By the time the trees finally start thinning out, my eyes hurt from all the green.
Flint County just doesn't know when to end. Miles of forest, wet asphalt, shadows stretching across the road like they're trying to pull you back.
I don't even remember how long I've been driving anymore.
Long enough for the radio to cycle through the same songs twice.
Long enough for my shoulders to start aching.
Then it changes.
The road opens up. Trees fall away. The air smells different. Salt, maybe. Or just freedom.
Blaine County.
I didn't think I'd be happy to see dry land and sun-bleached rock, but here I am.
The forest gives way to open hills, scrub, long sightlines. Off in the distance, the ocean flashes blue, calm and wide.
Beaches start showing up between cliffs, waves rolling in lazy like they got nowhere to be.
I crack the window and let the air in.
Feels good.
The Vamos cruises easy, engine smooth for once, like she knows we made it past something.
Traffic's light. A couple trucks. A bike ripping past me way too fast. Nobody paying attention. Nobody caring who I am or where I came from.
That's exactly what I need.
Then I hear it.
A deep, heavy roar, not from the road.
I glance up.
A cargo plane, low and slow, cutting across the sky.The sun glints off the metal as it banks slightly, heading inland.
Fort Zancudo written near It's tail.
"Puta madre…" I mutter to myself.
That thing looks like it could swallow my car whole and not notice.
Just another reminder that no matter how far you drive, there's always something bigger watching.
I follow the coastline for a bit, road hugging the edge like it's showing off.
The view's stupid beautiful. Ocean on one side, hills on the other, sky wide and clean. For the first time since San Fierro, my chest doesn't feel tight.
Los Santos is about an hour out.
I might actually make it there without trouble.
That's when my phone starts ringing.
I glance down at it resting in the cup holder.
Benny.
I let it ring once. Twice. Then I pick it up.
"Sup?"
"About time," he says, voice rough, familiar.
"You driving or you already wrapped around a pole?"
I smirk a little. "Still alive. Barely."
"Good. Would've been real awkward explaining that one to your pops."
"..."
"Your das sounded like he aged ten years in one night."
I go quiet.
"Qué hiciste, Beto?"
"Nothing I can fix," I say. "Nothing I'm bringing with me."
Benny exhales through his nose. "Puta mierda..."
There's a pause. Not awkward. Just two people measuring how much time got between them.
"So," I ask, "what you doing down there now? Still bouncing around shops?"
"Yeah, but not forever," Benny says. "I'm at one of those Los Santos Customs branches."
I frown. "What's that?"
He chuckles. "Pay 'n' Spray, man. Same shit. New name. Too many legal problems, so the owner rebranded."
"Figures."
"It's temporary," he adds. "Just stacking money. Learning the ropes."
"For what?"
"My own place," Benny says, like he's been waiting to say it.
"Benny's Original Motor Works."
I can't help it. I smirk.
"Look at you," I say. "Always dreaming big."
"Hey, someone's gotta," he fires back. "I'm done making other people rich."
"Fair enough," I reply. "Hope it works out."
"Yeah," he says, softer now. "Me too."
The road curves inland. The air changes again. Smog creeping into the sky, faint glow on the horizon.
"You got space for me?" I ask.
"I do," Benny answers. "Couch ain't great, but it's yours."
"I won't stay long."
He snorts. "Don't promise things you don't control. Just don't bring trouble with you, ¿sí?"
"I won't."
"Alright," he says. "Text me when you hit the city. I'll be at the shop late."
"Thanks, primo."
"Drive safe."
The call ends.
---
Los Santos doesn't welcome you.
It just keeps moving and dares you to keep up.
I miss my first exit.
Not because I wasn't paying attention—more like there was too much of everything at once.
Lights, lanes splitting, signs stacked on top of signs. Cars cutting in close, engines revving like everybody's mad at the road.
San Fierro never felt this wide. This loud.
I circle back, take a slower street. End up passing places I don't know the names of.
Taco spots still open.
A strip club with neon so bright it hurts.
A bus coughing black smoke as it pulls away from the curb.
People everywhere, even this late. Walking like they belong.
I drive with no real plan for a bit.
Not sightseeing. Just… adjusting. Letting the city settle into my bones.
End up weaving through streets that feel half-finished, tire marks on asphalt, warehouses with faded logos painted twenty years ago and never fixed.
