, groomed and polished to perfection.

But perfection means nothing to you if it doesn’t come in four fucking wheels.

The parking garage is a different world.

Darker. Quieter. Real.

Your steps quicken as you approach the sleek Mercedes S-Class—the car that screams ‘responsible heiress who makes sound financial decisions.’ The one you drive to corporate events, family dinners, any place where appearances matter more than what's under the hood.

But tonight, appearances can go fuck themselves.

You slide into the driver's seat and immediately feel the weight pressing down on your shoulders, your chest, behind your fucking eyes.

Three hours of quarterly projections, market analysis, and thinly veiled suggestions that maybe you should consider ‘sharing leadership responsibilities’ with a more experienced male colleague.

Three hours of nodding along while grown men who've never held a wrench explained automotive engineering concepts you learned before you could legally drive.

Your hands shake as you grip the steering wheel.

It all cracks.

Your forehead drops forward, hitting the leather with a soft thud, and your fingers tangle in your hair—fuck that stupid chignon anyways.

A shaky exhale escapes your lips, then another, and for just a moment in the darkness of underground parking level B3, you let yourself feel the exhaustion that's been building for months.

The quarterly reviews are getting more intense. The board meetings more demanding. The expectations heavier.

Sometimes you wonder what would happen if you just... stopped. Stopped smiling through the condescension. Stopped proving yourself to men who measure your worth in profit margins rather than skill. Stopped pretending that sitting in conference rooms talking about market demographics is what gets your blood pumping.

But that's not an option.

The Hayashi name doesn't get to quit.

You take three deep breaths—in through your nose, out through your mouth, the way you know how to control adrenaline spikes.

Center yourself. Focus on what matters.

Tonight, what matters is speed.

You reach into the back seat for the gym bag you strategically placed there this morning.

Inside: worn jeans, a black tank top, your racing jacket with the faded sponsor patches, and the fingerless gloves that have seen more action than your corporate wardrobe ever will.

And really, changing clothes in a car? Not ideal.

Luckily for you, it requires a specific kind of coordination you've perfected over the years.

Blazer off, carefully hung to avoid wrinkles—because if your mother sees it tomorrow morning looking anything less than pristine, there will be questions.

Pearl earrings removed and tucked into the center console.

Hair tie pulled free, letting your hair fall to your shoulders in a way that feels like salvation.

Of course, the transformation is more than cosmetic.

As you pull on the jeans, you can feel your breathing slow. Tank top over your head, and your shoulders relax for the first time in hours. The racing jacket slides on immediately, and when you zip it up, you're not a Hayashi, no automotive heiress, no board meeting survivor.

You’re just… you.

And that you knows where she’s going tonight.

The underground parking garage has a service exit that most people don't know about. You discovered it during your rebellious teenage years, when you first started sneaking out to watch street races from highway overpasses.

Now it's your escape route—a way to slip from one world into another without anyone noticing the transition.

Your real car is waiting three blocks away in a rented garage space that doesn't appear on any family financial records.

Your beautiful, sweet AE86.

Black and white paint scheme that earned you some stupid ‘panda’ nickname.

But it doesn’t matter, because tonight—as many others—this is your ticket to freedom.

You start the Mercedes.

No soul, no personality, just reliable transportation from point A to point B.

Everything your family expects from both their vehicles and their daughter.

But as you navigate through Tokyo's late-night traffic toward the garage where your real car waits, you can feel your pulse quickening.

Because earlier, Maya texted that there's a gathering at the docks. Nothing official, just people showing off their builds, talking shit, maybe some impromptu runs if the mood strikes. The kind of casual meet where you can breathe, where your worth is measured in tenth-of-a-second reaction times rather than quarterly profit projections.

And you need this.

Need the smell of gasoline and burnt rubber. Need the sound of engines being pushed to their limits. Need to remember who you are when you're not performing the role of perfect daughter.

You need to move toward the place where the Hayashi name doesn't matter and the only thing that counts is how fast you can make eight-six liters of pure joy scream down a stretch of asphalt.

Your phone buzzes.

𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚🐝 : 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚞??? 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙰𝙴𝟾𝟼 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗

You don't reply. Don't need to.

The thing about earning your place at the top of Tokyo's food chain is that punctuality becomes optional.

