The morning air was razor-sharp, the kind that bites through your clothes and sinks into your bones. Cold dew clung to the ground like frost, and the distant treetops were lost behind a veil of early fog. Collei knelt beside her Eight-Six, checking the tread depth on the rear tires with a practiced thumb. Every groove, every millimeter mattered. Especially now.
That name—Blackbird—had been stuck in her head like a splinter. Not just a rumor anymore. It was real. A black Porsche 930 Turbo. Rear-engined. Rear-wheel-drive. Turbocharged monster. The kind of car that was built to kill on the downhill if the driver knew how to control it.
She stood up slowly, brushing off her hands. Her breath came out in short, ghostly puffs.
The garage door was open, letting in a shaft of cold light. Arlecchino stood just outside, framed in the haze like a devil made flesh. Cigarette balanced between two fingers, smoke rising around her like steam from a boiling engine. Her leather jacket caught the morning light in worn creases, the faint smell of motor oil clinging to her like a second skin.
Collei approached with her hands shoved in her hoodie pocket, trying to keep her tone casual.
"Hey, Dad... Have you heard about the Blackbird before? Is it really as good as they say?"
Arlecchino's eyes narrowed slightly, the tip of her cigarette glowing bright red as she took a drag. She didn't answer right away. Just exhaled a ribbon of smoke that twisted and bled into the cold air.
"Yeah. I've heard of it."
Her voice was steady. Measured. Like she was reading a dossier on an old rival.
"That machine's a fucking beast. Flat-six engine tucked way in the rear, all that weight pushing down hard on the driven wheels. When it hooks up, it hooks up. And the turbo? When boost kicks in, it doesn't pull—it slams. In the right hands, it can tear apart anything on the road."
Collei frowned, her fingers curling slightly. She tilted her head.
"Yeah, but… could you beat it? On Yougou. Same course."
Arlecchino didn't blink. She flicked the cigarette down and ground it into the concrete with her heel, slowly, like she was crushing something far more symbolic than tobacco.
"There's not a car I can't beat," she said, lips twitching into a lopsided smirk. "I don't give a shit what's under the hood. Porsche, Lancer, Skyline—bring 'em. Blackbird or not."
The answer came so easily, it made Collei's chest tighten. She shifted on her feet, eyes falling to the concrete. Her voice dropped.
"...What about me?"
Arlecchino paused.
That did make her blink.
Her expression hardened just slightly—not from anger, but from recognition. This wasn't just a question. This was a flag going up. A signal flare. She leaned forward slightly, gaze sharpening like she was looking through her.
"You planning something?"
Collei's mouth moved, but no words came out. She shook her head too quickly.
"N-no! I was just wondering! I heard people talking at the gas station, that's all! Nothing serious, really. I've got deliveries to make, anyway—gotta run!"
She backed toward the car with a half-smile and a forced chuckle, then scrambled into the driver's seat like it might protect her. The engine cranked over with a bark, then settled into a steady, throaty idle. She pulled the door shut, shoved it into first, and peeled out down the slope.
Arlecchino stood there, hands on her hips, watching the taillights vanish through the mist.
"Going up against that car…" she muttered. "Hmph. I'd better tune her rear dampers before sundown. Just in case."
Scene: Mount Yougou – Allies in the Cold
The wind whipped cruelly through the rest area near the top of Mount Yougou. The railing buzzed softly from the cold, steel protesting under ice. Four figures stood clustered near the vending machines, breath misting in the air, each dressed in layers, but still visibly uncomfortable.
"Shit, it's freezing," Keqing muttered through clenched teeth. She shifted from foot to foot, arms crossed, visibly shivering. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, but she was too proud to say she should've worn another layer. "Whose dumb idea was it to meet here?"
Beidou gave her a look, clearly amused. "Yours," she said, cracking a smirk. "You were the one pacing back and forth like a caged animal, remember?"
Keqing groaned and buried her face in her scarf. "I hate that you're right."
"Be patient," Ningguang murmured, glancing down the road. Her long coat fluttered in the breeze. "She'll be here. This mountain has its rhythm. You just need to listen."
Right on cue, the silence was shattered.
A distant, high-pitched engine wail tore through the fog—a four-cylinder scream bouncing off the cliff walls, paired with the sharp report of a heel-toe downshift. It was raw and urgent, no electronic limiter smoothing the aggression.
Beidou's eyes lit up. "That's her!"
