Time slipped by after the uphill slugfest, the adrenaline tapering into a taut silence. Clorinde had already pulled her Lancia over just before the mouth of the tunnel, the machine idling low, its bruised body gleaming under the anemic light like a resting apex predator—still coiled, still dangerous. She stepped out slow, stretched her arms overhead, rolled her shoulders until they cracked. Every breath of the night air tasted like engine oil and conquest.
That calm shattered in an instant.
A banshee shriek tore through the air—Blade's Evo storming into the lot, tires howling in protest. The car fishtailed slightly before slamming to a halt just inches behind the Lancia, the acrid stench of burned rubber choking the space between them. Blade exploded out of the driver's seat like a goddamn missile, all fury and ego, eyes wild, jaw locked tight.
"Crazy ass! What the hell was that for!?" he shouted, voice sharp as a box cutter. "You realize you could've killed us back there!? If I hadn't backed off, we'd be scraping our remains off the guardrail with a f***ing spoon!"
Clorinde turned slowly, deliberate, her boots grinding into the gravel. Her expression was cold steel at first—blank, unreadable. Then came the scoff, a sharp exhale laced with disgust. Her lips curved into a crooked grin that said try me.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" she said, voice low but lethal. "Don't tell me you actually believe that horseshit."
Blade blinked, caught off guard. He stepped back half a pace without meaning to, but his pride yanked him forward again. "The hell are you trying to say?"
Clorinde tilted her head like she was studying a wounded animal. The grin deepened into something nastier.
"You seriously don't get it? You had room. If you'd pulled all the way right, we both could've slid through clean. But no. You left just enough of your dumbass in the lane to start drama. You know this course better than I do, don't you?" She leaned in slightly. "Or has that brick you call a brain finally caught up with your so-called skill?"
Blade's jaw flexed. His fists balled at his sides, knuckles white.
"I'd get it if the contact shoved us into a rail," Clorinde continued, voice gaining bite. "But it was a straight. Fucking. Away. I was hugging the barricade with two centimeters to spare. You had six, maybe ten between us. What, you think my Lancia's the size of a goddamn bulldozer?"
"You can't possibly measure that while driving!" Blade shot back, frustration dripping from every word. "That's impossible!"
Clorinde let out a dry, venom-laced laugh. "Then get the fuck off the mountain. If you don't understand your car's width, or mine, you've got no business driving at speed. I don't give a shit how much horsepower you've got under the hood. If you're gonna cry about every tight pass, maybe go back to arcade racers."
She took a step closer, their faces inches apart now, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. "You want to prove something? Do it on the course. Not by crying in the lot like a sore loser. Try a full-speed braking contest next time—see what a real duel looks like. Until then?"
She turned her back on him.
"You've got nothing to say to me. I'm done here."
Gravel crunched under her boots as she walked away without another glance, the final word hanging in the air like smoke. She swung into the Lancia, fired up the engine, and backed into the main lot with a flick of the wrist. The car idled beside Collei's Eight-Six, the two machines resting like old war dogs—scarred, but undefeated.
Clorinde stepped out, and just like that, the tension bled off. Her face lit up the second she spotted Navia. That hard edge softened into warmth so fast it was almost jarring.
She crossed the lot in two strides and threw her arms around Navia. "You are a fucking legend. I owe you big time."
Navia chuckled, cool as ever. "Just doing my job, sweetie."
Clorinde pulled back, grinning wide. "Damn right you are."
Across the way, Kafka leaned on her R34, arms crossed, watching Blade pacing like a mad dog. He barked into his phone, waving his arms like he was about to punch the night itself.
She shook her head and sighed. "No surprise you lost, Blade," she muttered. "You're cracked. Something broke in you tonight."
Her eyes slid toward Collei, standing by the Eight-Six, deep in conversation with Albedo. Kafka pushed off her car and strolled toward them.
As Kafka's R34 rolled into position minutes later, Collei's Eight-Six crept up behind it. The start line loomed ahead, silent and waiting.