You pull into the lot twenty minutes after Maya's text, because showing up on time is for rookies still trying to prove they belong. The ones who circle the block three times before working up the courage to park. The ones who check their mirrors obsessively, making sure their cars look perfect from every angle.

You? You just fucking drive.

The familiar crunch of gravel under your tires signals home in a way that marble corporate floors never will.

Engine off, and immediately you can hear it—the symphony that makes your pulse quicken. Revving engines, bass lines thumping from custom sound systems, the occasional screech of someone showing off with a burnout.

This is your world. The one where board meetings and quarterly projections don't exist.

Your AE86 settles and you can already feel eyes tracking your movement.

You've earned every glance, every nod of respect, every whispered comment about how the panda-colored Toyota shouldn't be able to keep up with cars worth ten times as much—but somehow always does.

You scan the lot for Maya's ridiculous purple Silvia, but before you can locate her in the maze of modified metal, a familiar arm snakes around your neck from behind.

"My giiiiirl," Maya drawls, and there's that tilted accent she gets when she's been drinking or fighting or both.

Probably both, knowing Maya.

You chuckle and drive your elbow back into her ribs, just hard enough to make her grunt.

"Dramatic much?"

"Always," she grins, but doesn't let go of your neck. Maya's version of affection usually involves some form of minor violence, which explains why she gets along so well with the racing scene. "You missed the opening act."

"So where's the twins, huh?" You ask, sliding your keys into your jacket pocket.

Maya's grin turns sharp. "Twins have been dealt with."

You frown. "Huh?"

Instead of answering, Maya just tilts her head toward the far end of the lot, and your stomach does something complicated when you follow her gaze.

A midnight purple R34 Skyline GT-R.

Him.

Jaque fucking stands near his car like he owns not just the vehicle but the entire lot it's parked in.

The bastard who handed you the only loss of your racing career.

The one who earned his place here by beating you, which means he gets to be in this lot, in your crew, in this weird little bubble where surnames don't matter at all; but rather how fast you can make your car scream.

One loss.

O n e.

But apparently that's all it takes to earn yourself a permanent pain in the ass who shows up to every meet like he's got some kind of standing invitation to make your life complicated.

Maya snorts behind you as you start walking toward the Skyline, but she follows anyway, because Maya never misses a good show.

And this? This is definitely going to be a show.

Your boots crunch against loose gravel and cigarette butts as you cross the lot. A few conversations pause as you pass—the usual mix of admiration and speculation that follows you wherever you go in this scene.

But tonight something is making your spine straighten and your hands curl into loose fists at your sides.

Because Jaque isn't just here.

He's here and apparently he's been ‘dealing with’ the Tanaka twins, which could mean anything from out-racing them to putting them in the hospital.

And knowing the twins' habit of running their mouths about your car, your driving, your right to be here in the first place, you're not entirely sure which outcome you'd prefer.

His car still feels warm, oozing off expensive modifications from here—high-octane fuel, performance oil, the metallic scent of carbon fiber still warm from whatever run he just finished.

Everything about the car screams money and precision, the kind of build that most people spend years saving for.

But you know better than most that the car is only as good as the driver behind the wheel.

And Jaque?

Jaque is very, very good.

"Jaque."

The name comes out flat. Matter-of-fact. Like you're reading from a grocery list instead of addressing the one person who managed to crack your perfect record.

He looks over his shoulder, and that glance transforms into something that makes your stomach do things you refuse to acknowledge.

Full-blown smirk, eyes included.

It spreads across his face like spilled oil, slow and inevitable.

He lowers his sunglasses—the ones he always wears even at nighttime because apparently being cocky as hell isn't enough, he also has to be stupid—and raises his eyebrows in mock surprise.

"Hello to you too, princesa."

The pet name hits exactly like it's supposed to—annoying and warm in equal measure.

You ignore the warm part, though.

He turns fully now, back against the Skyline's midnight midnight purple paint job, arms crossing over his chest like he's settling in for a show. The position makes his shoulders look broader, his stance more relaxed, like your presence here is the most entertaining thing that's happened to him all night.

Which, knowing Jaque, it probably is.

"Cut the bullshit, lover boy." You stop just close enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to meet his gaze. "The twins."

His grin widens. "What twins?"

The innocent act might work on other people.

The way his head tilts just so, like he's genuinely confused by your question.

Like Shinji and Akira Tanaka haven't been running their mouths about your AE86 for the past three months.

It doesn’t fool you though. Never does.

