The streets of Yougou Narukami Shopping Street were dead quiet in the early morning haze. The neon glow of the nightlife had long since faded, leaving behind only a faint trace of grilled oil and soy drifting through the clean mountain air. One by one, steel shutters groaned open as shopkeepers swept last night's dust off their storefronts and readied for another slow day under the Inazuman sun.
Beidou wasn't usually up this early.
Yet here she was, lazily cruising down the main street in her gunmetal-gray R32, one arm slung over the window frame, fingers tapping an irregular rhythm on the leather-wrapped steering wheel. The RB26 purred low and steady beneath the hood, almost disinterested, matching her mood.
She didn't even know why she'd gotten in the car. Maybe it was the hangover from last night—not from drinking, but from Lyney's words. They'd been looping in her brain like a warped cassette tape.
"Mark my words, Beidou. The fastest car on Mount Yougou is an Eight-Six that delivers tofu."
At the time, she'd barked out a laugh. Thought he was bullshitting. Spouting urban legend crap the way bored mechanics do at 2AM.
But… Lyney wasn't a dumbass. Not when it came to cars. If he said it like he meant it, there had to be something underneath.
Still, an AE-fucking-86? Beidou scoffed, shaking her head.
But then—
Her foot came off the gas. Something caught her eye.
A small, wooden sign. Carved, painted with fading strokes. Hearth's Tofu Shop.
Her brow creased.
No way.
And then, like a punchline to a cosmic joke, it appeared.
There, parked in the shadow of the front porch, was a panda-colored AE86.
Her foot stabbed the brake. The R32 jerked as it nosed to a slow stop, idling right in the middle of the street. The morning buzz around her faded into nothing. Beidou's pulse quickened.
Two-tone black and white paint.
Factory body.
Watanabe wheels—silver lips, black spokes. Clean. Subtle. Dead silent.
Her eyes narrowed. "This cant be it.."
It looked like a thousand other '80s hatchbacks. Quiet. Modest. Invisible. Just another aging Trueno. The kind of car you'd see delivering bread in the countryside. No fancy kit, no turbo badge, no throaty exhaust or lowered stance.
But her instincts were clawing at her spine.
Beidou threw the GT-R into reverse, eased it back a few meters, then dropped it into park. The RB engine ticked softly as it cooled.
She stepped out.
The morning breeze hit her skin as the door shut with a firm thunk. Her boots crunched lightly against the concrete as she walked toward the car. Her eyes scanned every inch, slow and deliberate.
The glossy black roof caught the sunlight just right—too clean. Too intentional. The paint was sharp. Either recently done or obsessively maintained. She crouched, dragging a calloused hand along the fender's edge, checking the trim line where the black met the white. No over spray. Clean seams.
Then the tires—soft compound, slightly sticky to the touch. Street-legal performance rubber. Not cheap shit, but not full slicks either. A track rat would've gone wider. This was something else.
She muttered, "Someone knows what they're doing."
Her fingers brushed the small red emblem on the back—APEX Twin Cam 16. She knew that badge like a scar. Hell, everyone in Touge racing lore did. But seeing it here, on this plain, modest chassis?
"This really can't be it," she said aloud, voice half-lost in the breeze. "This junker can't be the fastest thing on Yougou."
She was about to turn and leave when a voice cut through the air.
"Hey, Beidou! What are you doing here?"
Her spine straightened like she'd been caught breaking into a garage. She turned.
Collei stood in the tofu shop's doorway, apron still tied around her waist, arms crossed in vague curiosity. She looked like she'd just finished her first delivery run. There was flour dust on her sleeve.
Beidou blinked. "Oh. Uh… hey, Collei."
Collei cocked her head, a wry little smile curling on her lips. "You here sightseeing? Or… craving tofu at 7:30 in the morning?"
Beidou hesitated, her brain scrambling.
"Tofu?" she echoed dumbly. "Uh, yeah, I guess. Just… y'know. Figured I'd check the place out."
Collei raised an eyebrow, gesturing toward the large sign right above her head. "You do know this is a tofu shop, right?"
