Warning;This chapter might later contain obsessive love and feelings, tendencies and actions.
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The AMG One didn't just accelerate; it devoured space. The world outside became a liquid blur of midnight green and asphalt grey, the trees flanking the winding road merging into a single, streaking wall.
The roar of the hybrid powertrain was a living thing—a deep, mechanical snarl from the V6 punctuated by the shrieking whine of the turbochargers and the electric whir of the MGU-K, a symphony of controlled fury contained within a carbon-fiber tub.
My hands on the Alcantara-wrapped steering wheel were not just guiding the car; they were an extension of its will. Every input was precognitive, a dance of micro-corrections made long before the chassis could even think about protesting.
The car was a scalpel, and I was the surgeon, slicing through the night.