Collei stepped out, stretching her shoulders, jaw set tight.
Kafka approached, voice level. "Hey, kid."
Collei turned, eyes narrowing. "What?"
"Name's Kafka," she said. "You?"
"…Collei."
Kafka nodded, then glanced over her shoulder. Blade stood under a tree, phone still jammed to his ear, his other hand clenched like it wanted to break something.
"Listen," Kafka said, voice dropping low. "Blade's calling in some muscle. He's planning to jump your crew after the race."
Collei stiffened. Her fists curled tight.
"And why the hell should I trust you?"
Kafka exhaled slowly. "Because it's the truth. Believe it or don't. I'm still telling you. I'm not Blade. I might roll with him, but I don't play his game. Never have."
Collei studied her for a beat, eyes scanning Kafka's face for any sign of deceit. But all she saw was weary honesty.
"…Fine. I'll pass it on."
Kafka offered a faint smile, then stepped back. "Good. Good luck, kid. We'll both need it. If Blade figures out I ratted, I'm done."
She turned and slid into her R34, shutting the door with a soft thunk.
Collei didn't waste a second. She waved Albedo over, urgency in every line of her body.
"Collei?" he asked, jogging up. "What's going on? You're tense."
"A bit," she replied, voice clipped but calm. "Kafka gave me a warning. Blade's bringing in some thugs. Wants to rough us up once the race ends."
Albedo's entire demeanor shifted. "He's what?"
"You heard me. Tell the others. Quietly. While the race is running."
Albedo gave her a hard nod. "Done. You focus on driving. We'll handle the rest."
Collei's lips curled into a razor-sharp smirk. "Wasn't planning on doing anything else."
The two exchanged a quick high-five—brief, sharp, and full of purpose—before Collei slid into the driver's seat of her Eight-Six. The moment her hand twisted the ignition key, the Group A-spec 4A-GE barked to life with a throat-clearing snarl that echoed across the mountain like a battle cry from a long-forgotten war god.
"Time to give them hell," she muttered under her breath, hands wrapping tightly around the leather-wrapped wheel. Her fingers twitched once, subtle but ready—ready like a drawn blade.
All around them, engines kicked over, a chorus of fury and anticipation. The crowd leaned in, some clutching their phones, others holding their breath. The air was electric, charged with raw adrenaline and the scent of fuel and scorched rubber.
Keqing stepped out to the line, bathed in the glare of headlights, her silhouette commanding silence. She raised her hand, fingers slicing upward with razor precision.
"We're starting the race!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the noise like a whipcrack.
"FIVE!"
"FOUR!"
"THREE!"
"TWO!"
"ONE!"
"GO!"
Her arms dropped—and the mountain detonated into motion.
Kafka's R34 lunged forward, all-wheel drive digging deep into the tarmac with predatory grip. The RB26 roared, the turbo's spool shrieking like a banshee. Its tires clawed forward with a brutal launch, a beast unleashed.
Collei's AE86 stumbled for a breath—not hesitation, just the half-second delay of an NA rear-wheel drive car catching traction. But then the high-pitched scream of the Silvertop lit up the night, the tach needle dancing past 9,000 RPM in a blur. Her tires found bite and the Eight-Six surged, light and fierce, slashing down the hill like a thrown dagger chasing its mark.
They plunged into the darkness, headlights carving through the trees, suspension compressing hard into the first downhill dip. The first right-hand sweeper came up fast.
Kafka flicked the R34 in with the practiced ease of a veteran—brake, downshift, throttle balance, the car rotating fluidly as the chassis gripped with relentless intent. It was brutal and refined at once.
Behind her, Collei jabbed the clutch, downshifted with a quick heel-toe, and kicked the Eight-Six into an aggressive flick-entry. The rear snapped out, just shy of oversteer. She corrected with cold-blooded micro-adjustments to the wheel, keeping the car balanced on a razor's edge. Rear tires screamed softly—just a whisper of slip—as the AE86 blasted out of the turn, apex clean, gap closing by fractions.
