The night was far from over.
Collei rolled the Eight-Six to a stop beside Silverwolf's Integra, the idle of the 4A-GE engine crackling low and tense like a fuse burning toward detonation. The mountain air was sharp with pine and burnt rubber, thickened further by anticipation so heavy it clung to the skin like humidity. Every pair of eyes in the crowd locked on the two cars—no one spoke. The silence wasn't peace; it was the calm before a landslide.
Silverwolf stepped away from her car with her hands tucked lazily in her pockets, the fluorescent gleam of Yougou's mountaintop lights catching in her eyes. She walked up to Yelan and tossed a roll of silver duct tape into her hands with careless ease, like it was nothing more than an afterthought—a tool for a routine fix. The tape hit Yelan's palm with a soft thud. Her fingers closed around it slowly, staring at it like it was a live grenade.
Her eyes flicked to Silverwolf's face. "You are out of your goddamned mind," she said, voice flat and low, with the edge of someone barely keeping their composure in check.
Silverwolf's lips curled into that same smug smirk that seemed permanently carved into her face. She patted Yelan's shoulder like they were teammates getting ready for a basketball game. "Relax. This one's already in the bag for me."
Collei stepped out of the Eight-Six. The driver's door cracked open with a metallic pop, and her boots hit the pavement with intent. Her expression was cold fire—lips pressed into a thin line, eyes hard and narrowed. She walked straight up to Yelan, her gaze unshakable.
"Do what you have to do," she said quietly. No fear. Just focus. Her voice was steady like the ticking of a metronome, the kind that counted down to war.
Beidou was on her in an instant. "You don't have to do this!" Her hand latched onto Collei's shoulder, fingers tense, voice desperate. "You won't be able to steer! This isn't some normal race, Collei—"
Smack.
Collei's palm came down hard on the steering wheel rim, loud and sharp. The sound snapped through the night like a whip, silencing Beidou instantly. Her hand trembled slightly as she pulled it back, but her voice didn't.
"I don't care!" Collei barked, and now it was raw, trembling with something far more dangerous than fear—righteous, unfiltered rage. "Nobody pulls this kind of shit and gets away with it! I'm not backing out of this, even if it's the last thing I do. I won't lose to an asshole like her."
Her words hit harder than her palm. The group fell dead quiet. Even the crickets in the trees seemed to hold their breath.
Yelan crouched beside her, the roll of tape still gripped loosely in her hands. Her expression shifted. That usual half-smile vanished. In its place—regret. Pity, maybe. But not weakness.
"Sorry, kid," she murmured, low and solemn. "I gotta do this. No hard feelings."
Collei exhaled through her nose. Slow. Controlled. Her right hand flexed, her knuckles ghost-pale. "I don't hate you for it," she said, almost too softly. "You're only doing it because she forced you to."
Yelan gave a small, weary smile. It didn't reach her eyes. "Then show her what you're made of."
She reached forward. The first loop of tape wrapped around Collei's wrist with a muted ripppp. The adhesive dug into skin, pulling against her pulse as Yelan wound it again—tight, secure, unyielding. She anchored Collei's right hand to the wheel spoke in three tight wraps. It was surgical. Final.
When she finished, she stood and closed the door with a quiet click that felt heavier than any slamming gesture could've.
Silverwolf was leaning against the front fender of her Integra, arms folded, watching with that same damn grin. She stretched like a cat waking up from a nap and gave Collei a lazy thumbs-up.
"See you later, sport. Try not to—"
She never finished the sentence.
Collei's left hand gripped the shifter.
And slammed the accelerator to the fucking floor.
The Eight-Six roared like an animal uncaged. The high-pitched scream of the 4A-GE engine hit 8000 RPM in an instant, exhaust barking with violent pops as the rear tires shredded against the tarmac. The car exploded forward with zero hesitation, zero wheelspin compensation, just raw, unfiltered launch—rear end squatting low under the torque, tires squealing a death cry into the trees.
Silverwolf staggered backward as a burst of gravel and dust hit her like a shotgun blast.
Her smirk was gone.
"The fuck—" Her words were eaten by the fading roar of the Eight-Six.
She'd expected fear. Maybe hesitation. Not this.
She tore open her door, practically dived into the seat, and twisted the key. The B18C came alive with a snarl—loud, metallic, pissed off. Her hand blurred through the gear pattern: first gear, clutch dumped, revs spiked. The Integra's front tires lit up in protest before grabbing hard, rocketing forward into the darkness. But she was already behind.
