The key fob felt like a live coal in my pocket. For three days, I carried it everywhere, my fingers brushing against its cool metal surface, the etched emblem a secret brand on my soul. The Legacy Club. The words echoed in my head, a mantra more real than anything in my sterile life.
Harrison said nothing about the chase, the case, or the key. He just observed me with those all-seeing blue eyes, a silent approval hanging in the air between us. The fear was still there, a cold knot in my stomach, but it was now fused with something else: a desperate, burning anticipation.
On the third night, the fob vibrated. A single, silent pulse. Then a tiny holographic map projected from its surface, displaying a route leading deep into the labyrinthine storm drain system beneath the city. The meet was in one hour.
I told Eleanor I was taking the van for a "systems diagnostic." She just sniffed, her disapproval a tangible force. I didn't care. The world outside the estate had shifted from a threat to a proving ground.
I drove to the designated entrance—a seemingly collapsed drainage tunnel off a forgotten service road. Using the van's rugged terrain mode, I nudged aside a cleverly designed false barrier of grating and debris. It opened into a dark, massive conduit, large enough to drive a truck through.
The van's headlights cut a swath through the damp darkness. The air grew cooler, smelling of wet concrete, mildew, and something else… a faint, familiar scent that made my pulse quicken. High-octane fuel. Burning rubber.
The tunnel went on for miles, a subterranean highway. Then, I saw a glow ahead. Not the cold white of city lights, but a warm, flickering orange, like firelight.
I rounded a final bend, and the world opened up.
My breath caught in my throat. It was a cathedral. An immense, underground cavern, so vast the ceiling was lost in darkness. Support pillars from a forgotten age stood like sequoias, and strung between them were thousands of fairy lights and vintage neon signs, casting a chaotic, glorious glow over the scene below.
Cars. Hundreds of them. A living, breathing museum of automotive heresy.
American muscle from the 60s and 70s—Mustangs, Camaros, Challengers—their wide bodies and snarling exhausts echoing with pure, unadulterated power. Sleek Japanese legends from the 90s—my Supra's brethren, Skylines, RX-7s, Evos—their turbocharged engines whistling tuneful threats. Even a few exotic European thoroughbreds—a low-slung Porsche 911, a wedge-shaped Lamborghini Countach—stood like aloof kings.
This was the heart of the ghost. This was the Legacy Club.
I parked the van at the edge, my legs shaky as I got out. The sound was overwhelming. A symphony of rumbling V8s, whistling I6s, and the percussive pop-pop-bang of anti-lag systems. The air was thick with hydrocarbons and adrenaline. Mechanics in grimy coveralls worked under hoods, their tools ringing against metal. Drivers clustered in groups, their laughter sharp and confident.
"You made it."
Chloe leaned against her Skyline, arms crossed. She wore a black leather jacket over her tank top now, the grease smudge gone from her cheek. She looked like she belonged here, a natural predator in her native habitat.
"I… yeah," I managed, my voice small against the roar.
"Stop gawking. You look like a tourist." She nodded towards a central clearing where a crowd was gathering. "Come on. The night's main event is about to start."
She led me through the throng. I received nods, curious glances, and a few dismissive smirks. I was the new blood. The unknown variable.
In the clearing, two cars were facing a makeshift start line, their engines being revved with aggressive blips.
One was a pristine, Viper Green 1970 Plymouth Hemi 'Cuda, its massive hood scoop looking like it could swallow small animals. The driver was a hulking man with a tattoo of a piston on his neck.
The other was a car that made my inner child weep with joy. A midnight blue 1994 McLaren F1. One of the greatest road cars ever made. Its central driving position, its god-like V12 roar… it was a unicorn.
And leaning against it, looking utterly bored, was a man in an impeccably tailored suit, sipping from a crystal tumbler.
"Who's that?" I whispered to Chloe.
"Julian," she said, her tone unreadable. "Old money. Collects cars like art. Thinks driving is a ballet." She smirked. "Leo, in the 'Cuda, thinks it's a bar fight."
A man with a checkered flag stood between them. The cavern fell into a relative hush, the only sound the aggressive idling of the two beasts.