Seconds later, the AE86 burst around the corner, body rolling into the apex before snapping straight. The hazard lights blinked once as it slowed and pulled into the turnout, tires crunching on loose gravel.
Collei stepped out, her breath hissing as the cold hit her face full-force. She rubbed her hands together and blew into them.
"What the hell are you guys doing up here? You're going to freeze your asses off."
Keqing didn't waste time. She grabbed Collei by the wrist and pulled her closer.
"We need to talk. It's about the Blackbird."
Collei blinked. "What about it?"
Ningguang crouched low near the ground and picked up a stick. She began drawing in the gravel and dirt, sweeping arcs and crude outlines. A rough diagram of a 911's layout took shape.
"The car you're facing tonight," she said calmly, "has a rear-engine, rear-wheel-drive setup. That means the engine's weight is sitting over the rear axle. Great for traction on throttle, but risky in corners."
Keqing took the stick and added more lines—weight shift diagrams, braking force arrows. Her face was serious.
"That layout is prone to snap oversteer. When Yelan brakes too hard into a corner, the front compresses, the rear unloads, and the tail swings out. If she overcorrects or misjudges a line, that rear end will come around faster than she can react."
Seele folded her arms and leaned in, her voice quiet but surgical.
"She won't make many mistakes. But if you force them—if you dive into her rhythm, throw off her entry points—you might rattle her. Get into her head."
"Make her doubt herself," Keqing added. "Make her hesitate. That's all it'll take."
Collei looked down at the gravel drawing. Her gaze lingered on the engine position, the lines, the arrows. She could see it—see the weight shift in motion, the tail stepping out mid-corner, that half-second when control becomes chaos.
"Thanks," she said, voice low. "I'll remember that."
She looked up at each of them. Keqing, Ningguang, Beidou, Seele. Her crew. Her family.
"I've still got deliveries to run. But tonight... I'll make sure she feels it."
She turned, climbed into the driver's seat, and pulled the door shut. The engine kicked over, the clutch caught, and the Eight-Six rolled out of the turnout and into the mist like a ghost from another era.
They watched her go in silence.
Beidou let out a long breath. "She's got a tough road ahead."
Ningguang smiled faintly, brushing gravel from her glove.
"But if anyone can pull it off… it's her."
That afternoon, the garage behind the gas station reeked of oil, hot metal, and aged rubber—scents soaked deep into the concrete and clinging to every surface like a second skin. Beidou stood shirt-sleeved, calloused hands blackened with grease, hefting a half-drained oil pan toward the disposal drum while March fumbled with a scattered tray of sockets, trying to organize them by size. The clang of steel-on-steel echoed under the rust-stained ceiling beams as they worked in tandem, their motions familiar, if a little rushed.
March paused, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her glove. Her voice came low, uncertain, barely louder than the ticking of a cooling compressor.
"Hey, Beidou… are we really gonna race Yelan?"
Beidou didn't answer right away. She straightened, cracked her neck, then tugged at the collar of her jumpsuit like it was too tight—though it wasn't. It was a stall, a mental clutch kick to keep herself from stalling on the thought.
"We don't have a choice," she muttered. But there was hesitation in her tone—a fracture she hadn't meant to let slip. "But… I don't think Collei's on board with this."
March shifted her weight uneasily, scuffing her shoe against the stained floor. Her gaze dropped.
"I know Collei," she said finally. "She won't do it. That's just who she is. She doesn't take orders well. Not from anyone. Most of the time she's chill—like, scary chill. You'd think she didn't give a shit about anything. But if something matters to her? If it's something she's set on? She won't back down. Not for anyone."
Outside, just beyond the garage doors, Lyney leaned against the chipped concrete wall in silence. The shadows cloaked most of his face, but the glint in his violet eyes betrayed his amusement. The tip of a cigarette burned softly in the corner of his mouth.
"Heh," he breathed, a smirk pulling at the edge of his lips. "Stubborn… just like Arlecchino."
Back inside, March kept going, tone quiet but loaded.
"There was this one time in tenth grade… some senior punk kept pushing her about something after chem class. Just wouldn't shut the hell up. She told him to stop, three times. He didn't. So she broke his nose. Two hits. He was bleeding like a stuck pig by the time they pulled her off him."
Beidou's jaw slackened slightly, her eyes widening. She instinctively stepped back from the workbench like she'd just been told Collei was a serial killer.
"Shit. Seriously? That doesn't sound like her at all."