Already chasing.
Beidou spun toward her R32. "What the hell are we waiting for? Let's go!"
Seele and Pela bolted toward the Devil Z, their footfalls chaotic over cracked pavement. Pela flung the passenger door open and practically dove inside. "But we'll never catch them in time!"
"We're not racing," Beidou shouted, already halfway into her own car. "We're making sure nobody dies!"
Her fingers twisted the ignition. The RB26 growled to life, a mechanical predator purring on a leash.
March threw herself into her Supra, twisting the key with both hands as the inline-six barked to life. Her eyes burned with adrenaline and fear.
Yelan didn't rush.
She exhaled slowly, watching the end of her cigarette glow one last time before flicking it into the dark. She stepped into the Blackbird with practiced grace and turned the key.
WAAHHHHMM—
The 930's turbocharged flat-six roared awake, filling the space with a guttural howl—thicker, deeper, darker than any of the others. A scream from another world.
The convoy rumbled to life like a pack of hounds given scent.
Headlights flared one by one, cutting long white beams into the night like spears.
And then—
They launched.
Rubber burned. Engines screamed. Pavement tore under the assault of raw horsepower as the four chase cars peeled out in rapid succession—Blackbird, Supra, R32, Devil Z—thundering down the mountain in pursuit of the two who had already vanished into the black.
This wasn't just a race anymore.
This was war.
The Eight-Six and the Integra were already deep into the first set of corners, their crimson taillights slicing through the darkness like twin embers in a forest fire. Engine noise howled off the cliffside and echoed down the deserted slopes of Mount Yougou—no crowd, no checkpoints, no bullshit. Just blood, steel, and the edge of death.
Inside the lead car, Collei's heart thudded in her throat like a jackhammer gone haywire. Her left hand was bolted to the gear shifter, sweat trickling between her fingers. Her right wrist was strapped firm to the steering wheel with that cursed length of gum tape—tight enough to make the joints scream when she turned hard.
No room for error.
This was a Gum Tape Deathmatch.
And if Silver Wolf thought she'd waltz through this like some casual conquest—Collei would drag her through the gates of hell before letting her win.
Collei's AE86 Trueno surged through the mountain's dark arteries, neck and neck with Silver Wolf's DC2 Integra Type R. The road was rough, half-wet from dew, lined by trees like silent watchers. There were no headlights behind them. No one had followed. This wasn't an exhibition.
This was a duel.
"Let's see how many corners you can last, Eight-Six girl," Silver Wolf spat into the night, teeth bared in a feral grin. Her eyes never left the rearview mirror, watching the panda-colored ghost cling stubbornly to her bumper.
The first left-hander loomed—sharp, tight, blind on exit. Collei's mind fired on instinct. She eased into the brake, heel-toed down to third, the tachometer flickering as it dropped from 7800 RPM to a tight 5400. The engine barked in protest. Her eyes tracked the apex.
Then it hit—the limitation.
Her right arm stopped dead.
Strapped tight at the wrist, she couldn't steer far enough. The angle wasn't there. The front tires weren't pointed in deep enough. The nose was drifting wide—right toward the guardrail.
Panic exploded in her chest.
"No, no, no—!"
She lunged forward mid-corner, twisting her body violently. Her right hand clamped over her left wrist and yanked, hard. The wheel jerked just enough. The tires screeched in response. The AE86's front end tucked in like a kicked dog, missing the steel barrier by maybe two inches.
A shiver ran through the chassis. The car shook. But it held.
Collei's breath came in ragged gasps as she straightened out. Her voice cracked into the cabin like a gunshot.
"Holy shit. That was close..."
Behind her, Silver Wolf just laughed. "All luck," she called out into the night, her foot slamming down on the throttle as her Integra howled. "Let's see if you can handle the rest of this mountain, Eight-Six of Yougou!"
The next few corners blurred together—a twisted series of left-right chicanes and long bends with no margin for error. Collei backed off, just enough to collect herself. Each movement had to be precise. No wasted effort. No unnecessary wheel input.
But something changed by the third hairpin.
Her eyes snapped wide with sudden understanding. The whole damn thing clicked.
"I get it now. The less I fight the drift—the less I try to correct it—the faster I go. I can flow through these…"
She tightened her grip. "Alright, Silver Wolf… Now I put you down!"