This feels more real.
La Mesa comes up without ceremony. No big sign. Just a change in rhythm. Fewer tourists. More work trucks.
More mechanics posted outside shops smoking cigarettes, hoodies pulled tight even though it's not cold.
That's when I see it.
Los Santos Customs.
I slow down.
So this is it, huh.
I pull across the street and park for a second, engine idling. Just watching. Guys go in and out.
A mechanic wipes his hands on a rag and laughs at something a customer says.
Someone revs an engine too hard and gets yelled at in Spanish.
Feels… familiar.
I grab my phone and text Benny.
A few minutes later.
The side door opens and he steps out.
"Man, I swear to God, if that Tailgater comes back one more—"
He stops.
Just freezes.
Squints, head tilting a little like his brain's buffering.
We stare at each other for a second. Long enough for it to get weird.
Then he snorts.
"…puta mierda," he says. "You got ugly."
I laugh before I can stop myself. "Fuck you."
He's already walking toward me, laughing loud, arms open.
We collide in the middle of the lot, rough hug, hands smacking backs, that half-wrestle, half-embrace thing men do when they don't know how to say they missed someone.
"Damn, homes," he says, pulling back but keeping a hand on my shoulder. "Seven years, huh?"
"Feels longer."
"Nah," he shakes his head. "Feels like yesterday. You remember? Tío Sergio's shop. Us pretending we knew what the hell we were doing."
The smell of oil. Old fans rattling. Dad yelling because we lost another socket.
Yeah. I remember.
"Playing mechanics," I say.
He laughs. "Playing? Speak for yourself. I was carrying your ass."
"Sure you were."
Before he can reply, a voice calls from inside the garage.
"Benny! You clocking out or what?"
He doesn't even turn around. "Yeah! Yeah, I'm out!"
He grabs his jacket from a chair by the door and nods toward the lot. "Come on. Let's bounce."
We walk a few steps before he stops again.
He's staring at my car.
"…is that a Declasse Vamos?"
"Yeah."
He circles it slow, hands on hips. "Damn, cousin. Nice car."
"It gets the job done."
He taps the hood. "You ever race it?"
I snort. "In San Fierro? Nah."
"Why not?"
"Too many hills. Roads try to kill you."
He laughs. "Still scared."
"Last time I tried racing with Rico, we hit the top of a hill too fast and the car straight up flew."
"No shit?"
"Air time," I say. "Thought we were dead."
Benny laughs hard. "San Fierro's fucked, man."
"Yeah."
We get in. Engine turns over. LS noise seeps in through the windows.
As we pull out, Benny doesn't stop talking.
"So," he says, leaning back in the seat, "you came at a good time. LS got a whole scene now. Runners. Street stuff. Organized chaos."
"Figures."
"I got this friend—Hao," he continues. "Ching Chong motherfucker. Dude's fast. Helps organize races around the city. Real clean, real serious."
I nod. "Sounds my speed."
"Oh, and then there's another friend of Mine, Lamar."
He sighs before he even finishes the name.
"If there was a stupid-ass nigga award," Benny says, "that man would win it every year."
I chuckle. "That bad?"
"He's cool," Benny admits. "Funny as hell. Loyal. But man… way too deep in that gang bullshit. Always one bad idea away from getting shot."
He glances at me. "So yeah. You meet him? Be cool. But keep some distance. Dude's a magnet for problems."
"Noted."
We pass under an overpass, graffiti everywhere, palms cutting through concrete.
Benny points out the window. "That's Strawberry. Don't stop there too long."
"Got it."
"And over there? Downtown Vinewood. Fake as hell. Everyone's somebody."
The city rolls by like a living thing. Flashy, dirty, loud.
"You feel it?" he asks. "LS don't care who you are. It'll chew you up if you let it."
"I've been chewed before."
He looks at me for a second, then nods. "Yeah. You have."
We drive in silence for maybe ten seconds.
Then he breaks it.
"So how long you staying?"
"Don't know."
"Good," he says. "That's how it starts."
His place comes into view. Nothing fancy. Low building. Bars on the windows.
He hops out, stretches. "Welcome to mi casa."
I kill the engine and follow him inside.
As the door shuts behind us, the city noise dulls.
Benny claps his hands once. "Alright. First rule: don't touch my beer."
"Second rule?"
He grins. "We'll make 'em up as we go."