The drive back to the estate was a blur. My hands were still vibrating with the phantom feel of the Skyline's shifter, my ears ringing with Chloe's words. Pressure point. The moment between control and chaos.
I delivered the ECU to Mr. Harrison. He took it without a word, his gnarled fingers tracing the circuitry with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics. He didn't ask about the garage. He didn't ask about Chloe. He just knew.
Days turned into a week. The encounter with the Enviro-Police had left a permanent scar on my nerves. Every hum of an official vehicle outside the estate made my spine stiffen. My warehouse sanctuary felt violated. The thrill of sitting in my silent Supra was now tainted with a low, thrumming fear.
Harrison sensed the shift in me. The hesitation. One evening, as I adjusted the anti-gravity cushions on his chair, he spoke without looking at me.
"Fear is a cage, boy. But it's a cage you hold the key to. You can let it lock you in, or you can use the bars to sharpen your instincts." He finally turned his piercing blue eyes on me. "You've been polishing a sword. It's time to see if it can cut."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "What do you mean?"
"There's a run tonight. A short one. Out in the desert flats. A simple delivery." He wheeled himself to his desk, scribbled coordinates on a piece of real, physical paper, and handed it to me. "Take the van. Be at these coordinates at 2:17 AM. Not 2:16. Not 2:18. 2:17. A black '69 Dodge Charger will approach. Flash your high-beams twice. He will stop. You will take a case from his trunk and bring it to me."
This was it. Not a sim-race. Not a daydream. A real, illegal operation.
"What's in the case?" I asked, my voice tighter than I wanted it to be.
A slow, grim smile spread across Harrison's face. "The soul of a 427 Big Block V8. Now stop asking questions and go."
---
The desert at night was a vast, black canvas. The only light came from a bone-white moon and the cold, sharp stars the city's glow usually swallowed. I had left the main road miles behind, navigating by the van's terrain-readout and the coordinates on the paper. The van's electric motor was unnervingly quiet, its tires crunching softly on the gravel.
Time: 2:16 AM.
Location: DESOLATION FLATS.
Status: EXPOSED.
I was a sitting duck. Every shadow looked like an Enviro-Police cruiser. Every gust of wind sounded like the whine of a turbo.
2:17 AM.
I flipped the high-beams. Flash. Flash.
Silence.
Then, a distant growl. Not the clean whine of an electric motor. This was a deep, predatory rumble that vibrated through the floor of the van and into my bones. It was the sound I'd been dreaming of my entire life.
Headlights pierced the darkness, two yellow orbs that grew rapidly. The rumble became a roar. A low, black shape materialized from the night, a phantom of pure American muscle. The '69 Charger. It slid to a halt beside me, its engine rumbling impatiently, a caged beast.
The driver's window powered down. A man with a shaved head and a thick beard nodded at me, his eyes hidden by reflective glasses. No words were exchanged. He popped his trunk.
I got out, the desert air cold on my skin. I walked to the Charger's trunk, my legs feeling like rubber. Inside was a heavy, hardened-aluminum case. I grabbed the handle. It was cold and solid.
As I lifted it, the driver revved the engine.
VROOM! VROOM! ROAR!
The sound was a physical force, a wave of pure, unfiltered power that hit me in the chest. It was a challenge. A greeting. A declaration of war against the silent world. In that moment, all my fear evaporated, replaced by a raw, electric thrill.
I shoved the case into the van's back and got in. The Charger's driver gave me a final nod, then slammed his foot down. The rear tires dug into the dirt, spewing gravel, and the car launched into the darkness, its glorious roar fading into the night.
I had done it. I was part of it.
But as I turned the van around, my headlights swept across the desert plain. And they caught something.
Another set of headlights. Silvery white. Official. Parked on a ridge about a kilometer away, watching.
Enviro-Police.
My blood ran cold. They hadn't moved. They had just observed. They had seen the exchange.
Status: COMPROMISED.
I stomped on the accelerator. The van's electric motors whined, pushing me forward. I had to get back to the estate. I had to warn Harrison.
I took a twisting, pre-planned route Harrison had drilled into me, using dry riverbeds and canyons to break line-of-sight. My eyes were glued to the mirrors. For ten minutes, I saw nothing.
Then, on the long, straight road leading back to the city's outer glow, I saw them. Two sets of silver-white headlights, closing fast.
They weren't just following. They were hunting.
I pushed the van to its limit, but it was a utility vehicle, not a racer. The gap was shrinking. I could now see the sleek, aggressive shapes of the Enviro-Police interceptors, their light bars still dark, waiting to strike.