She mashed the gas pedal, pinning it to the floor. The Eight-Six responded with a savage scream, the tach climbing through 7000—7500—8200. The 4A-GE engine hit its power band like a rocket. Torque slammed into the rear tires.
Silverwolf's smile faltered as she glanced at her mirror. "What the—?! She's closing in?! After that much pressure?! She's faster now?!"
The fourth hairpin flashed into view, a brutal off-camber left. Silver Wolf snapped the wheel, late-braked into the inside line, trying to anchor the Integra's nose down with a sharp weight shift. She was aggressive now—desperate.
And in her desperation, she fucked up.
Mid-corner, the Integra bumped the Eight-Six—hard.
Collei's rear end snapped out, the world spinning around her in a sickening blur. For a fraction of a second, the AE86 entered a full 360 spin.
Collei didn't blink.
Her reflexes screamed louder than her heartbeat. She yanked the wheel with every fiber of her body, countersteering as violently as the gum tape would allow. The moment the rear tires bit into the road again, she dumped the clutch, caught the RPMs at 6200, and floored it.
The car stabilized.
Just in time to see the Integra nosing past.
But the Eight-Six had only lost a car length.
In the other cockpit, Silver Wolf's expression twisted. "Shit! That should've spun her out!"
She floored it harder. The Integra surged forward.
Collei's knuckles went white. She could feel the fire rising in her gut. Her grip on the wheel was vicious. Her thighs twitched from the tension. Every muscle in her body screamed for war.
"You fucking asshole… You did that on purpose…"
Her head snapped forward. She roared into the cabin, veins bulging in her neck:
"I WON'T LOSE TO AN ASSHOLE LIKE YOU!"
She slammed the clutch, downshifted, and dumped it with violent force. The Eight-Six jolted forward. The tach spiked—5600—6300—7000—8000 RPMs. Her right arm howled in agony as she pulled the wheel through the corner using every ounce of torque in her core and left shoulder.
From here, it wasn't racing.
It was war.
Every shift was a blow. Every drift was a scream. Every flick of the wheel felt like it might dislocate her goddamn shoulder.
But she didn't slow down.
Silverwolf saw it all in the mirror. "She's not reacting at all?! No fear?! What the hell kind of freak are you?!"
The road narrowed into a vicious S-curve—double apex, zero margin. Silver Wolf apexed cleanly, textbook-perfect. Her tires barely whispered against the pavement. LSD was doing its job. The Integra was smooth as silk.
But the sound behind her wasn't smooth.
It was feral.
Collei threw the AE86 into the first part of the S like a weapon. The car skidded sideways, oversteer flaring. The rear tires hopped off a rut, flinging sparks. Her suspension compressed hard—metal grinding on metal.
The car leaped over the curb, rear tires kicking up sparks as they barely clung to the pavement. The weight transfer was too much—the Eight-Six's rear end snapped loose, sliding out wide—
BANG!
The car slammed against the guardrail, sending a violent jolt through the chassis. Metal shrieked. The car lurched forward, barely staying in control.
She didn't lift.
Pain shot through her strapped wrist like someone was driving a nail into the bone. She bit her tongue to avoid screaming. Blood welled up in her mouth.
But she held it.
"She's still with me?!" Silverwolf gasped, staring in disbelief.
Collei's voice shook with pain, but the fire never left it. "I don't need two hands to beat you. I just need one good reason."
And then she floored it again.
The AE86 blasted out of the corner like a bullet, its front end twitching from damage, rear bumper flapping. But it was alive. Faster. Closer.
Next corner—a sweeping left, long and deceptive. Silver Wolf dove into the inside, trying to block the line.
Collei didn't flinch.
She went wide. Too wide.
The rear tires skimmed the outer edge. Bark and debris exploded into the air as she flirted with the edge of the mountain. One slip, and she'd be airborne.
She didn't back off.
The AE86 slid around the corner with the nose aimed directly at the Integra's driver-side window.
They were side-by-side.
Silverwolf's pupils dilated. "No—no, she can't—!"
Then came the snake's tail.
A rapid-fire combo of back-to-back hairpins. Five more to the finish.
Silverwolf nailed the entry, but her tires were fading. Her brakes were overheating. Her mental edge was gone.
Collei went gutter-to-gutter, diving into every inside line with terrifying commitment. She clipped a reflector. Scraped her fender. Kissed the inside wall.