Flag: UP.
The Hemi 'Cuda roared, a deafening, earth-shaking bellow. The McLaren's V12 screamed, a higher-pitched, F1-derived wail of pure, technical fury.
Engines: ON THE LIMITER.
Clutches: BITING.
Tires: SMOKING.
The flag dropped.
SCREEEEEECH—BOOM!
The 'Cuda launched with brutal, wheel-standing torque, its rear tires fighting for purchase, painting the concrete with thick, black stripes. The McLaren was cleaner, its launch a controlled explosion of acceleration.
For the first hundred meters, the raw American muscle held a slight lead, its violent power overwhelming. But then the McLaren's aerodynamic efficiency and relentless top-end power began to tell. It sucked onto the 'Cuda's rear, then pulled alongside with an effortless surge.
They disappeared into a distant tunnel, their engine notes blending into a single, receding thunder.
The crowd erupted into cheers and exchanged credits on betting slates. Chloe nudged me. "See? Power isn't everything. It's the marriage of power and control. The 'Cuda has a sledgehammer. The F1 has a scalpel."
"Who won?" I asked, my heart still pounding.
"Does it matter?" a new, smooth voice said behind us.
We turned. It was Julian, the McLaren driver. He had returned already, his suit still pristine, not a hair out of place. He hadn't even broken a sweat.
"It was a nice dance," Julian said, his eyes lingering on Chloe with a possessiveness I immediately disliked. "Leo's brute force is so… predictable." His gaze then slid to me, cold and assessing. "And you must be Harrison's new pet project. The Japanese kid with the Supra." He said 'Supra' like it was a quaint, peasant's wagon.
"Kaito," I said, forcing my voice to stay level.
"Charming," Julian said dismissively. He looked back at Chloe. "I'm assembling a team for the Silver Run. A high-stakes procurement. I could use a driver of your… particular talents. The pay is substantial."
Chloe's expression was a mask of ice. "I drive alone, Julian. You know that."
"A pity." His smile was thin and sharp. "Don't get too comfortable with strays, Chloe. They have a habit of dragging you down with them." He gave me one last, contemptuous look and walked away, melting back into the crowd.
I felt a hot flush of anger. A stray.
Chloe let out a slow breath. "Don't let him get to you. He's just a spoiled brat with a very, very fast checkbook."
"What's the Silver Run?" I asked.
"Later," she said, her eyes scanning the cavern. "First, you need to earn your stripes. And speaking of…"
She pointed towards the entrance I had come from. My blood ran cold.
Parked just inside the cavern, its white and green armor looking utterly alien in this temple of rebellion, was an Enviro-Police interceptor. The same one from the geothermal plant.
The driver's door opened.
And the officer who stepped out wasn't wearing a helmet.
It was a woman. She had sharp features, severe blonde hair pulled into a tight bun, and eyes the color of a winter storm. She wore the standard-issue uniform, but the authority it conveyed was palpable. The crowd's energy shifted, the roar dampening to a wary murmur.
She walked with a purpose, her boots echoing on the concrete, her gaze sweeping over the assembled cars and drivers with cold recognition. She didn't look like she was here to raid. She looked like she was here to deliver a message.
And she was walking straight towards me and Chloe.
Chloe tensed beside me. "Well, well," she muttered. "Look who decided to pay a social call."
The officer stopped in front of us, her eyes locking onto me.
"Kaito Tanaka," she said, her voice crisp and devoid of emotion. "I am Inspector Valeria Rostova. We have a problem."
She held up a digital pad. On it was a crystal-clear image, taken from a high-altitude drone. It showed the van, and the black Charger, during our exchange in the desert.
"You're a loose end," she said, her wintery eyes boring into mine. "And I don't like loose ends. You have two choices. You can come with me now, and this entire… cathedral… comes crashing down. Or…"
She paused, her gaze flicking to Chloe for a second before returning to me.
"Or you can prove your value. There's a race. An unofficial one. Through the city's mag-lev construction site. You win, you prove you're an asset, not a liability. You lose…"
She didn't finish. She didn't need to.
The police weren't just outside the club. They were in it.