Days had rolled by since that punishing duel with Diluc—the one that left Collei's beloved Eight-Six limping home on a snapped suspension and gutted pride. But she was back on the mountain now, carving up Yougou Pass's downhill like a scalpel through flesh. The dawn air whipped against the R34's windows as she dove into a tight left-hand hairpin, tires shrieking in controlled defiance. The weight transfer clicked like muscle memory—brake, clutch tap, flick the steering with surgical precision, countersteer into the slide—then throttle down hard as all four wheels bit into the pavement and slung her out of the curve like a slingshot.
The RB26's guttural roar echoed off the mountain walls, rising in pitch as the needle climbed past 7,000 RPM. The Skyline wasn't the Eight-Six—it was heavier, stiffer, brutal in a way the nimble Toyota never was—but Collei was adapting fast. Every shift of her weight in the seat, every flick of the throttle, every tug at the wheel—it all flowed through her bloodstream now. The machine wasn't just obeying her. It was listening.
"I still don't get how the hell Diluc does it…" she muttered, muscles taut as she cranked through another chicane. "One hand on the wheel like it's nothing. Guy's fucking insane."
Her hands stayed locked at ten and two, knuckles pale with tension as she caught the tail sliding mid-corner and feathered the throttle to reel it back in. It wasn't fear—it was the memory. That damn duct-tape deathmatch with Silver Wolf. Her right hand force-tied to the wheel, fighting the Integra one-handed in a duel that felt more like a death pact than a race.
"But I held her," Collei hissed under her breath, voice low, bitter like a scar aching in the cold. "Didn't let her run me off the mountain. One hand or not… I stuck to her fucking bumper."
She cracked a smile—but it was tight, haunted. Then, quieter: "Still. Even if you're the best… no one dodges everything with one hand. Not when it all goes wrong at once. That kind of reaction time? That's suicide."
Just then, the first fingers of sunrise spilled over the treetops, drenching the road in molten gold. The Skyline's shadow twisted across the tarmac as she screamed down the final straight, engine howling in triumph. Collei downshifted smoothly—heel-toe, precise—and guided the R34 into a lazy coast toward the finish, lungs burning from adrenaline, muscles buzzing with residual voltage.
She brought the car to a clean stop in Arlecchino's driveway. Engine ticking hot. Brake rotors hissing steam. Collei yawned as she popped the door and stepped out, tossing the keys underhand toward the waiting silhouette on the porch.
"All done with the runs, Dad," she said, stretching till her back cracked audibly.
Arlecchino caught the keys one-handed without looking. The edge of her mouth curled. "Nicely done."
Collei ran a hand through her sweat-slick hair. "I'm grabbing a nap before work."
"Alright," Arlecchino nodded, but stopped her just as she reached the threshold. "When and where's your next expedition?"
Collei paused, one hand on the frame. "Tsurumi. But we're grounded this week while the Eight-Six gets fixed and upgraded."
"Upgraded?" Arlecchino's brow lifted. She already knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it from her.
Collei turned, fingers counting off in the air. "Chassis reinforcement—roll cage, subframe stiffeners, the whole kit. Swapping out the dash, cutting weight with lighter buckets and stripped rear seats, no carpets, no soundproofing. Lexan windows. And then the engine tuning starts."
Arlecchino crossed her arms, gaze unreadable. "That's a hell of a teardown."
Collei chuckled softly. "No kidding. But she's nearly done. Just needs another day or two in the garage."
She vanished inside, leaving the porch empty but for the faint scent of tire smoke. Arlecchino tilted her chin toward the sky, eyes narrowing at the shifting clouds above. A slow breath. A rare smile.
"You're close," she whispered. "Graduation's just around the bend."
—
Later that night, the hiss of gas pumps and low hum of cicadas marked the end of another shift. Collei leaned against the R34's fender, now dressed in her usual casual gear—loose hoodie, cargo pants, hair tied back. Her phone buzzed once. Then came the purr of a low-idling engine approaching from the distance.
The Sileighty rolled into the station lot, turbo spooling down with a quiet whine. Amber climbed out, still in her boots, wearing a sun-bright grin.