You sigh, loud enough that Maya chuckles. Your tongue presses against the inside of your lower lip—a habit you've never been able to break when dealing with particularly dense specimens of humanity.

Or Jaque, to put it simply.

"Don't play stupid," you say. "It's too easy."

That gets a chuckle out of him. Low and rough, like gravel under tires.

"Siempre tan bocona, tú." (Always so mouthy, you).

The Spanish rolls off his tongue like he's commenting on the weather, not insulting you in two languages at once. His smile never wavers.

"Twins are not here."

You want to throttle him.

"I could see that much, thanks for pointing out the obvious."

"Ay, pues." He shrugs, and the movement is liquid smooth. "You don't want stupid answers, don't ask stupid questions."

Maya snorts behind you. Traitor.

Your jaw ticks. Just once. Just enough that you know he notices because his eyes flick down to catch it, that smirk getting smugger by the second.

"Shinji," you say, because playing his word games is getting old fast. "Akira. The Tanaka twins. Where are they?"

"Ah." Like understanding has just dawned. Like he hasn't been deliberately obtuse for the past thirty seconds. "Those twins."

"Yes, Jaque. Those twins."

He straightens slightly, the lazy posture shifting into something more intentional. Not threatening—never threatening with you—but focused. Like you've finally said something worth his full attention.

"¿Por qué?" (Why?) The question comes out slow, curious. "Miss them?"

"Because they were here twenty minutes ago talking shit about my car, and now they're not." You cross your arms, mirroring his stance. "And you're here looking entirely too pleased with yourself."

"I always look pleased with myself, gatita." Another pet name. Another small flame of irritation. “Es mi cara natural." (It’s my natural expression.)

"Answer the fucking question."

He laughs again, and this time it's genuine. Surprised. Like you've done something delightful instead of threatening to wrap your hands around his throat.

"Calma, chiquita." One hand comes up in a placating gesture that somehow manages to be condescending and charming at the same time. "No need to get all worked up."

"I'm not worked up."

"No?" His eyebrows climb higher. "Think you are."

Your eyebrow twitches. He smiles.

"They're not here," he says finally, voice losing some of its playful edge. "Took a little drive. Might not be back for a while."

"What kind of drive?"

"The educational kind." He pushes the sunglasses back up his nose, hiding his eyes again. "Someone had to explain proper parking lot etiquette to them."

Your hands ball into fists at your sides.

"I don't need—"

"Hey, tranquila." He holds up both hands now, but he's still smiling. Still enjoying this way too much. "This is your territory, ¿no? They talked shit about the boss lady. Someone had to warn them."

Boss lady.

Like you're some fucking mafia princess instead of a racer who's earned every ounce of respect through skill and stubbornness.

"That's how we do it in my country," he adds, like that explains everything.

"This is Japan."

His smile turns sharp. Dangerous.

"And I'm latino."

You scoff, looking sideways because seriously—he's unbelievable.

Like being Latino is some kind of universal excuse for whatever bullshit he decides to pull.

Like slapping his ethnicity on the table explains away every reckless move, every stupid decision, every time he decides to play knight in shining armor when nobody fucking asked.

Like he’s not basically insulting his whole ethnicity when he does that:

Your hand dips into your jacket pocket, fingers finding the familiar crinkle of cellophane.

"Right," you say, unwrapping the cherry lollipop with sharp, efficient movements. "Because your passport gives you a free pass to stick your nose in everyone else's business."

The wrapper finds its way back to your pocket.

"No es eso, princesa." (It's not that, princess.) His voice carries that lazy drawl that means he's having way too much fun. "But where I come from, you don't let randos disrespect the people you—"

You pop the lollipop into your mouth, cutting him off mid-sentence.

The words die on his tongue.

His eyebrows lift, and he makes this low snorting sound that has absolutely no business being as distracting as it is. Like he's just witnessed something worth stopping traffic for.

You turn back to look at him, lollipop stick jutting from between your lips.

"What?"

The smirk that spreads across his face is slow and dangerous.

"Nada, nada." (Nothing, nothing.) But his eyes haven't moved from your mouth. "Keep going."

Before you can ask what the hell that's supposed to mean, an arm locks around Jimin's shoulders from behind.

It’s Taeyang, appearing like he materialized from the fucking parking lot shadows or something.

"J is off his game tonight."

