Noah Fukuyama

[Basketball1player]

The Fukuyama name meant little to most in Los Santos—unless you were from Little Tokyo. There, it carried weight. Old weight. Noah grew up surrounded by silence that said too much. His father kept life simple: books, structure, and distance from whatever history still lingered behind bowed heads and unsaid words.

But the city wasn’t made for clean escapes. By his teens, Noah had a board under his feet, grease on his hands, and quiet anger behind his eyes. Friends started disappearing. Some to bullets. Some to prison. One day his uncle vanished too—right after refusing a deal that felt too heavy to refuse.

Noah took over the garage not just to fix cars, but to build something of his own. He works quietly. Pays attention. Says little. And when people look at him sideways, they remember the name on the sign—and think twice.

Not feared. Not loud. Just... remembered.