Next came the sharp left hairpin.
Kafka initiated early, braking in a straight line with a firm, no-nonsense stomp. The R34 dove into the corner, weight shifting to the nose, tires shrieking under the load. She rotated through with controlled aggression, grip-first, torque-rich.
But Collei—Collei came in hot.
No fear, no doubt. She braked late, a full half-second after anyone sane would've lifted. Tires locked for a blink. Then she feathered off, popped the clutch again, and flung the car sideways into a gutsy, high-speed four-wheel drift. Dust kicked up. Rear tires skated a hand's width from the outer edge of the pavement.
The crowd watching on the cliffside gasped in unison.
That gap? Vanished.
Back at base camp, Ningguang stood cool and composed, arms folded as she stared at the feed. The monitors reflected in her eyes—two sets of headlights weaving through the mountain like dueling blades.
"I'm proud of both of them," she said quietly. "They don't need my advice anymore. Their instincts are sharper than any lecture I could give."
She paused, eyes narrowing with clinical focus.
"But that R34..." Her voice turned analytical. "It's still a monster. Torque-heavy, boost-fed, stable as hell. Collei's going to have to exploit every single weakness it has in braking and rotation. That's her only path to pass."
Farther down the mountain, the race screamed on through tight, winding bends—gut-punch lefts, off-camber rights, compound corners that punished even the slightest hesitation.
Kafka's R34 stuck to the road like a damn tick, eating through every apex with sheer mechanical dominance. The tires sang their high-pitched dirge, the RB26's turbo wailing as she exited each turn like she was trying to break the road behind her.
Collei? She was chasing shadows—and erasing them.
Every corner was a canvas, and her car painted in brushstrokes of throttle control, precise weight transfer, and road intimacy only earned through countless laps of isolation. She stayed just outside Kafka's slipstream, timing her braking points to the millisecond. The AE86 darted through the chicanes like it had no weight at all, every slide deliberate, calculated, fluid.
In the cockpit of the R34, Kafka glanced into her mirror. Her brows knit together.
"She's still there?" she muttered. "That Eight-Six... it's not just fast. It's disciplined."
They hit a long straight, and Kafka dropped the hammer. Turbo boost hit hard—like a freight train surging through her veins. The gap widened, momentarily.
But the next corner came fast.
And Collei didn't flinch.
She braked late. Later than reason. Later than safety. Her front tires howled under the strain, the car twitching—borderline unstable. But she held it. Countersteer. Modulate throttle. Balance the body mid-slide. Her rear tires brushed the shoulder—millimeters from the edge.
Perfect four-wheel drift. Art.
Cheers erupted from the crowd as the Eight-Six reeled Kafka back in, eating up the gap like a starving wolf.
"Look at that Eight-Six go!" a spotter yelled into the radio. "She's right on her goddamn tail!"
At base camp, Keqing ended a call and turned sharply to Ningguang, her expression tense but lit with pride.
"Collei's doing great so far. That new braking technique? It's blowing everyone's minds."
Clorinde smirked from where she leaned against the guardrail, arms crossed.
"Of course it is," she said with a dry chuckle. "She's been drilling that line every night. I've seen her eyes when she drives it—pure instinct now. She knows her weight transfer better than most pros."
Ningguang nodded slowly, eyes locked on the screen. "The Eight-Six's brakes were reworked for front-end bias, tuned to give her the edge downhill. With that lightweight chassis, if her footwork's perfect, she can beat ABS on feel alone."
She tilted her head slightly.
"But don't underestimate the R34. That straight-line pull is no joke. With a setup like Kafka's, she can hit boost mid-corner and launch out with almost no lag. If Collei tries to out-accelerate her, she's toast. Her only shot is braking—right on the knife's edge, where guts and precision blur."