Jimin doesn't even try to shrug out of the hold. Just keeps staring at you with that insufferable expression.

"Nah," he says, voice dropping lower. "Just distracted."

He gestures lazily with his chin, eyes still locked on yours.

"Can't focus when you keep putting things in your mouth like that."

The lollipop nearly falls out of your mouth.

What the actual—

Your hand moves before your brain catches up, grabbing the stick and yanking the candy free. The cherry flavor lingers on your tongue, sweet and artificial and suddenly too much.

“Ay, dale, beba. Don’t stop on my account. Looks tasty.”

"You want it that bad?" You hold the lollipop out toward him, voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Here. Choke on it."

The parking lot goes quiet.

Not completely—engines still rumble in the distance, someone's still blasting music from their stereo. But the space between the four of you turns into this weird vacuum where even Taeyang stops breathing.

Jimin straightens.

Slowly.

Like a cat uncoiling before it pounces.

Taeyang's arm slides off his shoulders as he takes a step toward you.

Then another.

Until he's close enough that you can see the exact moment his pupils dilate, can smell that mix of cologne and gasoline that shouldn't work but does.

He reaches out.

Plucks the lollipop from your fingers as if this is just something he does every day.

And pops it into his mouth.

The cherry-stained stick disappears between his lips, and he just stares into your eyes like he’s hoping for a reaction.

"What's wrong, princesa?" The words come out muffled but still carry that infuriating drawl. "Didn't think I'd take it?"

Your pulse hammers against your throat. Hard. Visible.

Fuck.

Your mouth opens—ready with some cutting remark, some dismissive comeback that'll put him back in his place—

Nothing.

Not a single goddamn word.

Jimin's grin spreads.

"Naaaah, wait." He lets the word stretch, savoring it like the candy between his teeth. "You actually—"

A soft, amused chuckle escapes him. His tongue flicks against the lollipop, deliberate. Testing.

"—speechless?"

Heat crawls up your neck like flames licking gasoline. .

"Shut up." The words snap out before you can stop them, but your voice wavers.

Just enough. Just fucking enough for him to catch it.

Jimin hums, a low sound of pure entertainment. He steps back—not far, just enough to keep you teetering on the edge of whatever this is.

"I should steal your shit more often," he says, amused.

The comment jolts you back to yourself. Back to solid ground.

"Give it back."

He rolls the candy between his teeth, considering. Like he's weighing the entertainment value of compliance versus continued torment.

Then he grins.

Shifts the lollipop to one side of his mouth, head tilting as he watches you with that same lazy, predatory amusement that makes your skin feel too tight.

"You really want me to give it back, mami?"

That accent. The way he wraps around the word like silk, all rolling consonants and heat.

Something flickers up your spine. Quick. Electric.

You don't react. Won't give him that satisfaction. Instead, you let your mouth curve into something unimpressed, arms folding across your chest as you pretend to consider.

"Up to you," you say, voice carefully casual. "But it's mango."

The reaction is instant.

Violent.

Jimin spits the lollipop out so hard you hear it hit the asphalt with a wet thwack. His whole body jerks backward, hand swiping across his mouth like he's trying to scrub away poison.

The grimace that twists his features is beautiful. Pure disgust mixed with betrayal.

Maya fucking wheezes beside you, the sound high and breathless.

You press your lips together, feigning concern. Let your eyebrows lift in mock surprise.

"Oh, wait—" You blink, tilting your head like you're just remembering something important. "Actually... it was cherry."

His entire body goes statue-still.

Slowly—so slowly you can count the seconds—his hand drops from his mouth. His jaw locks. His tongue darts out, running over his teeth like he's confirming what his taste buds already know.

The lingering sweetness.

Cherry. Not mango.

"You—" Jimin's voice comes out sharp, exhaling like he's been sucker-punched. His eyes snap back to yours, flat and accusing. "Are you fucking serious?"

You lift one shoulder in a casual shrug.

"I mean..." Your head tilts, innocent. "Can't you taste the difference?"

Jimin stares at you. Then at the discarded lollipop on the oil-stained asphalt, sticky and abandoned. Then back at you.

The silence stretches.

"Do you think at the mention of mango I was taking a damn moment to assess—"

"You should've," you interrupt him, voice honey-sweet and absolutely ruthless.

Before Jimin can fire back, someone from his crew—Daniel, probably, the loudmouth who never knows when to shut up—pipes up from behind him.