Beidou chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of her head. "Yeah, yeah. Thought I'd support the locals."
Her heart was hammering in her chest. She couldn't stop glancing back at the Eight-Six.
What the hell is that car doing here?
They rolled toward Lyney's gas station in relative silence, the R32 cruising easy down the winding mountain road. Beidou couldn't stop glancing at Collei in the passenger seat, studying her expression, trying to gauge whether she knew anything. She seemed totally relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, watching the trees blur past like she didn't have a care in the world.
Then—out of nowhere—Collei spoke.
"Hey, Beidou… do you spend a lot of time near my house?"
The question hit her like a blowout at high speed.
"What?!" she barked, nearly jerking the wheel. "No! no! I don't even know where you live! I was just passing through!"
She winced at how fast she said it. Way too fast.
Collei turned her head slowly, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Uh-huh. Suuure," she said, in a tone soaked with suspicion.
Beidou cleared her throat, waved a hand like she was brushing the whole thing off. "Anyway—what's the deal with you pretending you don't know anything about cars?" she asked, desperate to change the subject.
"Huh?" Collei blinked, confused.
Beidou narrowed her eyes, the red glow of a stoplight reflecting off her sunglasses as she slowed. The R32 hummed in idle, gauges softly flickering behind the dash.
"I saw the car in your driveway," she said. "That's an Eight-Six. A goddamn AE86. You expect me to believe you don't know what that is?"
Collei blinked again. "Wait, what? That junker? I thought it was just an old… whatever. The badge says Trueno. GT-APEX something."
Beidou slammed her head gently against the steering wheel, groaning. "For fuck's sake, Collei…"
She leaned back, arms crossed over her chest, shooting her a side-eye.
"It is an Eight-Six. GT-APEX is the trim. Trueno is the front-end style. You ever heard of a Levin? Same car, different face. Same chassis code. AE86. That's what matters."
Collei stared at her, processing. "…That sounds made up."
Beidou wanted to scream. Instead, she just chuckled dryly. "Archons almighty, you really don't know what you're driving."
And that scared her more than anything.
Because if Collei was really that oblivious, then the rumors might be true. That meant someone—something—had tuned that Eight-Six in silence. That it wasn't just parked there by coincidence.
Beidou's knuckles tightened on the wheel.
There was a fucking ghost on the mountain. A phantom racer driving a plain panda Trueno.
And it was coming from Collei's house.
They pulled into Lyney's station, tires crunching over gravel. Beidou killed the engine, but she didn't move. Her gaze drifted back toward the slope they came from, toward the sleepy tofu shop tucked at the base of Mount Yougou.
Something was wrong. Something big. She could feel it in her gut.
Collei opened her door, stepping out with a casual stretch. "Soo… you gonna get that tofu or what?"
Beidou didn't answer. She was still staring at the invisible threads wrapping around that car, that girl, that mountain.
That Eight-Six wasn't just fast.
It was a goddamn warning.
That afternoon, the gas station air was thick with heat and the sharp tang of petroleum. The cicadas buzzed like background static, a droning chorus to the slow grind of summer. Beidou stood behind the counter inside the service office, the overhead fan creaking above her as it failed to move much air. She had one boot propped on the lower shelf, elbow resting on her knee, posture loose—but her eyes? They burned with barely contained fire.
March 7th bounced into the room like a firecracker lit too early. Her pink hair swayed behind her like a flag on a battlefield, her steps brisk, mouth already halfway open to speak.
Beidou didn't wait. She leaned forward, voice low but loaded. "You won't fucking believe what I found."
March froze mid-stride, head snapping toward her so fast it was a wonder she didn't give herself whiplash.
"What. Did. You. SAY?!" she shrieked, hands planted on her hips, tone breaking the sound barrier between disbelief and nuclear curiosity.
Beidou just grinned, slow and satisfied, crossing her arms like a blackjack dealer laying down an unbeatable hand. "Collei owns an Eight-Six."
The world stopped turning.