Back on the course, the tension was electric—thick enough to strangle a breath. Despite the R34's sheer power advantage, Collei's Eight-Six was clawing back precious seconds, corner by corner, like a bloodhound closing in on its prey. The two cars dove headfirst into a tight S-curve—a brutal rhythm of left-right transitions meant to shake off pursuers. But the Eight-Six didn't flinch. Its tires bit into the asphalt, the rear end twitching ever so slightly as Collei worked the steering wheel with microscopic adjustments, her heel-toe downshifts a rapid-fire staccato of precision.
The gap shrank to nothing.
Her front bumper now hovered dangerously close to Kafka's rear, like a blade hovering an inch above flesh.
Inside the R34, Kafka's eyes flicked to her rearview mirror, and her jaw tightened. A single bead of sweat traced a line down her temple, vanishing into the fabric of her racing suit.
"Crap, she's right behind me. I can't shake her!"
Her grip on the wheel tightened—knuckles white through the leather gloves. But then, a small, defiant smirk crept across her lips.
"It's fine. The midsection's coming up—fast-paced corners. That's my strength. I've still got a chance!"
Her foot buried the accelerator, and the R34 surged forward with a deep, throaty growl, its inline-six turbo spooling with fury. The boost kicked in hard, trying to punch a hole in the gap—but the Eight-Six wouldn't budge from her rearview. Collei's persistence was relentless, a storm in her wake.
Up ahead, another hairpin—a long, technical right-hander—loomed like a wall.
Kafka stomped the brakes hard, initiating a fluid trail-brake entry. The R34 glided in, its weight transfer flawless as she feathered the throttle mid-corner, balancing the drift with veteran touch. She spared another glance in the mirror—only to see the Eight-Six barrel in with murder in its headlights.
Collei braked late—criminally late. Her front tires locked for a fraction of a second before catching grip again, and then the whole car pivoted into a stunning four-wheel drift. Her line was tighter, her throttle feathered just right to swing the rear end around without overshooting. Sparks flared from the undercarriage as she scraped just millimeters from the inner edge.
"She's still closing the gap! Jesus Christ!"
Spectators at the cliffside vantage points leaned forward, eyes wide, some gripping the guardrails with white-knuckled fists. The Eight-Six shot out of the corner like a slingshot, tucking right back onto Kafka's bumper.
The two cars screamed into another high-speed section. The mountain air, cold and razor-thin, carried the thunder of their engines down into the valley like a war cry.
Back at the base, tension was a noose tightening around every throat. The crowd buzzed with energy, glued to the live telemetry feeds and spotter calls relayed through radios. Screens flickered with the blurred shapes of the racers. Then, through the controlled chaos, Albedo strode in—fast, deliberate steps that drew attention without a word.
He made a beeline toward Clorinde and Keqing, who stood near a makeshift command table lit by a portable lamp. His face—usually unreadable—carried a hard line of tension, brows low, jaw clenched.
"Hey, Clorinde. Keqing." His voice was level but laced with something dark and pressing.
Clorinde turned to him, a cold edge sharpening her gaze. "What?" One word—curt, expectant, loaded.
Keqing pivoted beside her, arms crossed tight over her chest. "What's going on?"
Albedo cast a glance around the area, making sure none of the nearby racers or fans were listening. Only when satisfied did he take a breath and drop his voice.
"The girl—Kafka. She said something to Collei right before the race started. Something serious."
From behind, Ningguang looked up sharply, her golden eyes catching the shift in atmosphere like a predator sensing blood. She said nothing, only listened.
Clorinde's posture stiffened. Keqing's eyes narrowed.
"What kind of serious?" Keqing demanded, her tone dropping to a low simmer.
Albedo didn't mince words. "Kafka told her that Blade's called in backup. Muscle. Some of his bruiser types—guys who aren't here to race. They're planning to jump us after your win on the uphill."
The silence that followed was instant, suffocating.
Keqing's expression twisted, part rage, part disbelief. "You're kidding me!"
