The crowd still buzzed from the last race, the echo of engines hanging over the Las Vegas night. Heat shimmered off the tarmac.
Jean stepped out of the Pagani Zonda F, her boots clicking against the pavement. Her pulse was steady, but her eyes carried the sharp glint of someone who'd just danced with death — and won.
The Bugatti Pur Sang rolled to a stop beside her. Tony Stark climbed out, adjusting his jacket like he'd just stepped off a red carpet, not a racetrack. His smirk hadn't dimmed.
Before either could speak, Happy Hogan jogged over, slightly out of breath.
"Boss, that was great… but I think it's time we leave. The kind of people hanging around here? They're not fans — they're sharks."
Tony didn't even glance at him. His gaze stayed locked on Jean.
"Let's bet again," he said, casually, as if discussing dessert options.
Jean tilted her head, a faint smile curling her lips. "I think I've had enough."
"Third time's the charm," Tony pressed, stepping closer.
"You could try a hundred times," Jean replied coolly, "and you still wouldn't beat me."
Tony's smirk sharpened. "Double or nothing. Six hundred million. And…" he tapped the roof of the Veyron with a knuckle, "…my Bugatti."
That made her pause. An eyebrow rose. "Six hundred million and your car?" The edge in her voice could cut glass. "Fine. If you want to lose that badly… let's do it. One last race."
Tony's grin turned cocky. "But this time…" His tone dripped arrogance. "…we're not racing on some sanitized track. Anybody can do that. We're taking the cars where they belong—on the streets."
Happy's face paled. "Boss, I really don't think this is a good idea—"
Neither of them heard him. The decision had already been made.
BANG.
Two car doors slammed shut in unison.
The Zonda's V12 growled to life — deep, raw, mechanical thunder. Beside it, the Veyron's quad-turbo W16 roared like an enraged beast.
From Tony's cockpit, music exploded — AC/DC's "If You Want Blood (You've Got It)" — the guitar riff slicing through the night. The thundering drums and Brian Johnson's snarl fused with the engines until it was impossible to tell where the music ended and the race began.
Tony leaned out the window, voice booming over the rumble. "Rules are simple. First one past the 'Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas' sign wins."
Jean's eyes narrowed. She revved the Zonda in reply — VROOOOMM! — like a predator answering a challenge.
GO!
The two hypercars launched from the track exit, tires shrieking. Smoke curled from their rear wheels as they tore into the Vegas streets, neon lights streaking into blurs.
Screeeeech! Jean ripped through second, then third — the Zonda's V12 screaming to 8,000 RPM. The wind clawed at her hair. Every shift was surgical, her reflexes razor-sharp.
Tony's Veyron thundered beside her, the turbos howling like banshees as he clawed for every kilometer per hour. On the long straight past the casinos, he surged ahead — 250… 280… 310 km/h — but Jean stayed on him like his shadow.
The streets weren't empty. This wasn't a track.
HONK! A yellow taxi lurched into view. Jean yanked the wheel, threading the Zonda through a gap barely wider than the mirrors. The right-side tires bit the curb — sparks spitting into the night.
Behind her, Tony clipped the taxi's mirror, spinning it into the gutter — but he didn't lift off the throttle.
They blew past the Bellagio fountains, water arcing into the night air as the song's chorus hit.
If you want blood… you've got it!
A black SUV swung into their lane. Jean dropped a gear — BRAAAP! — slingshotting into the opposing lane, the neon-lit hood of an oncoming limo filling her vision before she snapped back in front of Tony.
The Veyron countered with sheer power, hammering down the next boulevard. They tore under pedestrian bridges, the sound of their engines bouncing off concrete and glass in deafening echoes.
Every corner was a gamble. Every overtake was a heartbeat away from disaster.
And through it all, the song roared with them — a soundtrack to chaos.
The "Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas" sign loomed in the distance like a finish line written in fire.
They were side by side, engines screaming in perfect fury.