March's mouth fell open. Her eyes bugged out of her skull like they were about to physically detach. "No—fucking—way."
Beidou cocked her chin. "Panda paint. Watanabes. GT-APEX badge. Sitting right in her goddamn driveway."
March didn't even process the second half of that sentence. By the time "driveway" left Beidou's lips, March was already in motion. Like a railgun shell.
"Hey—March!" Beidou barked after her, half-laughing as she pushed off the counter. "Christ, give the poor girl a second to breathe!"
But March was already long gone, her pink blur fading down the street.
Collei was crouched outside the tofu shop, sweeping the walkway with short, precise strokes. The late afternoon light cut long shadows over the pavement. Her apron was still dusted with starch and dried flour from the morning prep. She looked up at the sound of sprinting footfalls—only to see March charging like a lunatic across the plaza, her expression a hellstorm of betrayal.
"COLLEI, YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKING JERK!" March shouted, skidding to a halt right in front of her, arms flailing in righteous fury.
Collei straightened, blinking. "Wh—what?!"
March jabbed a finger at her chest. "Why didn't you tell me you had an Eight-Six?!"
The broom clattered to the ground.
"I didn't even know I had one until today!" Collei stammered, stepping back like she was caught mid-theft.
"Beidou saw it!" March snapped. "She said it's sitting in your driveway!"
"It's a GT-APEX Trueno!" Collei yelped defensively. "Not an Eight-Six!"
March gasped like someone had punched her in the gut. She staggered backward with exaggerated heartbreak, one hand on her chest, the other dramatically outstretched like she was collapsing on stage. "Collei," she groaned. "Don't you dare play dumb with me."
And then, in a sudden pivot that could've belonged in a soap opera, she dropped to her knees, hands clasped like she was praying to the Gods of Rear-Wheel Drive.
"Please. Let me borrow it. Just once," she pleaded, eyes wide, her voice trembling with the sincerity of someone begging for their last meal. "We'll look so cool pulling up to Keqing and Ningguang. I'll clean it. I'll polish it. I'll give it back with a full tank, I swear—"
Collei stared at her like she was watching a lunatic unfold in real time. "Absolutely not. It's not even mine."
March blinked. "Huh?"
Collei folded her arms. Her voice dropped a little. "It belongs to my father. Arlecchino."
Beidou had just arrived on the edge of the scene, steps slowing as she caught the name. The syllables hit her like a head-on collision. Her feet rooted to the spot.
"Arlecchino…" she murmured under her breath.
It all clicked. Like dominos in a rigged pattern finally falling.
The Eight-Six.
The shop.
Collei's nonchalant ignorance.
Beidou felt the back of her neck tighten, a cold ripple running under her skin despite the heat in the air. That wasn't just anyone's car. That was Arlecchino's.
March reeled, eyebrows flying up as she connected the dots. "Wait. Your dad is Arlecchino Arlecchino? Like, THE Arlecchino?"
Collei shrugged a little, the weight of the name apparently lost on her. "Yeah. He's the one who takes care of the car. Has since forever."
Beidou's head was spinning. Arlecchino—silent demon of the streets, gone dark for years. A name whispered at mountain passes and gas stations, with a mix of reverence and fear. It wasn't just that the car had history. It was who had driven it.
March, meanwhile, had gone from shock to full meltdown. She slumped forward until her forehead touched the pavement, fists pounding the sidewalk in exaggerated despair.
"Please, Collei," she moaned. "Just once! I'll let you braid my hair every day for a week. I'll bring lunch to your shift! I'll buy you a year's worth of boba! Just let me touch the steering wheel!"
"No," Collei said flatly. "And stop begging. It's embarrassing."
March groaned like she was dying. "You people have no soul…"
Before she could descend any deeper into madness, a familiar voice cut through the mayhem.
"Okay, what the hell is this, a street race or a telenovela?"
Lyney sauntered into the scene like he'd walked in from a different dimension, eyebrow cocked, arms slung lazily over his shoulders. He took in the sight of March on the ground, Collei looking mortified, and Beidou still trying to process everything.