"Yo! Collei!" she called, jogging over with arms wide. "Congratulations!"
Collei smirked and caught her in a quick hug. "Thanks. Though honestly, it feels more like a draw."
Amber pulled back, mock-scolding. "Draw? You beat Diluc! You crossed the line first!"
"And nuked the suspension doing it," Collei deadpanned, hands in her pockets.
Amber leaned back on the R34's bumper like it was her couch. "Please. She'll be back on her feet in no time."
March and Beidou arrived shortly after—March tossing a canned drink at Collei, Beidou lighting up a cigarette before saying a word.
March cracked a grin. "You kidding? That's just cosmetic damage. Your streak's still unbroken."
Beidou took a drag and exhaled slowly. "And once the upgrades are in? Shit. You're not just driving a legend anymore. You're turning it into a weapon."
Collei nodded and rattled off the Eight-Six's new specs. Beidou whistled low and long.
"Goddamn. That's basically a Group A car at this point."
"That's the idea," Collei said with a wink and a flick of her wrist.
Amber's expression shifted—less playful now, something brewing behind her eyes. "Hey… you and Clorinde ever sneak in practice runs? Just the two of you?"
Collei raised an eyebrow. "Nah. We're saving it. After the last expedition race with the Speed Stars. Then it's go time—ace versus ace."
Amber let out a theatrical groan. "My worst fear is coming true."
Collei squinted. "What fear?"
Amber leaned in close, voice dropping. "A buddy of mine in Tatrasuna swears they saw the Speed Stars' aces. One driving an Eight-Six. The other in a fucking Lancia Rally 037."
Collei recoiled. "Bullshit. Neither of us have been there. And no one—no one—is getting their hands on a 037. Those things are unicorns. Group B relics."
Amber crossed her arms, frustrated. "Then someone's posing. And I don't like it."
Her mood flipped in an instant. "So why don't we take a little drive? See for ourselves."
Collei didn't hesitate. "Fine by me. Let me drop the R34 off at home first."
Amber tossed a two-finger salute. "I'll meet you there."
Collei slid into the Skyline and twisted the key. The six-cylinder engine fired with a thunderous bark and settled into a deep, menacing idle. Her eyes stayed on the horizon.
Something about Tatrasuna smelled wrong.
And she was going to find out exactly what.
Time passed as Amber and Collei wound their way up Tatrasuna's switchbacks in the Sileighty. The SR20DET purred beneath the hood, turbo singing softly with every uphill pull. The headlights carved twin beams through the tree-lined dark, catching the glint of occasional roadside reflectors. Amber drove with one hand lazily resting at twelve o'clock, the other on the shifter, legs relaxed—her style casual, but always ready.
Collei sat in the passenger seat, eyes glued to the passing scenery, though she wasn't really seeing it. Her brow was furrowed, thoughts spinning like a tachometer redlining in her skull.
Amber finally broke the silence. "So, Collei... what if they really are impostors?"
Collei didn't respond at first. Then she exhaled slowly, her green hair shifting slightly with the motion. "I don't know, Amber. But I've got this gnawing feeling in my gut. Like someone's yanking on puppet strings."
Amber scoffed, keeping her eyes on the road. "Like who? Albert? After what you did to that guy? Shit, I doubt he'd dare breathe your name without checking over his shoulder first."
A smirk tugged at the edge of Collei's mouth. "No kidding. If it is Albert, he better hope someone's there to scrape his sorry ass off the pavement."
Amber snorted. "Hell, it'd take your whole team to drag you off him. And even that's a maybe."
They hit a shallow bend, tires humming in unison as the car leaned gently into the arc. Amber downshifted out of habit, letting the engine breathe a little freer.
"So what do you think fake Clorinde's driving?" she asked. "A real-deal 037 like hers? That's not exactly something you pick up at AutoZone."
Collei sighed, arms folded tight over her chest. "Nah. Probably just a beat-up Lancia Montecarlo with fiberglass junk bolted on to mimic the 037 silhouette."
Amber blinked. "Wait—you can actually do that?"
"Kind of," Collei said with a shrug. "Body kits exist online. But the real 037's got a custom tubular chassis, magnesium Campagnolo wheels, longitudinal mid-engine setup, the works. Good luck faking that without blowing six figures."