Albedo shook his head grimly. "No bluff. I know Kafka's type. If she said it, it's real. This is retaliation, plain and simple."
Keqing cursed, dragging a hand through her hair. "Un-fucking-believable. Blade's a goddamn thug. He can't stand losing like a man."
From the side, Ganyu stepped in, her usual poise fraying under pressure. Her tone was colder than anyone had heard in weeks. "How far is that loser willing to take this!?"
Clorinde didn't answer.
She turned.
Walked.
Every step deliberate. Every bootfall a warning.
The others watched in silence as she made her way across the lot toward her Lancia Rally 037. She yanked the driver's side door open with a sharp motion, leaned inside, and rummaged through the compartment below the seat.
When she stood back up, she wasn't empty-handed.
In her grasp was a Beretta 92FS—silver finish, polished walnut grips that gleamed under the floodlight's cold glow.
Time stopped. The sound of the race vanished for a breath.
No one said a word.
Clorinde calmly ejected the magazine, inspected it with a flick of her thumb—full. She slid it back in with a soft click, chambered a round with a clean, well-practiced motion, then flipped the safety on.
The clack of the slide was louder than it had any right to be.
She tucked the pistol into the waistband of her pants at the small of her back, grip exposed and easy to draw. Then she grabbed an extra mag, pocketed it, and slammed the Lancia's door shut with a flat bang.
Walking back to the group, she was a storm with calm eyes.
Keqing stared at her, pale and stunned. Her voice cracked slightly. "I-Is that… a gun?"
Clorinde nodded once. "That's right. I don't usually bring it out, but tonight? I had a feeling."
Albedo looked like he'd swallowed a brick. "What if they've got one too?"
Clorinde met his gaze flatly. "Then it'll be about who's faster, won't it?"
Ganyu raised both brows, disbelief creeping in. "What the hell else did you train for? Swordsmanship too?"
Clorinde gave a quiet, humorless chuckle. "Close enough. Martial arts and boxing since I was a kid. Grew up in a neighborhood where that wasn't optional."
Keqing took a subtle step back, her voice hushed. "You're a fighter…"
"Not by choice," Clorinde replied, her tone dry but unwavering. "But once you survive enough scraps, it sticks."
Behind them, Ningguang let out a long sigh—half exasperation, half gratitude. "Good thing we have a marksman on our side." She gave Clorinde a sidelong glance. "Let's just hope it doesn't escalate to that."
Clorinde's expression didn't flinch. "It won't—unless they force my hand."
Silence fell again, heavier this time.
The engines roared in the distance, reminding them that the race was still on. For now, all they could do was wait—and pray the next sound they heard wasn't a gunshot.
Back on the course, the battle between Collei and Kafka reached its boiling point. The final sectors of the downhill loomed ahead like a gauntlet thrown at their feet, the shadowed forest on either side now just a blur at the edges of their vision. Both engines screamed against the night air, throttles wide open. The distance between them had compressed into something almost claustrophobic.
Inside the cockpit of the Eight-Six, Collei's eyes stayed locked on the pulsating taillights of the R34. Her knuckles were white around the wheel, but her breathing remained low and steady, controlled—like a sniper lining up the perfect shot.
"I can keep up with her, no problem," she muttered, her voice low and even, barely audible over the raw, metallic growl of the Silvertop behind the firewall. "But it's not just the car I need to beat—it's her."
Her brain clicked through each input, cataloging Kafka's lines, her throttle modulation, every moment she tapped the brakes too early or exited wide. Through the stress, Collei kept recalling that gut-wrenching moment on the Yougou downhill—when Arlecchino had copied her gutter line and overtaken her clean. The memory flared like acid on an open wound. But that same pain had forged resolve in her bones.
"…And hey," she smirked to herself, eyes narrowing as the next S-curve approached, "she's not in the same league as Dad. Now that was fucking tough."
The world snapped back into motion. They barreled into a tight left-right sequence, shadows flashing across their windshields as the headlights raked along the trees. Kafka's R34 dove in early, her brake lights flaring red. Too early.