March nodded grimly. "She's not violent by nature. But you box her into a corner, force her hand? She becomes someone else."
Lyney, hearing enough, flicked the cigarette butt into the dirt and turned away. He didn't need to hear the rest. His mind was already racing, calculations spinning behind his ever-smiling mask.
Later that afternoon, somewhere on the outskirts of town, Arlecchino was crouched beside the Eight-Six, her red eyes narrowed beneath the brim of her cap. With the car jacked up and the rear wheels off, she was making surgical adjustments to the coilovers—minute tweaks that most drivers wouldn't even notice, let alone appreciate. But she wasn't most drivers.
Click. Another quarter-turn of the spanner.
She paused, feeling the tension in the spring, the way the damper sat. Every rotation was deliberate. Every movement spoken in the unspoken language of mechanical intuition.
Sunset came and went. Night swallowed the sky.
Back at the gas station, Collei was locking up. The air was cool now, the last light casting long shadows over the pumps. She moved with quiet precision, checking every valve, every door, every switch like she'd done a thousand times before.
Just as she was about to step out, Lyney called out from behind his desk, his tone unusually grave.
"Collei. Sit down for a second."
She raised an eyebrow, hesitating—but curiosity got the better of her. She eased down into the folding chair across from him, noting the tension in his shoulders and the cigarette smoldering in the ashtray.
"I heard from the girls you're planning to go up to Yougou tonight. That true?" He took a drag, exhaled slowly. "You're gonna race the Blackbird?"
Collei's brows twitched, her fingers curling around the armrest.
"Y-Yeah, I was—"
He cut her off with a wave.
"Don't. Just… listen for a sec." His voice dropped a gear, slow and steady. "Let me guess. March shot her mouth off, and now Yelan's coming to collect. And you? You got roped in."
She winced. His aim was dead-on.
Lyney leaned in, smoke coiling between them like a barrier. "Let your friends handle their own shit. That car? The Blackbird? You don't know what it is. What it really is. And you don't want to find out the hard way."
Collei swallowed, hard. Then: "Is it really that good?"
He chuckled—low, knowing. The kind of laugh that came with blood, oil, and regret.
"'Good' doesn't cover it. That car's a fucking ghost story on wheels. Back in the day, it belonged to a Wangan racer named Natasha. Doc by day, demon by night. She and another lunatic in a Devil Z tore up Inazuma's expressways, pushing each other past the edge. The Blackbird? Twin-turbo flat-six, carbon-fiber shell, weighed less than a Civic with the engine of a monster. It's not just fast. It hunts. You make one mistake going up against it, and you're done."
But Collei was already standing. There was a glint in her eyes—no fear, just fire.
"Thanks for the heads-up, boss. But honestly? Now I really want to see what it can do."
She turned and walked out, her footfalls light but firm.
Lyney watched her go, rubbing his forehead with a sigh. "And just like that… she's gone. Fucking Arlecchino clone…"
The streets were dim as Collei reached home. But something felt wrong before she even hit the driveway—like the air had shifted. Like the silence was too loud.
Then she saw the note.
It was slapped crookedly onto the front door, the handwriting aggressive and scrawled in thick black marker:
"TEMPORARILY CLOSED."
Her chest tightened. "What the hell? She never said anything about this…"
She started pacing, fast.
"Great. Just great. How the hell am I supposed to make money now?!" she snapped, throwing her hands in the air.
Then it hit her.
"The car…"
She bolted for the driveway. Her breath caught as soon as her eyes landed on the pavement.
Gone.
The Eight-Six. Gone. Not under the tarp. Not in the shadows. Just… gone.
"No… No, no, no! Where the fuck is it?!"
She spun in place, trying to will the car into existence. Nothing. The spot was so empty it hurt to look at.
"If she went out drinking again—fuck, I'm screwed!"
Frustration crashed over her like a wave. She clenched her fists, face burning with fury.
"She won't be back 'til morning at this rate! This is bullshit!"
She stormed up and down the driveway, hair flying loose as she gripped her skull in both hands, dragging her fingers down her face.
"What the hell am I gonna do now?! I've got nothing without that car!"
She dropped to a crouch, shoulders shaking, voice cracking.
"Damn it to all hell! I should've just asked to borrow the damn keys!"
Far away, up on Mt. Yougou, the night was electric.
Engines idled low. Headlights cut through the mist. The crowd buzzed with anticipation, boots scraping gravel, cans hissing open, conversations held in hushed tones. Everyone was waiting for one thing—the Eight-Six.