Amber whistled. "Right… So it might look the part, but it'd handle like a wet paper bag."
Moments later, they pulled into the midway clearing—a spot known to locals as a pit stop for racers and spectators alike. The vending machine's fluorescent hum filled the air as they each grabbed a canned coffee, the satisfying hiss and pop of aluminum breaking the quiet.
Amber leaned against the machine, sipping thoughtfully. "So… what's the buzz?" she asked, tilting her head toward the murmuring crowd gathering just beyond the treeline.
Collei took a sip, scanning the small group. "Could be anything. Night races. Local touge gossip. Yougou drama leaking into Tatrasuna."
Then a shout pierced the ambient chatter, loud and sharp:
"Team Speed Stars' Aces are coming here—with their supervisor!"
Collei's reaction was immediate. She choked mid-sip, coughing violently as the coffee went down the wrong pipe.
"What!?"
Amber's eyes snapped wide. "Supervisor!? Wait, but isn't yours—?"
Collei set the can down hard. "Ningguang. And Keqing."
Before they could recover from the shock, the sound of approaching engines crept through the air—two distinct notes: the familiar rasp of a tuned inline-four, and the deeper, warbly snarl of an old Lancia powerplant. The headlights emerged from the slope below, sweeping across the gathered crowd like stage lights at a show.
Then the cars rolled into view: a panda AE86 Trueno and a boxy silhouette dressed in the unmistakable lines of a Lancia 037 replica. Clean, freshly waxed, photogenic—but to Collei's trained eyes, something was off.
Way off.
She narrowed her gaze like a hunter spotting a wounded animal. "No… fucking… way."
The cars came to a smooth halt. The AE86 had the Kouki facelift, clean but clearly put together with style in mind—wrong wheels, no fog lights, fake carbon fiber hood. The 037? A Montecarlo base, trying to wear racing heritage like it was cosplay. Thin tires. Wrong stance. No brake dust.
Then the doors opened.
Three people climbed out: a green-haired girl in a jacket two sizes too big, a purple-haired girl with long flowing locks—not the cropped, disciplined cut Clorinde always wore—and a smug-looking man in a black jacket with sunglasses perched on his head despite the night.
Collei's eyes locked onto him. Her pupils dilated. Jaw set. Muscles coiled.
"Who in the hell are they?"
Amber squinted at the Montecarlo. "Damn… is that an actual 037?"
Collei didn't even blink. "Not a fucking chance. Suspension's too high. Rear's not even wide enough. Glass is stock. Probably some Monte with vinyl wrap and wishful thinking."
She jabbed a finger at the AE86. "And that thing? It's a Kouki. I drive a Zenki. No corner lights. Wrong bumper. Shit wheels. It's a joke."
Amber looked between the real and fake cars. "Yeah, and fake-you doesn't even have your build. That's just… some girl with a wig and a prayer."
Collei's glare locked back on the man. Her fists clenched.
"I know him…"
Her voice dropped low, venomous.
"Albert…"
Amber's face scrunched up like she just swallowed bad milk. "Oh, for fuck's sake. What does he think he is now? Ryosuke Takahashi with a bootleg team and dollar-store actors? Jesus, this isn't Initial D."
The crowd thickened around the impostors. Phones came out. Flashes sparked. One spectator jogged up to fake Collei with starry eyes.
"Can you show us some drifting, Miss Collei?"
Fake Collei chuckled and waved him off with a smirk. "Now, now. Supervisor's orders. Gotta keep the fans wanting more."
Amber leaned close. "Should we go tear their façade apart now or wait 'til it really hurts?"
Collei's lips curled, dangerous and tight. "Not yet. Let 'em dig their own grave. I'm messaging the team."
She pulled her phone halfway out of her pocket before a familiar voice hit her ears like a slap.
"You made up with Collei!?"
It was one of the spectators, pointing right at Albert.
Albert didn't hesitate. He smiled—confident, oily, practiced. "That's right. We're even dating now."
Collei's entire body snapped rigid. Her fingers crushed the phone in her grip like it was paper.