"Yo, you allergic or something?"

The words hang.

Maya's grin freezes mid-wheeze. The rest of Jimin's crew shifts, glancing between him and the spat-out lollipops

Your stomach drops.

Cold. Fast.

Jimin doesn't look at them. Doesn't acknowledge the question floating in the air like clouds, just stays flat, unreadable, but his jaw ticks—just slightly, just enough for you to catch it.

And suddenly, you realize—

They don't know.

None of them know.

It's such a small thing. Insignificant. A stupid fruit allergy that probably means nothing in the grand scheme of underground racing and territorial bullshit. But still—

You're the only one who noticed.

The only one who clocked it months ago when he shoved aside a drink without explanation. The only one who saw him swipe a fruit skewer off someone's plate but carefully, absentmindedly, avoid the mango piece in the middle.

No one else ever caught on.

Your chest tightens with something that feels dangerously close to... understanding.

Jimin exhales sharply through his nose. Reaches into his pocket with movements that are just a fraction too controlled to be casual. Pulls out a pack of gum.

"No," he says, popping a piece into his mouth. His tone is clipped, dismissive. Final. "I just don't like surprises."

He chews once. Twice. Like that explains everything.

Like it's enough.

His crew buys it.

They snicker, shake their heads, make some comment about how dramatic he always is. Daniel laughs too loud at his own joke about Latino attitude. The conversation shifts, interest dissipating like vapor in hot air.

Just like that, the moment passes.

But not for him.

And not for you.

Because Jimin's gaze flickers back to yours—sharp, searching, like he's trying to read something written in a language he doesn't quite understand.

You hold it.

The stare. The challenge. The unspoken question floating between you.

His jaw tenses. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, working the gum like he's trying to scrub away more than just the lingering taste.

Then he huffs. Quiet. Humorless.

Looks away.

"You're so annoying," he mutters, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

The words should sting. Should make you defensive, ready to snap back with something twice as cutting.

Instead, your mouth curves.

"Feeling’s mutual," you say, voice soft enough that only he can hear it.

Jimin doesn't answer. Just shakes his head once—like he's trying to clear it of something he doesn't want there—and turns toward his car.

But you catch it. The way his shoulders set. His somewhat robotic movements now.

The realization that someone saw through his bullshit.

That someone noticed.

The sound of his voice speaking Spanish hits different when he thinks no one's listening.

You're half-listening to Maya complain about her clutch slipping when movement in your peripheral vision catches your attention. Jimin peeling away from his crew, phone pressed to his ear, heading toward the far corner of the lot where the lighting gets spotty and conversations turn private.

Something about the way he moves—purposeful, almost urgent—makes you tune out Maya's mechanical rants entirely.

"—and then the fucking thing just started grinding, you know? Like metal on metal, which obviously means—"

"Mm-hmm." You nod absently, watching Jimin settle against a concrete pillar about thirty feet away. Far enough that his crew can't hear him, close enough that if you strain just a little...

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Clutch. Grinding. Very tragic." Your eyes don't leave Jimin's silhouette. "Keep going."

And Maya does.

But you're already tuning her out again because Jimin's voice carries just enough on the night air, and the shift in his tone is immediate.

No trace of the lazy, teasing drawl he uses with everyone here.

"¿Martín? ¿Qué pasó, hermano?" (Martin? What happened, brother?)

"No, no, tranquilo. Decime qué pasó." (No, no, calm down. Tell me what happened.)

There's a pause, and you can see him run his free hand through his hair. His shoulders tense.

"¿Cómo que se pelearon? ¿Por qué?" (What do you mean they fought? Why?)

Another pause. Longer this time. His jaw ticks.

"Ay, Martín... ¿y le dijiste qué?" (Oh, Martin... and you told her what?)

You edge closer, using Maya's continued clutch commentary as cover.

"No, está bien, está bien. No es tu culpa, cabrón." (No, it's okay, it's okay. It's not your fault, dude.) His voice drops, gentler. "¿Pero por qué le dijiste que andaba en los clubs? Sabes que se pone loca cuando piensa que ando de joda." (But why did you tell her I was at clubs? You know she goes crazy when she thinks I'm partying.)

He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a pack of cigarettes. The lighter flicks once, twice, before catching.

The first drag makes his voice rougher when he speaks again.