"Come on," he said, jerking a thumb back toward the station. "We've got cars lining up. Time to drop the theatrics and get those pumps moving."
Collei sighed, brushing her apron. "Thanks for the save, boss."
Lyney winked. "Don't thank me. Just don't let March cry on the windshield again."
Beidou grinned, tension bleeding out of her shoulders. "You're lucky he showed up, Collei. Another five seconds and she would've tried to sell her soul for a test drive."
March muttered something inaudible as she clambered to her feet, brushing off her knees. "You guys are seriously no fun…"
But Beidou wasn't laughing anymore.
Because deep down, under all the noise, one truth stood out sharp and solid:
Arlecchino owned the Eight-Six.
And Collei lived with it.
The fastest car on Mount Yougou didn't belong to some mystery driver. It was in plain sight. Quiet. Waiting. Covered in decades of racing dust and tofu deliveries. And Collei—Collei had no idea what kind of ghost she was riding with.
Beidou shoved her hands into her pockets and looked up at the sky. Something told her this was just the beginning.
And she was damn sure going to find out where the road led.
That evening, Yougou Pass was cloaked in fog and fury.
The purple RX-7 howled into life, its rotary engine shrieking through the dying light like a banshee.
Keqing's hands were white-knuckled on the wheel, knuckles flexing with each subtle twitch of the chassis. Her lavender eyes burned through the windshield, narrowed and sharp. Every breath was shallow. Controlled. Her pulse raced, but she masked it with ice.
She hadn't stopped replaying last night's disaster in her head.
That thing—that rustbucket Eight-Six—had overtaken her on the inside like a ghost. No warning. No taillights. No tire squeal. It had just… appeared. Slipped past her like her FD was standing still. And then—humiliation—she'd lost it. A spinout. Sloppy. Undisciplined.
The way her RX-7 rotated helplessly into the guardrail still echoed in her bones.
The phantom hadn't just passed her.
It exposed her.
"Where are you…?" she hissed through gritted teeth. "Show yourself."
Second gear. Clutch in. Blip. Shift. The revs climbed as she dropped into another blind left.
The RX-7 hugged the corner with millimeter precision, tires gripping just before the slip, her heel-toe footwork nailing the downshift like a metronome. The rotary growl rippled off the mountain walls, a violent sonic wave bouncing back into the cockpit.
She wasn't driving for time.
She wasn't practicing.
She was hunting.
"Come on…" she murmured, flicking her eyes to the mirrors. Nothing. Just empty asphalt and shadows. The road coiled like a serpent ahead of her, waiting to strike.
She dove into another tight right, modulating throttle mid-corner, rear stepping out slightly before snapping back in line. Her reflexes were wired tight, precise, every fingertip and toe in perfect sync with the machine. This wasn't her usual composed rhythm. This was something feral.
A simmering storm behind a calm face.
The phantom was out there. And she would see it again.
And this time, she'd be ready.
Elsewhere, midday sun filtered into Lyney's gas station breakroom.
The grainy footage of an AE86 smoking through a corner flickered on the wall-mounted TV. The iconic high-pitched whine of a tuned 4A-GE filled the room, raw and violent, punctuated by rhythmic throttle blips.
March 7th's drink sloshed dangerously in her hand as she jumped up.
"Dude! DUDE! That's the Drift King! Keiichi Tsuchiya himself!" Her voice practically broke with excitement.
On-screen, Tsuchiya countersteered through a descending left, clutch-kicking mid-corner, the AE86 flowing like water down the track.
Beidou leaned back, arms behind her head, watching with a lazy grin. "You catch how he's feathering the throttle? Rear's dancing, but he's got full control."
March whirled on Collei, who was quietly seated with her phone. "Collei! You have to see this! C'mon, tell me this doesn't light a fire under you!"
Collei didn't even look up. "Sure."
March froze. "Wait. That's it?"
She edged closer, suspicious. "What are you doing?"
Collei sighed. "Texting."