Her voice came out low, tight, trembling with rage. "That son of a—"
She stormed forward without thinking, veins flaring under her skin, but Amber caught her by the arm just in time.
"Collei! Not now. Don't give them the satisfaction."
Collei yanked her arm free, breathing like a boxer before a knockout round. "Fine. But he's not getting away with this."
Amber placed a hand on her shoulder, firm. "Let's get the fuck outta here before you turn this into a crime scene."
They retreated to the Sileighty, the energy between them simmering like a fuse waiting for a spark. Collei slammed the door shut, crossed her arms tight, and glared through the windshield like she wanted it to shatter.
"Enjoy your fifteen minutes, Albert," she growled. "Because when this ends, it's gonna end hard."
Amber started the engine. The turbo spooled. The taillights glowed red like a warning.
"Let's regroup," she said, flicking on the headlights.
The Sileighty rolled away, vanishing down the mountain as the fake team soaked in borrowed applause—completely unaware of the reckoning that was about to crash down on them like a landslide.
The late-afternoon sun sat low behind the rooftops, heat still radiating off the pavement as the group crowded around a scarred iron table outside their usual café haunt. The umbrellas did little to block the glare, and the cicadas overhead were a relentless white-noise hum—but none of it dulled the tension riding Collei's shoulders like a brick-filled backpack.
She laid it out in a low growl, every word sharp as a socket wrench slipping off a bolt. "Yeah—we met them. And guess who's playing 'supervisor?' Albert."
Seele's chair screeched as she lurched forward, violet eyes flaring. "You met them!?"
Collei nodded, jaw tight enough to creak. "In the flesh. He even strutted around like he owned the mountain."
March nearly snorted her iced coffee through her nose. "Albert!? That Albert? No fucking way."
Collei's fist thudded onto the tabletop, rattling empty glasses. "I should've cracked his smug face open last night."
Amber nudged her elbow—firm, warning. "Hey. You plant one on him in public and it drags the whole Speed Stars name through mud. That's exactly what he wants—attention."
Collei exhaled through her teeth, fighting the spike of adrenaline. "Yeah. You're right. Can't stoop to his level."
March leaned in, eyes glittering with curiosity. "So what's the plan, general?"
Collei's fingers tapped a clipped rhythm against the metal tabletop—like piston strokes firing in sequence while her mind mapped the next move. "We swing by the garage. Talk to Keqing, loop in Albedo. Pull Ningguang and Clorinde into the sit-rep."
Amber swigged the last of her drink, crushed the can with one strong squeeze. "Count me in. This shitstorm's our problem now."
Collei gave a thin smile. "Wouldn't have it any other way."
Hours later
Amber's Sileighty glided into the dimly lit garage, tires crackling over gravel before rolling onto smooth concrete. Fluorescent tubes hummed overhead, throwing stark white halos over scattered tool chests and half-assembled drivetrains. The SR20DET ticked as Amber killed the ignition, turbo settling with a faint whine.
Keqing strode out from behind a lift, wiping grease from her gloves, eyes narrowing with curiosity. The crisp lines of her lavender blazer were already dusted with metal shavings—evidence she'd been elbow-deep in the rebuild herself.
"Who could this be?" she called.
Driver's door swung open. Collei hopped out first, sweat-damp bangs stuck to her forehead. "Yo, Keqing!"
Recognition warmed Keqing's expression. "Dropping by to check on the Eight-Six?"
"Partly," Collei said, stepping aside so Amber could climb out. "Wanted you to meet my partner."
Keqing snapped her fingers. "Amber, right? The Sileighty driver." She offered a hand, firm grip balanced by a polite tilt of the head.
Amber's smile was pure sunshine but her handshake carried the calluses of countless gear changes. "Pleasure's mine, Miss-Keqing."
"Skip the honorifics, we're standing in oil." Keqing beckoned them deeper inside. "Come—your girl's itching to show off."
Under harsh workshop light the Eight-Six sat on fresh Bridgestone RE-71Rs, stance meaner, cowl vents still shimmering from a recent buff. The interior was stripped to bare metal—no carpets, just sound-deadening tar scraped off and primered, waiting for the harness straps coiled on the passenger floor. A brand-new cluster sat half-wired on the dash, the tach reading to 10,000 with bold white numerals.