I was not going to make it.
A comm-link request flashed on the van's dash. An encrypted, unknown signal. I accepted.
A female voice, cool and calm, filled the cabin. It was Chloe.
"Took you long enough to attract some flies, newbie. Listen carefully. You see the old geothermal plant up ahead? The one with the three smokestacks?"
I squinted. In the distance, I could just make out the skeletal outline of a derelict facility. "Yes!"
"Turn left into the main entrance. Don't slow down."
"It's a dead end! The gates are chained!"
"I said," she repeated, her voice sharpening, "don't. Slow. Down."
The interceptors were meters from my bumper. I could see the opaque visors of the officers inside.
The entrance to the plant rushed towards me. A chain-link fence, thick with rust, stretched across the road, a heavy chain and padlock holding it shut.
This was suicide.
Chloe's Voice: "NOW!"
I wrenched the steering wheel left. I braced for impact.
At the last possible second, the chain-link fence exploded outward. Not from my impact. From the outside.
A gunmetal grey blur shot past the opening from the right, tearing the fence and chain to shreds like tissue paper. The Nissan Skyline GT-R. Chloe.
"FOLLOW MY LINE!" her voice screamed over the comm.
I shot through the gap she had created. The van shuddered as it bounced over the debris. I was inside the vast, decaying complex of the geothermal plant. It was a maze of rusted machinery, control rooms, and catwalks under the moon.
The two police interceptors screeched in behind me, their light bars now blazing red and blue, painting the industrial decay in frantic strokes.
"Okay, rookie," Chloe's voice was back to being dangerously calm. "Lesson two. Evasion. This isn't a straight line. It's a dance."
Her Skyline danced ahead of me, a ghost in the night.
"HARD RIGHT! NOW!"
I spun the wheel. The van's tires screeched, sliding around a corner.
"LEFT! CUT BETWEEN THE TURBINES!"
I followed, the van's side mirrors scraping against ancient metal, showering sparks.
"BOOST: 0.7 BAR." I heard her mutter over the comm, and her Skyline shot forward with a sudden, explosive surge, leaving me for a second before slowing down. She was toying with them. Luring them.
I saw it in my mirror. One of the interceptors, focused on me, misjudged a turn and slammed sideways into a stack of pipes with a sickening crunch of composite armor. ONE DOWN.
The second interceptor was smarter, more determined. It stayed on Chloe, its electric motors screaming.
We burst out into a large, open courtyard. A dead end. A massive cooling tower blocked our path.
The interceptor saw its chance and accelerated, pulling alongside Chloe, trying to force her into the wall.
"Annoying," Chloe said, her voice flat.
I saw her left hand flick a switch on her dashboard.
FLAME: ON.
A brilliant, foot-long tongue of blue-and-orange fire spat from the side of the Skyline's exhaust, licking the front fender of the interceptor.
The police driver, startled, instinctively swerved away.
It was all the space she needed.
"BOOST: 1.2 BAR."
The RB26 screamed. The Skyline didn't just accelerate; it vanished, shooting towards the solid wall of the cooling tower. At the last second, she pulled a hard right, revealing a narrow, hidden service alley I never would have seen.
"KEEP UP!"
I slammed the accelerator, the van lurching forward. I squeezed into the alley, the sound of scraping metal horrendous. I emerged on the other side, onto a service road that led back to the main highway.
The second interceptor was gone, lost in the maze.
Silence. Except for the pounding of my heart.
I pulled the van over onto the shoulder, my entire body trembling. I looked over.
Chloe's Skyline idled beside me, its engine rumbling with a low, satisfied purr. Her window was down. She pulled off her reflective driving glasses, and those sharp green eyes appraised me.
"You didn't crash," she said, a faint, almost imperceptible smile on her lips. "That's something."
She reached into her car and tossed a small, metallic object into my open window. It landed in my lap.
It was a simple, brushed-metal key fob. No buttons. Just a small, laser-etched emblem: a stylized steering wheel inside a shield.
"What's this?" I asked, my voice hoarse.
"Your invite," she said, her smile widening. "The real one. Welcome to the Legacy Club, Kaito. Don't be late for your first meet."
She dropped the Skyline into gear.
Engine: ROAR.
Tires: SCREECH.
Car: GONE.
I was left alone on the roadside, the fob cool in my hand, the smell of burnt rubber and high-octane fuel still hanging in the air. The ghost was real. And I was now a part of its heartbeat.
End of Chapter 3