"Sí, ya sé que no sabías qué decir. Pero la próxima vez decile que estoy trabajando, ¿dale?" (Yeah, I know you didn't know what to say. But next time tell her I'm working, okay?)

You watch him take another drag, the cherry glowing orange in the dim light.

The way he holds the cigarette—practiced, automatic—suggests this isn't a recent habit.

"¿Qué más te dijo?" (What else did she tell you?)

The pause that follows is different. Heavier. You see his free hand clench into a fist at his side.

"¿Cómo que no va a aceptar más plata?" (What do you mean she won't accept more money?) His voice sharpens. "Martín, ¿qué carajo le dijiste exactamente?" (Martin, what the hell did you tell her exactly?)

Another drag. Deeper this time.

"No, no, no. Escuchame bien, cabrón." (No, no, no. Listen to me carefully, dude.) His tone shifts, becoming more authoritative. "Vos no te vas a poner a trabajar. Tenés trece años, boludo. Tu trabajo es estudiar." (You're not going to start working. You're thirteen years old, idiot. Your job is to study.)

You can hear the frustration building in his voice, see it in the way he paces within the small circle of light.

"¿Necesitás libros para la escuela? Yo te los compro. ¿Necesitás zapatillas? Yo te las compro. No digas huevadas, Martín." (Do you need books for school? I'll buy them for you. Do you need shoes? I'll buy them for you. Don't talk nonsense, Martin.)

The cigarette moves to his lips again, and apparently the sound carries through the phone because his brother says something that makes Jimin pause mid-drag.

"¿Qué?" (What?)

A beat.

"Naaaah, no estoy fumando." (Naaaah, I'm not smoking.)

You don’t even speak Spanish like that but you know that’s a fat lie coming off his lips. Pretty clear he’s talking about smoking by the way his eyes flicker to the cig.

You almost snort.

His brother clearly doesn't buy it, because Jimin's response is immediate and defensive.

"¿No me creés? Pues decile a la mamá que vos también fumás, a ver qué dice." (You don't believe me? Well tell mom that you smoke too, let's see what she says.)

There's a pause, and then Jimin's voice turns sharp with realization.

"Ah, ¿no, cabrón? ¿Ya sabía, ya sabía...?" (Oh, no, dude? I already knew, I already knew...?) He takes another drag, and his chuckle is dark. "¿Qué te creés, que no vi los cigarros que guardás en el cajón?" (What do you think, that I didn't see the cigarettes you keep in the drawer?)

The next words need no translation. It’s a threat. A big brother threat.

"Cuando vuelva a la casa te voy a agarrar a palos, Martín. Dejá de fumar." (When I get home I'm going to beat your ass, Martin. Stop smoking.)

But there's affection underneath the threat. Worry. The kind of protective anger that comes from caring too much.

"No, no me importa si todos tus amigos fuman. Vos no." (No, I don't care if all your friends smoke. You don't.)

Another pause, and his voice softens slightly.

"Mirá, hermano, yo sé que está jodida la situación con mamá, pero..." (Look, brother, I know the situation with mom is fucked up, but...)

He trails off, takes another drag. The silence stretches long enough that you wonder if the call dropped.

"¿Martín? ¿Seguís ahí?" (Martin? Are you still there?)

Whatever his brother says next makes Jimin's shoulders slump. The fight goes out of his posture all at once.

"Sí, ya sé que está preocupada. Pero no puede rechazar la plata y después quejarse de que no alcanza para nada." (Yeah, I know she's worried. But she can't reject the money and then complain that there's not enough for anything.)

His voice drops lower, more intimate. Like he's sharing a secret.

"Escuchame, si ella no la quiere aceptar, me re vale verga. Le voy a hacer el ingreso igual." (Listen to me, if she doesn't want to accept it, I don't give a shit. I'm going to deposit it anyway.)

Your eyes absentmindedly flick to him as he considers his next words. Or maybe he’s listening in.

"Nah, nah, escuchame." (Nah, nah, listen to me.) His voice softens again. "No le digas nada a mamá de esto, ¿sí? Si pregunta dónde ando, decile que… no sé, que ando con amigos. Que ando estudiando. Lo que sea." (Don’t tell mom anything about this, okay? If she asks where I am, tell her that… I don’t know, that I’m with friends. That I’m studying. Whatever.)

A pause.

The phone is still pressed to his ear when his expression changes.

Goes cold. Hard.