Keqing patted the arch affectionately. "Engine's dyno-verified at twenty percent more peak. Power band now lives at seventy-five hundred—and she screams to nine before cutoff. Just waiting on the six-point harness before we seal her up."
Collei's eyes glittered, a racer's holy fire. "Perfect." Her tone darkened. "But we've got other business."
Keqing's brows knit. "What's wrong?"
Collei recounted last night's farce: Kouki body, fake 037, Albert grinning like a used-car hawk. Keqing's lips flattened as the story piled up.
"And that AE86? Kouki headlights, no carbon, wrong set of Watanabes—" Collei flicked her wrist, disgusted.
Keqing crossed her arms over the grease-spattered blazer. "Cheap cosplay. Anyone with half a brain will spot the flaws."
"Still worth snuffing before rumors grow legs," Collei said. "We loop in Clorinde? Ningguang?"
A staccato exhaust note—high compression, twin-charged snarl—ricocheted into the bay. Headlights knifed through the half-open door. The genuine Lancia 037 rolled to a stop, twin Rootes blowers whining down. Clorinde slid out, door thunking shut with a hollow rally-spec echo.
"Keqing," she greeted, voice like freshly ground gear teeth—sharp but smooth.
Keqing smirked. "Clorinde. You saved me a call."
They spoke in sync, both launching into the same sentence: "We need to talk about the impostor—"
Each froze, mirrored surprise.
"You know?" Clorinde asked.
"You've heard?" Keqing replied.
Clorinde nodded, ponytail brushing Kevlar shoulder pads. "Source says the copycat drives a Montecarlo in cheap plastic skin. I came to confirm."
Collei folded arms, tapping steel-toe boot. "Told you she was in the loop."
Clorinde's stern mask broke just long enough for a grin at Amber. "You're Amber, right? Collei's better half behind the wheel?"
Amber chuckled, shaking her hand—callus meeting callus. "And you're the uphill ace everyone's scared of."
"Guilty." Clorinde winked.
Keqing's phone buzzed. She skimmed the message, lips tugging into a dangerous smile. "Ningguang: 'Impostor situation. Have the Eight-Six ready tomorrow. Bring Collei and Clorinde. Ayaka's in. We'll give them a show they won't forget.'"
Four sets of eyes met, the same spark leaping from driver to driver like a live wire across spark-plugs. Engines would roar tomorrow. Pride—and reputations—were about to get sorted on asphalt.
Collei looked back at her rebuilt Eight-Six, knuckles whitening as she gripped the fender edge.
"Let's bury these fakes," she whispered, voice molten iron. "And remind everyone what real aces look like."
The plan—like an engine on the limiter—was ready to detonate.
The Following Afternoon.
The scent of scorched rubber and old motor oil hung thick in the air like the memory of a hundred races won and lost. Inside the dimly lit garage, streaks of sunlight slashed across the floor through slatted windows, throwing long shadows across toolboxes, stripped frames, and concrete stained with stories. The low metallic creak of a chain hoist echoed faintly in the background as Ayaka, Ningguang, Clorinde, Collei, and Amber stood in a tight semi-circle around a battered workbench, the faint hum of an idling fan slicing through the silence.
Ningguang stood at the center, back straight, chin tilted slightly up, exuding the kind of self-assured authority that turned silence into suspense. Her white gloves were off—literally and figuratively—and the hard glint in her amber eyes said this wasn't going to be just another strategy session.
"Alright," she began, her voice smooth but edged with steel. "Thanks for dropping by today, everyone. I know you've all got your own plates full, but we've got something more urgent to deal with."
The others leaned in instinctively. No one breathed. The tension in the room tightened like a coil.
Ningguang's lip curled into a razor-sharp smile. "I'm already aware you encountered those… impostors pretending to be Team Speed Stars."
There was a beat of shared silence, the kind that's heavy with disgust. Collei's jaw clenched. Amber's eyes narrowed. Ayaka looked down, her hand subtly drifting toward the hilt of her blade—a subconscious habit. Clorinde didn't flinch, but the faint twitch in her temple gave her away.