She didn't care.
Four corners left.
Silverwolf saw the panda-colored blur slide inside again—too close.
She hit the brakes—too hard. The Integra's front end locked. ABS kicked in, tires chattered.
Mistake.
Collei saw the opening. Slammed into the gutter run. The front right tire locked into the storm drain groove—classic gutter technique—and the car slingshotted forward like a cannonball.
She passed Silver Wolf on the inside. Clean. No contact.
Silverwolf was screaming in disbelief. "No—no no no no NO!"
The Eight-Six slingshotted past the Integra with a terrifying burst of speed, hugging the inside line so tight that a single miscalculation would have ended it all.
The pass was clean. Perfect. Absolute.
Silverwolf watched helplessly as Collei surged ahead, widening the gap with every brutal switchback. The hairpins vanished one by one. The Integra was being left behind.
Final straightaway.
Silverwolf's breath came in short gasps. She was out of time.
No. No, not yet.
Her grip tightened. "At this rate, I'll lose. But another little nudge won't hurt. Especially at this speed."
Her eyes darkened.
"It's time to send that junker to the scrapyard!"
She cut in hard—going for the kill.
The Integra lunged toward the Eight-Six's rear bumper, ready to spin it out at full speed.
But Collei saw it coming.
She flicked the wheel, committing to a drift at the last second. The Integra whiffed the hit, its momentum sending it spiraling off-line.
Silverwolf realized it too late.
She stabbed the brakes—wrong move.
The front wheels locked. The Integra skidded sideways—
CRASH!
The left side of the car slammed into the guardrail, metal crumpling as it scraped along the barrier in a violent firework of sparks. The screeching echoed into the night as the car ground to a halt.
The engine sputtered once.
Then fell silent.
It was over.
The Aftermath
Silverwolf sat motionless, her breaths shallow and uneven, each one scraping against her throat like gravel. Her fingers, still curled tightly around the steering wheel, trembled with a jagged rhythm. The cracked dash in front of her—fractured right where her fist had slammed it after the spinout—seemed to mock her. Her wrist was on fire, throbbing with every heartbeat, the pain radiating up her arm like a signal flare. The seatbelt strap dug into her shoulder, and the lingering smell of burnt rubber and scorched brake pads clung to her skin like a second layer.
She finally moved—slow, robotic—reaching up with her uninjured hand to peel the gum tape off her wrist. Each pull of adhesive was its own torment, peeling skin along with it. Her hand was already swelling, a sick purple halo spreading across the bone. She winced hard, jaw tightening to hold back a hiss of pain.
Then came the hardest part—getting out. She popped the door open and pushed it outward with her knee, every joint screaming in protest. Her legs buckled slightly when she stood, but she caught herself. She walked around the mangled front end of her Integra like a mourner at a funeral. Her breath fogged in the cool mountain air, shallow and shaking.
Crouching beside the crumpled hood, she placed a hand on it—trembling, reverent. Metal, warped and split. Heat radiated from the engine block in waves.
"I'm so fucking sorry," she whispered. Her fingers brushed across the bent aluminum like she was trying to soothe it, like it could understand.
She didn't hear the convoy at first—just the distant hum of engines rolling closer, headlights washing through the trees. The sound grew louder, more distinct. Then came the brake lights. Tires crunching gravel. Doors opening. Voices rising in shocked disbelief.
Beidou's R32 sat at the front, hazard lights pulsing like a heartbeat in the dark. The rest of the convoy flared out behind it—Keqing's FD, March's Cappuccino, Seele's Z, and Yelan's Blackbird. All of them climbing out, eyes wide.
Beidou broke the silence first. "No fucking way… Silverwolf wrecked out?!"
Seele was already sprinting, kneeling down beside her, brushing hair out of her eyes. "Hey—hey! Are you alright?! Talk to me."
Silverwolf didn't answer right away. She just held up her arm, showing the swelling. Her voice was sandpaper. "Wrist's fucked."
Yelan's sharp eyes flicked to the injury, her tone clinical but grim. "That's not just bruised. That's broken. You're done driving tonight."
Beidou jerked her thumb toward the R32's open door. "We're taking you in. Nearest hospital's in the valley."
Silverwolf looked at them—at all of them—and then back at her car, mangled and silent.
"…After everything I did? I nearly took you all out. I don't deserve your help."