Collei's instincts surged. She held the throttle a heartbeat longer, waited until the very limit, then hit the middle pedal hard—heel-toe downshifting from third to second with a sharp blip of the throttle. The Eight-Six's rear wiggled slightly under the trail-braking entry, but Collei caught it with a smooth steering input, her left hand barely moving on the wheel.
"Compared to Dad," she muttered with contempt, "she brakes like someone's fucking grandfather."
As they shot out of the corner, the gap between them narrowed further—now less than half a car length.
Kafka's R34 barked as she shifted up, gunning it into the next fast left-hander. The twin turbos spooled violently, but Collei was already reading her.
Every corner peeled back another layer. Every micro-mistake added up. And suddenly, it all clicked into place.
Her eyes widened. "I can see your weakness," she said, her tone rising with an edge of triumph. "It's so obvious!"
She grit her teeth, leaning forward slightly as the next turn came into view. "Your braking technique sucks ass."
They flew into a tight left-hand hairpin—Collei's Eight-Six now riding Kafka's rear bumper so close she could practically count the rivets in the R34's rear wing. The wind tunnel of pressure between them warped the air. Collei's eyes flared with hunger. She could smell the pass coming.
Kafka's face twisted in the mirror—half shock, half fury. "Dammit! This kid is really starting to get on my nerves!"
Then came the infamous right-hander—the one with a grim legacy. Clorinde's Lancia had died there the night before. Collei knew it. Kafka sure as hell knew it too.
Kafka dove inside early, tires screeching under load as she tried to hug the apex. But the moment she turned in, her front tires screamed bloody murder.
The R34 understeered. Hard.
The nose pushed wide, skipping just inches from the mountain's edge as the weight transfer broke down completely.
"What the hell!?" Kafka shouted, sawing at the wheel. "Where's my grip!?"
That was when Collei made her move.
Her foot crushed the throttle, and the AE86 launched forward like a goddamn bullet. No hesitation. No mercy. Just raw momentum and an apex she'd calculated to the centimeter.
She swung out and rocketed past the outside of the struggling Skyline, the guttural bark of the high-revving Silvertop filling the space between them.
Kafka's hands choked the steering wheel. Her voice spat venom. "Fuck you, Blade! Your damn oil nearly wrecked me!"
But there was no time to scream. The next left-hander arrived like a freight train. Collei was already in position—one precise shift, one tight line, clipping the apex with surgical aggression.
Kafka fought back the rising panic, her jaw tight as she redlined second gear. "I still have a chance to pass her…!"
The final straightaway opened up like a runway ahead of them, moonlight spilling across the blacktop. Kafka threw the R34 wide, diving toward the outside in a desperate overtake attempt. Her turbos shrieked, the RB26 bellowing as she reached for every last horse under the hood.
The two cars ran side by side toward the last turn.
And then came the corner—the last right-hand hairpin. A make-or-break line. No room for mistakes.
Kafka braked hard, almost locking up. Her tires wailed in protest, her body jolting forward against the harness as the R34 scrubbed speed. It was clean, but conservative—textbook grip driving, textbook deceleration.
And then her eyes caught something she couldn't believe.
Collei didn't brake.
"She's going in… without braking!?" Kafka's voice cracked in disbelief.
Collei waited until the absolute final millisecond, then slammed on the brakes—trailing just enough to unsettle the rear. Her hands worked the wheel like it was a part of her body, flicking the car into a controlled slide. No countersteer. No panic. Just a clean, composed four-wheel drift.
The AE86 slid perfectly across the arc of the hairpin, tires singing in perfect unison with the screaming engine. Smoke curled from the rear as she held the drift with throttle modulation alone, rear end slipping just inches from the inside embankment.
And then, as if the whole maneuver had been choreographed down to the microsecond, she punched the throttle and straightened out.
The Eight-Six exploded out of the turn like it had been fired from a gun.