"Perfect," Ningguang continued, her voice dropping into something sly and dangerous. "Because I have a plan that's going to scar those idiots for the rest of their miserable lives."
Her gaze flicked over each of them in turn like a poker player sizing up a winning hand. Then she turned her attention to Ayaka, motioning with a slight tilt of her chin, her jade earrings catching a glint of gold from the setting sun.
"Ayaka, you move first. Casual approach. Keep it soft—don't let on that you know anything. Start a conversation, draw them in. Then bait them. Get them to show off a tandem drift."
She stepped forward, voice low and intimate now, like a secret being passed in the dark. "We both know they can't pull that off. Not clean. Not under pressure. Not without showing everyone just how much of a joke they are."
Ayaka gave a slight bow, her expression cool, unreadable. Her voice came quiet but decisive. "Understood. When the moment's right… I'll bait the hook."
Ningguang nodded. "When you hear the echo of the real engines—ours—coming up the pass, you drop the hammer. Tell them something like: 'Only three people in this world could do that without a practice run. And one of them's about to show you how it's really done.' Just enough to shake their confidence. Let them start second-guessing everything."
"I won't disappoint," Ayaka said smoothly, her hand resting again on the hilt.
Then Ningguang's gaze turned to Amber. The edge softened just a fraction—not much, but enough to read as trust.
"Amber," she said, voice steady. "I know what went down with Albert. Collei told me everything. That's exactly why I'm trusting you to keep a lid on it. No incidents, no drama. We're not here to start shit—we're here to end it."
Amber exhaled slowly, arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against the wall. Her boots scraped lightly against the floor, but her voice was full of fire. "I get it. Believe me, I do. But that guy?" She let out a short laugh, bitter and incredulous. "He thinks he's some kind of Ryosuke Takahashi knockoff. Slick car, smug words, all theory and no grip. Does he think this is Initial D or something?"
That cracked the tension—just for a second.
Ningguang chuckled, a rare, genuine sound that escaped before she could help herself. She caught it with the back of her hand, regaining composure instantly, but not before the others caught a glimpse of the real amusement behind her perfect mask.
"A-Ah… okay. That was good."
Amber grinned like a kid who just broke the teacher.
Then came Collei.
Ningguang pivoted to her with purpose, eyes gleaming.
"And you." Her voice cut through the space like a blade. "You're going to show them the most incredible goddamn drift they've ever seen in their lives. Make it surgical. Make it brutal. Show them why you're the ace of Team Speed Stars."
Collei said nothing at first. Her eyes burned, teeth clenched behind a tight smirk. Her whole body felt like it was vibrating—adrenaline, fury, anticipation. She slowly nodded.
"They won't forget me," she said quietly. "Not after what I do to them tonight."
Then Ningguang turned to the last piece of the puzzle. Clorinde stood with her arms folded, half-shadowed beneath the overhead lamp, watching everything with predator's calm.
"Clorinde," Ningguang said. "Once Collei makes the overtake, that's your cue. You come in fast and tight—ghost them. Let them feel what a real uphill ace looks like when she comes out of nowhere and paints the perfect line. I want them to know exactly who they tried to imitate. And exactly why they can't touch you."
Clorinde didn't speak right away. She simply nodded once. Precise. Final.
Then, slowly, she said, "Understood. I'll be the last thing they see before their egos collapse."
Ningguang took a step back and clapped her hands once. The sharp snap echoed off the concrete like a starter pistol.
"Good. Then let's burn it into their memory."
She scanned the circle of drivers—each face set with grim determination, each one hardened by miles of mountain passes, late-night runs, and the bitter taste of defeat turned into drive. A wicked grin curled her lips.
"We are the real Team Speed Stars. And tonight? Tonight we burn the frauds down."
There were no cheers. No fist pumps. Just a silent nod from each of them—deadly quiet, cold as steel, focused like a sniper's crosshairs.
Outside, the sound of engines came rumbling through the dusk. High-revving notes cut through the wind, tuned and fierce—Collei's AE86 Silvertop, Clorinde's 037, and the deep warble of Amber's turbocharged Sileighty. The sun dipped low behind the trees, shadows growing long.