"¿Qué dijiste?" (What did you say?)

His voice drops to something lethal.

"¿Que la mamá prefiere agarrar dinero del papá?" (That mom prefers to take money from dad?)

The cigarette trembles between his fingers.

"Martín, decile a la mamá que como se atreva a agarrar dinero de ese pendejo—" (Martin, tell mom that if she dares to take money from that asshole—)

He cuts himself off. Takes a sharp drag. Exhales through clenched teeth.

"No, no, hermano. Escuchame." (No, no, brother. Listen to me.) His free hand scrubs over his face. "Ese cabrón no va a mandar ni un peso. ¿Sabés cuánto le va a costar mandar dinero desde México? ¿Las transferencias internacionales? ¿Los fees del banco?" (That asshole isn’t going to send a single peso. Do you know how much it’s going to cost him to send money from Mexico? International transfers? Bank fees?)

A bitter laugh escapes him.

"Y aunque mandara algo, no va a ser suficiente. Nunca es suficiente con él." (And even if he sent something, it’s not going to be enough. It’s never enough with him.)

The words come out sharp. Angry.

"No, no hay pero que valga, cabrón." (No, there’s no ‘but’ about it, dude.) He takes a sharp drag, the cherry flaring angry orange. "Ese hijo de puta nos abandonó. Nos dejó sin nada. Y ahora que nosotros estamos bien, ¿quiere jugar al papá responsable?" (That son of a bitch abandoned us. Left us with nothing. And now that we’re doing well, he wants to play responsible dad?)

You can hear the pain underneath the anger. Raw. Bleeding.

"¿Sabés cuánto pinche dinero perdimos en las transferencias cuando nos fuimos de Argentina? ¿Cuánto nos costó empezar de cero acá?" (Do you know how much fucking money we lost in transfers when we left Argentina? How much it cost us to start from zero here?)

Silence stretches. You can see him listening, jaw working around the cigarette.

"Sí, hermano, entiendo que está enojada conmigo. Pero prefiero que esté enojada y segura a que esté contenta y en peligro." (Yeah dude, I understand she’s angry with me. But I’d rather have her angry and safe than happy and in danger.)

He flicks ash onto the pavement with sharp, agitated movements.

"Nah, hermano. Nah. Ese dinero está sucio. Todo lo que toca ese hombre se vuelve una mierda." (Nah, bro. Nah. That money is dirty. Everything that man touches turns to shit.)

Another pause.

"¿Y sabés qué más? Aunque tenga que meterle el dinero a la cuenta sin que sepa, lo voy a hacer. Porque ustedes son mi responsabilidad. No la de él." (And you know what else? Even if I have to put the money in the account without her knowing, I’m going to do it. Because you guys are my responsibility. Not his.)

The cigarette burns down to the filter between his fingers.

He flicks it away.

"Decile que si necesita dinero, que me hable a mí. Que yo siempre he estado acá. Yo nunca la dejé. Yo nunca—" (Tell her if she needs money, to call me. That I’ve always been here. I never left her. I never—)

He stops himself. Takes another drag.

"Martín, ¿me estás escuchando?" (Martin, are you listening to me?)

A reply. Confirmation, you guess by his expression.

"Ese dinero de papá… no lo agarren. Por favor. Yo sé que parece fácil, pero nada de lo que viene de él es fácil. Siempre hay un precio." (That money from dad… don’t take it. Please. I know it seems easy, but nothing that comes from him is easy. There’s always a price.)

He sighs now, listening in before he leans his head back against the wall.

"Decile que no me espere despierta hoy. Que llego tarde. No quiero pelear con ella. No hoy." (Tell her not to wait up tonight. I’m coming home late. I don’t want to fight with her. Not today.)

His eyes flicker to the sky above him. Perhaps pondering; perhaps buying himself more time. Then:

"Tengo que colgar, hermano. Cuida a mamá. Y si ese pendejo trata de contactarla, me avisas inmediatamente, ¿me escuchaste?" (I have to hang up, brother. Take care of mom. And if that asshole tries to contact her, you let me know immediately, you hear me?)

His voice goes soft again. Protective.

"Te quiero, Martín. Todo va a estar bien." (I love you, Martín. Everything’s going to be okay.)

He ends the call.

Takes another cigarette from the pack.

And when your eyes flicker to his movements—you notice he lights it with hands that aren’t quite steady.

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