March gasped theatrically. "Unbelievable. Miss Ice Queen over here has no idea what she's watching."
"Sure I do," Collei replied flatly.
"Oh yeah?" March crossed her arms. "Then explain drifting."
Collei gave a vague shrug. "You make the front tires slide going into a corner. That's drifting."
The silence that followed was so thick it could've been cut with a carbon-fiber splitter.
March blinked. Beidou frowned. Then—
"PFFT—HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
March was in tears. "Front tires?! That's understeer, genius! What are you trying to do, park in a tree?!"
Beidou chuckled, shaking her head. "No wonder she's so calm—she's about to plow through every corner on the mountain."
Collei just looked confused.
From the doorway, Lyney leaned in, unseen, one brow raised. Quiet. Observing.
They didn't get it.
In the middle of a drift, he thought, every car is technically understeering. Most people wouldn't catch that. But Collei's answer... that was something else.
Four-wheel drift technique...
He narrowed his eyes, a rare flicker of admiration showing in his smirk.
Kid's not just good. She's scary.
A horn blared from outside.
"Break's over," Lyney said as he turned back toward the counter.
The moment the purple RX-7 pulled up, Beidou stopped cold.
She knew that car. The profile. The sound.
No mistake.
Keqing.
Collei approached the window like nothing was off, eyes steady, tone calm. "How can I help you, Miss?"
The window slid down.
Keqing. Sharp gaze. Cold tone.
"Fill her up. High-octane."
Collei didn't blink. "Right away."
Beidou stepped in with a squeegee, her hands moving automatically as she cleaned the windshield, but her eyes never left Keqing's face.
Keqing stared right back. "Beidou, right?"
"That's me."
"I've got a question."
"Depends on the answer you want."
Keqing's smirk didn't reach her eyes. "You know anyone around here driving a panda-colored AE86?"
Beidou's grip tightened.
Keqing kept her voice smooth. "A 'junker,' like you said."
Collei clicked the pump off, replacing the nozzle silently.
Keqing paid without ceremony, eyes never leaving Beidou.
Then, softly—just enough to be heard: "If that's your secret weapon for Saturday..."
She started the engine. The rotary ignited with a low, menacing growl.
"...Tell them I'll be waiting."
The RX-7 peeled away, taillights flaring red as they vanished into the descending twilight.
Beidou stood frozen.
No way.
Keqing lost?
To an AE86?
Her stomach sank. Her brain fired on overdrive, trying to reconcile the pieces.
The Eight-Six Collei was tinkering with. Lyney's rumors. The "phantom."
That wasn't just an AE86.
That was the Trueno.
And the kid behind the wheel?
She wasn't some rookie.
She was the fastest driver on Yougou.
The Morning Ritual
4:00 AM. Sharp.
Collei's alarm shattered the darkness. No music. Just a grating, industrial beep.
She sat up, dead-eyed, and moved through her routine with robotic precision. Cold water. Change of clothes. Gloves on.
The silence outside was sacred.
She unlocked the garage.
The AE86 waited like a sentient creature, its panda-paint catching the pale garage light, twin-cam badge glinting faintly.
Click. Key in.
The engine fired with a clean braap, idling in steady rhythm.
From the doorway—Arlecchino. Coffee in one hand. Watching.
Collei took the cup.
"More water today."
Arlecchino gave her a look. Half-smirk. "Still counts."
No more words needed.
Collei buckled in. Slid the shifter into first. Pulled out into the cold dark, taillights casting twin red eyes in the mist.
The mountain opened before her.
The ritual began.
Fourth gear. Right foot hard on the gas. She rocketed into the first corner.
Downshift—fourth to second.
Throttle-blip.
Clutch out.
The rear stepped out, tires whispering.
Wheel flick.
Countersteer.
Balance.
Grip.
Drift.
The cup didn't move.
She threaded through the hairpins, momentum swaying like breath—inhale, exhale. There was no wasted throttle. No overcorrection. Every action served a purpose. The Trueno floated, not fought.