The trap was set.
And the hunt had just begun.
That Night at Tatrasuna
The cold bite of mountain air coiled around the gathered crowd like mist, heavy with the scent of brake dust, gasoline, and anticipation. Tatrasuna's roadside lookout had become a stage—buzzing with laughter, murmurs, and the cocky swagger of the impostors holding court. At the center of it all stood Albert, flanked by the two fakes—one in a cheap knockoff of Collei's racing jacket, the other mimicking Clorinde's stoic demeanor with all the authenticity of a bad cosplay. They played their parts well enough for the untrained eye, spinning tales of victories they never earned, drifting feats they never pulled off.
Then, like a scalpel slicing through smoke, a calm voice rang out over the idle chatter.
"Hey, you must be Miss Collei and Miss Clorinde, right?"
Heads turned. Ayaka stepped through the crowd, her every movement composed, measured, deliberate. Her presence was effortless, regal in its cool confidence, like moonlight cutting through clouds.
The fake Collei crossed her arms, posturing up with a half-sneer. "And who might you be?"
Ayaka smiled, sharp and knowing. "Oh, just a nobody. Kamisato Ayaka."
The names hit like a backhand. The impostors stiffened, tension pulsing through their shoulders. They weren't expecting her. Not tonight.
Ayaka waved it off with a flick of her wrist. "Relax, ladies. I'm not here to pick a fight."
She nodded toward her AE86 parked nearby, its black-and-white body catching the ambient glow of the streetlamps like a coiled beast. "I'm a fellow Eight-Six driver myself. Thought I'd swing by."
Somewhere on Tatrasuna Pass
Up in the dark curves of the pass, the real Collei's panda-schemed AE86 blitzed up the slope, chasing her own ghost through the serpentine path. The engine—now a snarling 4A-GE 20V Silvertop—screamed past 8,000 RPM, her foot keeping the throttle pinned through a controlled lift-off before the corner. Amber sat tight in the passenger seat, white-knuckled but grinning wide as the car snapped into a perfect four-wheel drift, tires skimming the guardrail with surgical proximity.
Behind them, Clorinde's Lancia 037 followed like a wraith. Its supercharged inline-four wailed with raw mechanical violence, the tubular chassis flexing with each gearshift. The crackle of anti-lag echoed through the trees like gunfire as she heel-toed into the next corner, suspension squatting hard into the camber.
This was no tandem show. This was the prelude to war.
Halfway Point — Spectator Zone
Back down at the gathering, Ayaka played her role perfectly—feigning curiosity, brushing a gloved finger against her cheek as she glanced toward the corner. "Miss Collei, as a fellow Eight-Six driver, I've heard so much about your world-renowned drifting technique. Think you could show me?"
The fake Collei scoffed, a little too quickly. "No can do, Miss Ayaka."
Ayaka tilted her head with a feigned pout, folding her hands behind her back. "Come on. Just one drift. Take this corner, slide through the bridge sideways, and blast out of the exit. Should be easy for someone with your reputation."
The imposter snapped, the panic just beneath her voice. "That's impossible! Nobody can do that!"
Albert stepped forward, smug as ever. "That's right. Safety first, Miss Ayaka."
Ayaka exhaled, slow and disappointed. "Technically, it is impossible—for amateurs."
Then it came.
The distant crescendo of a 4A-GE at full tilt, the high-pitched scream slicing through the forested night. Then—
SKRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—!!
The unmistakable song of tires at the very edge of grip.
Ayaka walked toward the edge of the roadside, the wind from the mountain's lungs brushing her sleeves. Her gaze turned toward the impostors and then toward the stunned crowd.
She raised her voice, calm but cutting.
"But there's three people better than the two of you. One of them being an idiot." Her smile curled at the corners. "And she can do it without rehearsing. She's the only one."
She spun on her heel and raised a hand to the crowd. "Alright, everyone! Look here! You better have your eyes open wide for this spectacle. You don't get to see something like this up close and personal every day!"
She snapped her fingers, eyes glinting.
"This... this is real drifting."