Kafka could only gape, her foot limp on the gas. Her hands trembled on the wheel.
"I… don't believe this," she whispered. "That kid is something else…"
By the time Kafka regained herself, the finish line was already behind them. The Eight-Six had crossed it, alone. Untouchable.
The mountain shook with the roar of the crowd. Spectators screamed and waved and pumped their fists into the night air. The Speed Stars had just crushed Blade's crew—despite having half the prep time and none of the political backing.
Collei's AE86 coasted into the runoff zone, the engine still ticking hot under the hood. She breathed deeply, hands trembling now that the adrenaline was ebbing away.
But it wasn't over.
Not yet.
Somewhere in the shadows past the crowd, Blade's enforcers were waiting.
And the real storm was about to begin.
Time passed, and the two cars finally rolled back into base, their engines winding down with a muted hum that hung heavy in the still air of the garage.
Keqing hung up the phone, the call with one of their spotters still fresh, her expression carved from stone.
"Blade wasn't bluffing," she said, voice sharp as broken glass. "Five suspicious-looking cars are headed up now."
A sudden, invisible weight pressed into the room. Tension coiled through the team like a wire pulled too tight. Keqing's gaze locked onto Ningguang, who stood motionless beside the folding table, arms crossed, face unreadable save for the faint narrowing of her eyes.
"What should we do?" Keqing asked.
Ningguang let out a long, tired breath—the kind that leaked out of people who were always calculating, always five steps ahead, but knew they were running out of road. "Looks like Blade defaulted on our next challenge." She turned to face the group fully, her tone grave. "Get ready to move out. Our safety takes priority. No heroics. Got it?"
There were nods all around. Focused. Unflinching. Everyone falling into line. Everyone except Clorinde, whose head tilted slightly, just enough to signal defiance.
"Yes, Ningguang," they all echoed.
Ningguang's eyes swept across the crew, then stopped on Keqing. Her voice tightened, decisive and final. "Keqing. When shit hits the fan, Clorinde and I will draw their attention. You lead the others. Get every car out—except the Lancia. Leave it. We'll handle cleanup."
Keqing bristled. "No way in hell, Ningguang."
"I figured you'd say that," Ningguang said, exhaling again, softer this time. Not frustration—just acceptance. "But I'm the one who built Team Speed Stars. This is my responsibility. I knew the risks from the start, and if this is the cost, then so be it. You have to trust me."
The silence that followed was brittle. Then Ningguang cracked a faint smirk. "Besides, Clorinde's a marksman. Worst-case scenario, she's not dying tonight. They are. She's still the 'Champion Duelist,' after all."
Clorinde's lips twitched into a crooked smile. "That's a name I haven't heard in a long time."
Keqing groaned and rubbed her temples, pacing a short line near the tool bench. "Damn it… Fine. I got you. You're one helluva driver—and a better friend, Clorinde."
Ganyu tried to lighten the mood, flashing a grin as she turned toward Clorinde. "Come on, let's go beat the shit out of them together!"
Clorinde's expression went stone-cold in an instant. "How about I kick your ass instead?"
Ganyu's grin faltered. She sighed in defeat. "I was really trying to avoid that, you know…"
Before things could devolve further, Collei stepped forward. No hesitation. Her eyes were lit with something unspoken, fierce and unwavering.
"I'm staying with you," she said to Ningguang.
Ningguang's demeanor softened, but only for a breath. "No. You've done more than enough. I won't risk you. Don't make this harder."
Collei lingered, then finally nodded, jaw tight. "Alright. But if something goes down, I'm ready."
A low rumble in the distance broke the moment—engines, still far but closing fast. Ningguang's entire posture snapped into focus.
"We don't have time," she said, steel in her voice. "Everyone, move. Get in position. On my mark."
The roar of engines grew louder, until it was a growl in the bones.
Clorinde's eyes narrowed toward the horizon. "Here they come," she called out, a tinge of anticipation curling around her voice like smoke.