On the fifth corner, she initiated earlier—left-foot braking, compressing the suspension, nose biting in—
The rear slipped out in a perfectly symmetrical slide.
The water rippled.
Didn't spill.
Final corner.
Full-commitment four-wheel drift.
Everything working at once—steering angle, weight balance, throttle modulation, grip threshold, tire temperature, camber shifts.
She didn't think.
She felt.
The exit was surgical. The drift ended precisely on the center line.
The paper cup?
A single ripple kissed the rim.
Still too much movement.
She scowled faintly.
But it was close.
Very close.
By the time she pulled in for the delivery stop, the sun had barely begun to rise.
She shut the engine off.
Leaning back, eyes closed.
Listening.
Breathing.
This wasn't a race.
Not for her.
This was ritual.
And the mountain knew her name.
The Challenge of Yougou
Morning.
Beidou's boots struck the quiet pavement with the rhythm of tension—click, clack, click—as she marched through the mist-veiled streets of Yougou. Cold bit at her cheeks, coiling into her lungs with each breath, but she didn't care. The first light of dawn painted the mountain town gold, shadows yawning between rooftops. Everything smelled like cedar, morning dew, and baked tofu.
But she wasn't here for the scenery.
Her fists were clenched inside her jacket pockets.
Her thoughts spun like tires on black ice.
Arlecchino.
That damn ghost in the AE86.
The driver who turned the entire street racing scene upside down.
The legend no one saw coming.
The one who beat Keqing.
Beat the RX-7.
Beat physics.
Beidou couldn't wrap her head around it. Even now, the memory of Keqing's wide-eyed disbelief after that race lingered like smoke.
"An Eight-Six… beating a fucking FD? Just what kind of monster is she?"
The question had haunted her all night.
Beidou knew cars. She knew grip, weight transfer, braking zones, throttle discipline. An AE86 wasn't supposed to be able to do that.
Not against a machine like Keqing's FD3S.
Not unless the driver was on another goddamn plane of existence.
And now here she was—walking into a sleepy tofu shop like a fucking idiot—hoping to find answers.
The bell above the door jingled, unnervingly soft.
She stepped into the smell of fresh tofu, oil, and wood polish.
From the back, Arlecchino emerged—rag in hand, wiping her palms like a surgeon who'd just finished stitching someone back together.
The air shifted.
Even out of a driver's seat, she was something else. That dead calm. That presence. Like standing in the same room as a lit fuse.
Her sharp, blood-red eyes lifted without effort.
Snap.
A single flick near her ear. Dismissive. Cutting. Perfectly timed.
"Hey, kid. You here for tofu, or just gawking?"
Beidou froze.
Caught like a rookie.
"Uh—fried tofu, please!" she barked, voice cracking halfway through.
Arlecchino smirked, said nothing, and turned to prepare the order.
Beidou exhaled slowly. Goddamn, get it together.
This was it. Her one shot. The moment she'd been psyching herself up for since last night.
"If I don't say it now, I'll regret it forever," she muttered under her breath.
She stepped up to the counter, forcing the words out before the nerves took over again.
"By the way… I'm Beidou. I run a team—Yougou Speedsuns."
Arlecchino placed the tray of tofu on the counter.
"Uh-huh."
No inflection. No curiosity. Just a flat wall of indifference.
Beidou swallowed.
Pressed on.
"I want you to race for us. Saturday night."
Silence.
Then—
A low chuckle.
Dry. Hollow. Like it had to work its way out of a throat lined with ash.
Arlecchino leaned back against the counter, arms folding.
"Sorry, kid. That's not my thing anymore."
Beidou blinked. "But—"
"I'm past my prime," Arlecchino cut in coolly. "Besides, you need someone closer to your age. Someone with something to prove."
Her gaze held firm. Unwavering.
"This is your time now."
The words hit like a gut punch.
Not angry. Not cruel.
Worse than that—they were genuine.
A kind of quiet truth that made it hurt even more.
Beidou hesitated. Mouth open. Mind racing.
But all she could manage was: "…I'll be back tomorrow. Just in case you change your mind."