But the road stayed dark. Empty.
Beidou stood near the start line, glancing downhill every few seconds. March shifted beside her, chewing her fingernail. Seele leaned on the fender of her Z with her arms crossed, trying not to show she cared. Pela stood silent and still. Keqing and Ningguang stood near the FC, whispering quietly.
And at the center of it all, Yelan rested one gloved hand on the roof of the Blackbird, her eyes sharp as blades.
Still no sign of the Eight-Six.
Back at the house, Collei slammed the receiver down on the landline, her chest heaving.
She had called every goddamn bar in the city.
"It's no use! I'm never gonna find that dumbass!"
Her voice echoed down the empty street. Her control finally snapped.
She marched outside, fists clenched, and shouted at the sky with everything she had.
"DAMN IT, WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?! BRING ME BACK MY EIGHT-SIX!!"
Time slips away. Past 9 PM now, and the summit is cloaked in cold mist, the wind sharper, the air thinner. The crowd's chatter has dulled into quiet murmurs as a sense of anticipation looms. Seele and Beidou exchange glances—unspoken understanding passing between them—before wordlessly making their way down the incline toward Collei's place. Their silhouettes dissolve into the fog.
March and Pela stay behind with her MR2. Nearby, Ningguang lights a fresh cigarette, standing beside Yelan's ominous Porsche 930 Turbo—the Blackbird.
"So tell me, Yelan. Did you tune the Blackbird down from 700 horsepower?" Ningguang asks, her tone sharp, brow arched.
Yelan chuckles softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Are you kidding me?" she replies, amusement curling in her voice. "I don't plan to hold back. When I win this race, I want it to be total domination."
Ningguang's expression tightens. A flicker of something unreadable crosses her eyes.
"At least tell me you adjusted the setup for grip. You'll need it for this course."
Yelan shrugs, calm and unbothered. "Didn't change a thing. The beast stays as it is. I race better with what I know."
Ningguang exhales, smoke trailing from her lips in a slow ribbon. She shakes her head and mutters, "You're insane. If those tires wear down, you won't even make it halfway without sliding off the road."
Keqing steps closer, cigarette glowing at her fingertips. She exhales smoke through her nose like a dragon.
"She's crazy all right. It'd be a miracle if she even finishes."
Meanwhile, in the quiet outskirts near Collei's house...
She lies sprawled on the couch, eyes locked on the ceiling, the ticking clock nearby merciless in its pace. 9:30 PM. Her thoughts storm in circles.
What the hell is going on with me? she thinks, sitting up abruptly. Her breathing is shallow, tension crackling through every limb like static. It's like I'm drowning here… Why am I so tense? Mt. Yougou is calling me. I need to race that Blackbird.
She begins pacing.
I've driven this course—rain, fog, hell even ice—five and a half years... It's in my bones. But still, I feel like I've only scratched the surface.
Suddenly, the unmistakable growl of a twin-turbo inline-six screams through the neighborhood—an unholy wail of polished aggression. Collei's heart jumps into her throat.
She bolts outside.
Tires screech as the Devil Z skids to a halt just beyond her driveway. The scent of burnt rubber mixes with the night air. Beidou jumps out of the passenger side, Seele right behind her. They both rush toward Collei.
"Thank god you're home," Beidou huffs, hands on her knees. "We need to talk!"
Inside, after the full situation is laid out, Beidou throws her hands up.
"You can't be serious! Your dad took the car, you don't know where she went, and you have no clue when she's coming back?!"
Collei nods, shame flickering in her eyes.
Seele clenches her fists. "We're screwed! If the Eight-Six isn't here, there's no point heading back to Yougou!"
Beidou stomps the floor. "Why tonight of all nights?!"
Collei sighs, looking at them with a tired smile. "Let me guess. You came here to convince me to race, right?"
The two nod sheepishly.
"The course is packed," Seele says. "Even the Rotary Duo—Keqing and Ningguang—are up there to watch you."
Beidou adds, "You're the main event, Collei. Everyone's talking."
Collei blushes faintly, running a hand through her hair. "I wish I could be up there... but without a car, I'm grounded."
Beidou snaps her fingers. "You could race in Seele's Devil Z!"
Collei blinks. "Devil... Z?"
Seele grins wide. "My S30Z. It went up against the Blackbird back in the Wangan days. 3.1-liter, twin-turbo, widened track, coilovers. It's built to bite."
