Las Vegas F1 Street Circuit.
The city roared beneath the desert night, neon lights painting the sky in electric colors. The track shimmered under floodlights, every curve and straight promising danger.
On the grid, two beasts waited.
A black Bugatti Veyron Pur Sang — 1,001 horsepower, quad-turbo W16, 407 km/h top speed. Brutal in a straight line. A hammer.
Beside it, my weapon — a red Pagani Zonda F. Naturally aspirated AMG V12, 602 horsepower, feather-light at 1,230 kg. Built not to crush… but to dance.
I could feel the Zonda's pulse through the steering wheel. My pulse matched it.
"The rules are simple," I said, voice steady despite the storm in my veins. "Two laps. Winner takes all."
Tony Stark smirked from the Veyron. "I'll try not to embarrass you, Aurora."
A girl in a red dress stepped up with the black-and-white flag. The crowd's murmur faded. All I heard was the high-strung growl of engines.
"Three… two… one…"
GO!
The flag dropped.
VRRROOOOAAARRRR!!!
I slammed the throttle. The rear wheels lit up for a split second, tires screaming before biting hard. The Veyron launched like a bullet, all-wheel drive digging in. I slammed through second at 120 km/h, the Zonda's V12 shrieking to redline.
The first straight was Tony's world — his lead stretched by car lengths. But my eyes weren't on his taillights. They were on the corner ahead.
Screeeech!
I braked late — so late it bordered on insane — trusting the Zonda's carbon-ceramic brakes to hold. My body lunged forward under the G-force, but my hands were steady. The Veyron's weight betrayed it, forcing Tony to brake earlier. I dove inside, slicing past him mid-apex.
The Zonda hugged the curve like it was born there, V12 singing through the exit. Fourth gear. 180 km/h. My mirrors showed Stark's headlights burning behind me.
Lap 1
The Strip flashed by in a blur of color. I threaded the Zonda through the sweeping right-hander, feeling the tires grip just at the edge of slip. The Bugatti tried to keep pace, but the extra mass fought him through every degree of turn.
"Not bad," Tony's voice teased over comms. "But let's see you keep it."
The back straight loomed — almost a kilometer long. I knew what was coming.
VRRRRROOOOSHHHH!!!
The Veyron's turbos spooled like banshees. He blasted past at 330 km/h, the slipstream rocking my Zonda.
I didn't panic. I marked my braking point, heart syncing with the countdown in my head. Three… two… one—BRAKE!
The V12 downshifted — BRAAAP! BRAAAP! — flames licking from the exhaust as I flung the car into the chicane. The Zonda pivoted on a dime. The Veyron overshot just enough. I slid back into the lead.
We crossed the start/finish line.
Lap time: 2:16.492. Average speed: 207 km/h.
Lap 2
Now it was war.
Every nerve in my body burned electric. The steering wheel was part of me. My breathing synced with the engine's rise and fall. The Veyron's headlights were welded to my mirrors — Stark was pushing harder now.
Turn 6 approached — a tight hairpin. I braked from 210 km/h to 60 in under three seconds. The rear end danced, but my reflexes — sharper since the day I woke up in this body — caught it instantly. The Zonda rotated perfectly, and I was gone.
The straight came again. His chance. My danger.
Speed climbed — 260… 270… 280 km/h. The wind roared against the cockpit, buffeting my helmet. He was gaining — 290… 300… — I could feel the Veyron's shadow swallowing me.
Final corner.
I braked late — too late for most drivers — tires screaming protest, the smell of burnt rubber flooding the cabin. The Zonda clung on, shuddering but alive.
Finish
The checkered flag waved.
WHOOSH! I crossed first, the Zonda at 290 km/h, heartbeat still redlining.
Final lap time: 2:14.877.
Average speed: 210 km/h.
Margin of victory: 0.312 seconds.
I let the car breathe on the cooldown lap. My chest heaved, blood pounding loud in my ears. The neon lights blurred with the adrenaline haze.
Tony pulled alongside, grinning even in defeat. "Okay… I'm impressed."
I smirked, downshifting to a purr. "You should be. Next time, Stark? Try bringing something that corners."
The crowd's cheer rolled over us like thunder. The desert night felt alive. I'd won more than a race tonight — I'd claimed the Strip itself.