No reply.
Just that same unreadable stare.
She paid, grabbed the tofu, and walked out like her boots weighed a hundred pounds.
Behind her, the door jingled again.
Beidou paused at her R32, half-turning.
Arlecchino stood in the doorway, arms crossed, silhouetted by the shop's warm interior light.
Watching.
Saying nothing.
Beidou got in and drove off.
Behind her, the mountain loomed like a challenge etched into the earth.
That Night.
The RB26DETT screamed bloody murder as Beidou's R32 Skyline blitzed into the descent.
The twin turbos shrieked like banshees, air shoving itself down the intake. Exhaust cracked like rifle fire behind her as she danced on the edge of grip.
The darkness of Yougou Pass swallowed everything. Headlights slashed the corners open, revealing sharp drops and unforgiving walls.
Her knuckles were white on the Nardi steering wheel.
Sweat dripped from her brow, despite the chill.
Each downshift came with a sharp heel-toe tap, revs blipping in perfect synchronicity. She feathered the brake into the next right-hander, weight transferring forward, nose tucking in. Tires chirped, kissed the edge of adhesion—but didn't scream.
Smooth. Controlled.
Textbook.
And still—too slow.
Her stopwatch display flickered on the passenger seat.
The last sector was behind pace.
Again.
"FUCK!" she shouted into the night, voice swallowed by the wind.
She dropped into second for the next hairpin—tight, steep, brutal—and tried to carry more speed through the apex.
The R32 grunted.
Chassis flexed.
Rear tires stepped out—just an inch—but she caught it.
Countersteer. Hold it. Power through.
Even perfect lines weren't enough.
This fucking car was a war machine—500 horses on tap, all-wheel-drive grip, tuned suspension—but the mountain didn't give a shit.
At the summit she yanked the handbrake, bringing the Skyline to a hard stop.
Engine idling. Turbo whining low like a disappointed ghost.
Beidou climbed out. The cold punched her lungs again.
She leaned on the hood, breathing hard. Steam rose off her shoulders like she was bleeding adrenaline.
The stars above looked like they were laughing.
"Is this really all I've got?"
She stared at the mountain's curves below—etched in shadow and memory.
The same road Collei had obliterated Keqing on.
The same road Arlecchino once ruled.
She slapped the roof. No more bullshit.
"One more run."
She slid back into the Recaro seat. Clicked the harness. Twisted the key.
The RB26 snarled awake.
This time—her inputs were cleaner.
More aggressive.
Her hands moved like she was sculpting the road itself.
The R32 felt alive.
Throttle modulation through the S-bends. Downshift into the left-hander. Rear bias kicking in just enough to pivot the nose. Every movement sharp. Every second shaved.
Sector one—green.
Sector two—green.
She grinned. "That's it. That's fucking it."
The final sequence of corners opened in front of her like a finish line—
BANG!!
A thunderclap under the hood.
Then silence.
Dashboard lights erupted like a goddamn Christmas tree.
The RB26 sputtered. Coughed.
Died.
"No, no, no—FUCK!"
She stabbed the clutch, tried to coast—too late.
The R32 lurched into the guardrail, tires locking up. Metal shrieked.
Beidou twisted the wheel, slammed the brakes—barely stopped short of going over the edge.
Steam hissed up like a dying animal.
She threw the door open. Ran to the front. Yanked the hood release.
The engine bay was a fucking horror show.
Oil everywhere.
Steam pouring out.
Hoses ruptured.
Something in the block had exploded. There was coolant pooling on the undertray.
She could smell metal. Burning rubber. Failure.
Her baby—her goddamn pride—was bleeding out in front of her.
Beidou just stood there.
Hands trembling.
Breath short.
Reality hit like a freight train.
She had nothing left.
Her car was done.
Her team was done.
And she knew it.
"...Fuck," she whispered, so soft it almost didn't exist.
She turned away from the wreckage, hands on her knees.
Staring into the cold black void of the valley below.
Hopeless.
Completely.
Fucking.
Hopeless.