Collei shakes her head. "I can't. That's your car. And if I'm racing that Porsche, I need something I know like the back of my hand. Even with my eyes shut."
Before they can argue, an unmistakable bark echoes in the distance.
The raw, guttural growl of a naturally aspirated inline-four. Collei's eyes go wide.
She rushes to the curb, ears straining.
Blip-blip. A double-pump of the throttle on downshift.
She turns to them, her voice unwavering. "That's her. That's the Eight-Six."
Seele raises an eyebrow. "That could be any four-cylinder car."
Collei shakes her head. "No. She always does that double pump after a downshift. That's my dad."
Back at the summit...
Ningguang taps her cigarette.
"You think she'll show up? It's getting late."
Keqing smirks. "She'll be here. No doubt. When we saw her last night, she had that look in her eyes."
That look only racers get. The one before they throw everything into the abyss.
"She's just fashionably late."
Back in the valley, the Eight-Six growls into view.
Collei grips the wheel again, the texture of the worn leather familiar as skin. She glances over at Arlecchino—cool, unreadable as ever.
"Sorry for borrowing the car this late, Dad. I owe you big time."
Arlecchino simply nods, arms crossed. "Go earn it, then."
Outside, Seele waves. "Come on, Collei! We gotta move! And thanks, Ms. Arlecchino! I'll bring tofu next time!"
Collei signals a thumbs-up. The Eight-Six snarls as she drops the clutch. Tires squeal, rear end sliding just slightly before gripping as she launches forward. The Devil Z follows like a black panther, its exhaust note shaking windows.
Arlecchino watches, voice almost inaudible. "Something's changed in you, kid... Whatever's going down tonight, you're ready."
Approaching the start of the uphill.
Beidou turns, grinning. "Think you can catch her?"
Seele laughs, gripping the wheel with both hands. "A 1.6-liter NA versus a 3.1-liter twin-turbo? I'm catching up."
The Devil Z howls as she buries the throttle. Turbos spool. Blow-off valve hisses. But something's off.
The corners come—and the Eight-Six pulls away.
Not gradually. Violently.
The Z claws at the pavement, but the gap widens. At each apex, the Trueno dances with terrifying precision. Her throttle blips are surgical. Her corner entries? Beyond logic.
They hit the first tight switchback. The Z brakes late, its suspension loaded, tires screaming—and yet the Eight-Six disappears around the corner like vapor.
"How...?" Beidou mutters.
Seele scowls. "She's not driving the road—she's carving it."
Back at the summit.
March paces. Pela tries to calm her.
"She'll be here. Like the FD race. You'll see."
March stops. Her arms drop. Her voice is brittle. "She's not coming this time."
She turns toward the road, walking. Pela reaches out, but March brushes her off.
Halfway to the Blackbird, she freezes. Breath catches.
A pair of headlights pierce through the darkness—small, sharp beams.
The sound of that 4A-GE engine crests over the mountain's edge. WaaAAHHHH—braaap—BLIP.
It's her.
Collei leans out of the window. "Hey March! Sorry I'm late!"
March bursts into tears, sprinting into her arms as the Eight-Six idles beside the Blackbird. She clutches Collei tightly, the weight of anxiety evaporating.
Seele and Beidou skid in behind, witnessing the moment. They don't interrupt.
Final moments before the race.
Engines idling.
Lyney, stationed near the five infamous hairpins, speaks quietly into the phone.
"She's here."
Arlecchino's voice crackles through.
"The Blackbird's weakness is obvious. But it's heavy. That's its only real edge—momentum."
Elsewhere, Keqing and Ningguang are on the line.
"With that weight distribution," Ningguang says, "you have to tame the rear. But that thing doesn't forgive mistakes. Even with grip tires, it'll eat itself halfway down."
Back on Lyney's call:
"I made tweaks," Arlecchino says, sipping something. "Dialed up understeer on throttle."
Lyney's voice spikes. "You what?! She relies on oversteer to rotate through corners!"
"She's been driving tofu runs like that for months. It's safer. And tonight, she'll need it. Those hairpins? They'll destroy the Blackbird. And Collei'll still be there, gliding through."
The air trembles as both cars rumble to life—Blackbird growling like a beast from another era. Eight-Six idling, its tach bouncing at 1,200 RPM. Both engines rev. Both drivers stare down the dark ribbon of asphalt.
This wasn't just a race.
This was everything.
Endurance. Willpower. Identity.
And it was just beginning.