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You Don’t Know Me
Tokyo –
The car flipped once, then twice—metal shrieking, fire splitting through the night air.
Deckard stood still at the edge of the wreckage, watching it burn.
He didn’t flinch when the explosion hit, the heat brushing against his jacket like a whisper.
The kid—Han—was just collateral. Not personal. Not yet.
The personal part came next.
He pulled out the phone from his pocket. Dialed the number he’d spent days digging up.
The line connected.
“Hello?”
Deckard’s voice was a blade.
“You don’t know me… but you’re about to.”
He ended the call and stood there a moment longer.
The city lights flickered in the distance.
Sirens wailed like ghosts.
And then—
“Was that really necessary?”
Deckard didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.
The passenger door was already open when he slid into the car. Brian sat in the seat like he belonged there. Like he always had.
“That kid wasn’t even part of it,” Brian said, not accusing—just… sad.
Deckard started the engine. “He was family.”
“You’re crossing a line.”
“I’m not the one who drew it.”
Brian sighed, low and tired. “This won’t bring me back.”
Deckard’s jaw twitched. “It’s not about that.”
But even he didn’t believe it.
London – File Room Fight
Deckard tears through the DSS building like a man possessed.
Guards fall. Systems crash. He’s a ghost in the machine, unstoppable.
He doesn’t stop until he finds the room—steel doors, clearance codes, files buried under clearance levels even MI6 won’t acknowledge.
He walks out with Hobbs’ file, but not before tossing a glance to the glass behind him.
For a flicker, Brian’s reflection stands beside his own.
“Getting sloppy,” Brian teases.
“Getting angry,” Deckard mutters.
Brian doesn’t say anything after that.
He never does when Deckard’s like this.
The Hospital (Luke Hobbs Recovery)
Deckard leaves a grenade on the table.
He doesn't kill Hobbs, but he makes sure Hobbs knows: nothing is safe anymore.
As he walks out of the hospital, Brian falls in step beside him, invisible to everyone else.
“You used to believe in mercy,” Brian says.
Deckard’s lips curl faintly. “I used to have something to lose.”
“You still do.”
Deckard opens the car door.
“No,” he says, barely audible. “I already lost him.”
: Los Angeles – Rooftop Fight
The city was burning.
Dom Toretto stood like a fortress on the rooftop, engine growling behind him. But Deckard didn’t see a man—he saw a monument. One that needed to fall.
He walked toward Dom without hesitation, boots crunching over broken stone and smoke-drenched ash. The weight of Han's death still fresh in his eyes.
Good.
“Thought this was about family,” Dom growled.
Deckard didn’t answer. Just pulled the pin on a flash grenade and let the chaos begin.
They fought like they were born for it—rage against legacy, vengeance against loyalty. The street cracked beneath them. Fists found flesh. Blood mingled with ash.
Dom struck hard. Deckard struck harder.
But even when Dom landed a punch that sent him reeling, Deckard laughed through bloodied teeth.
Brian sat on the hood of a crumbling car, elbows on knees, watching silently.
“You always were a stubborn bastard,” he said.
Deckard stumbled, landed another blow. He didn’t look at Brian.
Couldn’t.
“You know this isn’t justice,” Brian said, quieter now, as Dom tackled Deckard to the ground.
Deckard barely heard him.
All he saw was Dom’s face, twisted with grief he didn’t deserve to wear. Not when he had walked Away from the wreckage that took everything away from him.
The Funeral
Rain fell like absolution.
Deckard stood beneath a black umbrella, far from the crowd, high on the hill where no one would see him.
Below, a family gathered.
Dom. Letty. Roman. Mia.
And the empty space where Brian should’ve stood.
No one noticed the man watching from the shadows.
No one saw the white lilies Deckard had left hours before, already soaked and crumpling beneath the rain.
Brian stood beside him.
Hands in pockets. Silent.
“You don’t have to watch this,” Deckard murmured.
“I was there for the beginning,” Brian said. “Might as well be here for the end.”
Deckard’s jaw clenched. “No. This isn’t the end.”
Brian didn’t reply.
Because lies didn’t sound right in his voice.
“Soon”
Deckard parked the car on the pavement, tires crunching softly over gravel. The engine ticked as it cooled, echoing into the quiet.
It was a beautiful spring day.
Too beautiful for a man like him.
Blood soaked through his shirt, sticking to his skin. It had dried on his knuckles, crusted at his brow, dripped from his side in slow, warm rivulets. He was so tired that when he stepped out of the car, his knees buckled, catching against the doorframe before he steadied himself.
But he kept walking.
The grass was thick and green and soft, so lush that his boots nearly sank with every step. The breeze was gentle. Birds sang in the trees. It should’ve felt like peace.
But all he felt was empty.
The adrenaline had left him, drained from his veins like everything else. Now it was just pain — sharp, blinding, blooming like fire in his lower abdomen.
Still, he didn’t stop.
He was so close.
He stumbled once more, legs giving way entirely this time, and collapsed to his knees.
And there he was.
Brian.
Beautiful. Ageless. Smiling, but not with joy. It was the kind of smile people wore when they didn’t know how to stop hurting.
“Did you do it?” Brian asked, voice calm as if it were any other day. “Did you get them all?”
Deckard nodded, blood seeping faster through his clothes now, warm and spreading.
“Yeah,” he rasped. “I got them all. I made them pay.”
Brian didn’t reply. He just looked down at Deckard’s side — the dark red soaking his shirt, the shaking hands now clutching too late at the wound.
Deckard followed his gaze and saw the blood too.
It was everywhere.
A bullet must’ve hit something deep, something important.
“Should rest now,” Brian murmured softly.
Deckard didn’t argue. He didn’t have the strength. With trembling arms, he eased himself down onto the grass, rolling onto his back.
The sky above was endless.
And from this angle… he could finally see it.
The headstone.
Here Lies Brian O’Connor
A husband. A friend. A brother.
Rest in Peace
Deckard let out a breath that trembled through his whole body.
Of course.
Of course this is where he’d end up.
He smiled, faint and broken, tasting blood on his teeth.
“I’m so tired,” he whispered.
Brian knelt beside him now. The sunlight shone right through him.
“Rest now,” came that ghost-soft voice, “we’ll be together soon.”
Deckard closed his eyes.
And this time, he didn’t open them again.
Soon.