Right on cue, the panda AE86 burst from the treeline, engine screaming in a clean fourth-gear powerband. Collei came in hard—steering inputs sharp but smooth, left foot dancing on the brake while the rear tires lost and regained grip in a calculated ballet. The chassis loaded into the drift as she flicked the wheel into opposite lock, throttle pulsing to maintain angle. The AE86 roared through the bridge, tail out, inches from the guardrail.
The bridge echoed like a thunderclap—rubber howling, engine snarling, and suspension groaning with strain—and then she was gone, vanishing down the straight like a phantom.
The crowd erupted. Cheers, screams, camera flashes. Someone dropped their vape.
The impostors didn't move. They were statues—wide-eyed, pale, caught with their lies unraveling in real-time.
The fake Collei leaned in to Albert, voice cracking. "That... that has to be the real one. We need to leave."
She stood suddenly. "I just remembered something, Clorinde! We have to go!"
But before they could bolt, a deep growl rolled in from the left—a throaty, menacing burble that only came from something with Group B blood. The Lancia 037 emerged from the darkness like death on wheels, headlights cutting through the mist. It slid into a slow, deliberate stop beside them.
The door swung open. The real Clorinde stepped out, her lean figure backlit by her own car's beams. She didn't need to pose. She simply was.
"Funny," she said coolly. "Your name's Clorinde? What a coincidence—it's mine too."
The crowd gasped. Ayaka joined her, bumping fists without a word.
"How's it going, Ayaka?" Clorinde asked, her tone casual.
"Not much," Ayaka replied with a wink. "Just putting these lowlifes in their place."
With a guttural exhaust bark, Collei's AE86 pulled up on one side, and Ningguang's FC3S RX-7—White, sleek, and deadly—took the other. The doors opened. Four drivers stood tall. The real Team Speed Stars had arrived.
Albert's face drained of all color. "I'm… so screwed."
Ayaka turned to Clorinde. "So, what should we do with them?"
Before she could answer, the impostors panicked.
"It was all Albert's idea!"
"Revenge for last winter!"
They didn't wait for a reply—just sprinted for their cars and peeled out in a cloud of tire smoke, engines wailing into the night like sirens of shame.
Clorinde watched them go, unimpressed. "Not surprised."
Collei's eye twitched. The twitch turned into a twitching fist. "You little—!"
She lunged. Albert backpedaled fast, hands raised, panic overtaking his smugness.
"Calm down!" Clorinde snapped, throwing an arm out to stop her.
Amber and Keqing stepped in, restraining her as she cursed and kicked. "Let me go! I'll give that bastard a reason to cry!"
Ningguang stepped forward slowly, like a predator cornering its prey. Albert had dropped to his knees, hands over his head, eyes squeezed shut.
She crouched beside him, her voice like silk laid over broken glass.
"Albert," she whispered, "it's best you confess right now. If you don't... I'll let Collei finish what she started. You don't want a broken nose again, do you?"
Albert broke instantly. "I'm sorry! I shouldn't have done it!"
Collei strained, spitting rage. "Damn right you shouldn't have, you fucking psycho!"
Ningguang stood tall, brushing off her gloves. "Try something like this again... and next time, no one will hold her back."
Amber stepped forward. Her boots echoed on the asphalt. She looked Albert in the eyes for the first time.
"Albert…"
He looked up, trembling. "A-Amber?"
Then—CRACK.
Her right hook was clean, practiced, and devastating. Albert hit the ground hard, skidding on his side.
Amber stood over him. "I should've done that years ago."
She turned to the stunned crowd and raised her voice.
"Let it be known. I'm not part of Team Speed Stars. This man tried to kidnap me last winter. And before that—he was inappropriate with me in high school."
The crowd reacted instantly. Boos. Shouts. A wave of moral clarity cut through the onlookers like wildfire.
"That's justice!"
"Rot in hell, asshole!"
Eventually, the crowd thinned. Conversations died down. Engines started up and faded into the night. Albert, battered and humiliated, slinked away into the dark.
The team regrouped by their cars. The impostor threat was over—but in the wind, in the tremble of leaves overhead, came the next whisper.
Tsurumi.
A new challenge was coming.
And the mountain would be watching.