"Everyone! Into your vehicles!" Keqing barked. "We move on cue!"
In a flurry of practiced motion, Van One was loaded—Albedo at the wheel, Keqing beside him. Ganyu and Navia crammed into Van Two, while the rest of the crew filled Vans Three and Four with mechanical precision. Collei dove into the driver's seat of her Eight-Six, knuckles white on the wheel.
And then they saw them.
Five cars crested the pass like shadows made of steel and aggression. The lead was a black Toyota Century—clean, sinister, stock—but unmistakably deliberate. The others followed in formation: a Subaru Legacy, a Toyota Cresta, a Nissan President, and a Crown. The kind of cars that didn't come up this road unless someone meant business.
They skidded to a halt mid-road, headlights flaring. The exit was gone. Blocked.
Blade's voice cracked across the distance, loud and drunk with ego. "Looks like they're about to get a real beating!"
His crew laughed like jackals. But one face was missing.
No Kafka.
She was out there, hidden among the Speed Stars, a loaded gun waiting for the signal.
The enemy doors opened. Footsteps hit pavement. And then from the Century stepped a woman—tall, military straight, long light-purple hair streaked with white. Eyes like ice behind glass.
Clorinde flicked the safety off her pistol with a soft click.
"Sit tight," she called to Ningguang, voice cool, unreadable. "I've got this."
She stepped forward, calm and silent, the weight of her gun like an extension of her hand. Collei, still in her seat, trembled just slightly. Ready, but afraid.
The two women approached each other. No hesitation. No panic. Just pure, quiet tension. Two wolves meeting at the boundary line.
Then the streetlamp lit their faces—and everything stopped.
Clorinde gave a knowing smirk. "Had a feeling it'd be you, Chevreuse."
Blade and his cronies jerked their heads in confusion.
"What!?"
Chevreuse answered with a grin of her own. "I had the same thought. Been a while, Clorinde."
To everyone's shock, the two clasped hands.
Clorinde let out a breath somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "What the hell happened to you? Running with this kind of crowd again?"
Chevreuse laughed, genuinely. "Hardly. After training, I started a private security firm. These guys? I just contract with their mechanic shop. Coincidence. Nothing more." Her smile faded. "But from where I'm standing, looks like they crossed a line."
Clorinde gestured toward the battered rear of her Lancia. "They dumped oil on the course. Sabotaged our run."
Chevreuse's jaw tightened. "Shit. Was it bad?"
"Worse." Clorinde led her to the support van, popped the rear. Inside: twisted suspension arms, mangled CV joints, and a bent driveshaft. "Ripped the whole back end apart. Gearbox might be toast."
Chevreuse exhaled sharply, visibly pissed. "Goddammit."
Clorinde shut the door. "Still smoked 'em on the run, though."
She glanced toward the blockade. "Mind clearing the road? Everyone's getting jumpy."
Chevreuse gave a curt nod, then spun around. "Move the cars! Out of the damn road!"
Her men leapt to action, pulling the vehicles into the tunnel, parking them nose-to-tail.
With the path cleared, Chevreuse's attention snapped to Blade.
"You absolute dumbass," she growled, voice low and dangerous. "Do you have any idea what you've done!? Sabotage is a criminal offense. And my company's licensed with the Narukami Prefectural Police!"
Blade went pale. "W-We didn't know!"
Keqing strolled up, arms folded, smirk razor-sharp. "Oh, you knew. You just didn't think we'd live to call you on it."
She turned, flicking her hand dismissively. "We're not sticking around for time trials, by the way. Checked the board. Our records shattered yours. Try not to cry."
She called back to the team. "Let's roll!"
The crew reassembled, the night's weight beginning to lift as tires squealed and engines roared back to life.
They pulled away as a unit, climbing the pass under a blanket of stars. No fanfare. No victory speech. Just rubber on asphalt and the fading echo of humiliation behind them.
Team Speed Stars owned the road.
Tonight, they'd proved it.