"Bullshit," Seele snapped. Her voice was soft, but the edge cut like a knife. "You're hurt. Let us help."
March stood just behind her, arms folded tight, trying to stay composed. "We'll argue later. Get in the car, please."
Silverwolf wavered, her posture finally collapsing inward. "…Alright. Thanks. And… I'm sorry. For everything. I didn't mean for it to end like this."
Beidou and Seele each took one side, guiding her into the R32's passenger seat with careful movements. She groaned as she settled in.
March lingered for a moment, staring at the wreckage. Her voice was barely audible, almost like it was just for her.
"…Collei won the Gum Tape Deathmatch."
The convoy pulled away, engines low and respectful, disappearing into the night and leaving the wrecked Integra behind—an echo of what had been.
Back at the House of Arlecchino
Collei climbed out of the Eight-Six, her boots thudding against the ground. The engine ticked softly as it cooled, the scent of scorched oil and cooked brakes hanging in the garage like ghosts.
Her eyes immediately went to the right rear quarter panel. The sheet metal was dented inward, gouged down to the primer. Bits of white paint flaked off like dead skin. Black smears from Silverwolf's bumper streaked the damage like claw marks.
Her stomach twisted.
The door to the house creaked open.
Arlecchino stood in the frame like a statue, cigarette smoldering between her fingers, her gaze laser-focused on the side of the Eight-Six.
"What the hell happened to the car, Collei?" Her voice was calm—but only just. Like a gun with the safety off.
Collei didn't answer immediately. She walked over, ran her hand along the dent. The metal was warm under her fingers, but rough—jagged.
Her voice came out low, thick with anger and something worse. Guilt.
"I was battling someone dirty. She rear-ended me. Hard. I spun out. Managed to save it… but after that, I just… I lost it. I chased her down."
She clenched her fists. Her nails dug into her palms.
"I let rage take the wheel."
Arlecchino stepped down the last stair and crossed the floor. Her hand landed firm on Collei's shoulder—not rough, not punishing. Just… steady.
"Don't carry that weight alone." Her voice dropped, tone gentler now. "Everyone breaks sometime. Even me. But…"
She crouched slightly to eye the damage, then looked up with a crooked smirk.
"…I wouldn't have hit the rail."
Collei let out a shaky breath, something between a scoff and a sigh.
"So… did you win?"
Collei nodded. Quietly. "Yeah. I won."
That smirk widened into a full-blown grin. Arlecchino stood, tossed the cigarette into a nearby can, and gave her a sharp nod.
"That's my girl."
She turned and walked inside, leaving the door open behind her.
Collei stayed.
She knelt beside the Eight-Six again, hand resting on the scarred panel. Her throat was tight, and her voice cracked.
"Beidou and Seele… they treat their cars like they're sacred. I'm sorry, Eight-Six. I didn't mean to put you through that."
The car didn't answer, but the silence felt loaded. The engine, though off, still hummed in her bones. The memory of revs in the redline, tires screaming, the shifter slamming from gear to gear—every second of it burned into her.
She traced the edge of the dent slowly.
Every scar told a story. But this one… this one was a wound she gave it. Not just from the battle—but from her failure to stay calm. She hadn't just pushed the car. She'd punished it.
A faint shuffle behind her.
She turned.
Arlecchino again—arms crossed, watching her.
"You're still out here." Her voice had softened again, like she knew what Collei was thinking.
Collei rose slowly, wiping grit from her palms onto her jeans. "It's just… I feel like I crossed a line. I lost control."
Arlecchino shrugged. "Maybe you did. But that's how you grow. You don't level up by taking it easy. You get better by going too far… and knowing how to come back from it."
Collei gave a tiny nod, eyes still on the Eight-Six.
"I'll fix it."
Arlecchino cracked a smile. "Damn right you will."
"…Thanks, Dad."
"Don't go getting all emotional on me," Arlecchino muttered—but the warmth in her voice betrayed her.
Collei finally smiled.
The house's glow spilled out over the driveway as she followed Arlecchino back inside. The Eight-Six stood there, bruised but unbroken. Just like her.
Tomorrow, she'd wrench until her hands bled if she had to. She'd hammer out the dents, touch up the paint, get it back to perfect. But tonight?
Tonight, she'd sleep knowing one thing:
She had won.
No shortcuts. No tricks.
Just her, the wheel, and the fucking will to survive.