Silence. The cavern's symphony of engines had died, replaced by a tense, waiting quiet. Every eye was on me and the woman in the white-and-green uniform. Inspector Rostova. Her presence was an ice cube dropped into the club's boiling oil.
My mouth was dry. A race? Against who? For what? My mind was a scrambled mess of fear and defiance.
"You can't be serious," Chloe said, stepping slightly in front of me, a protective gesture that felt both reassuring and emasculating. "He's a rookie. He doesn't even have a car here."
"He has the van," Rostova said, her voice flat. "And I am perfectly serious. This isn't an arrest. It's an audition. The club survives on utility. It provides a service. I need to see if he can be part of that service, or if he's just dead weight that will sink you all."
A large man with the piston neck tattoo—Leo, from the 'Cuda—stepped forward, his face a thundercloud. "Since when does the Enviro-Police decide who races in our house, Rostova? We have an agreement."
"The agreement," she snapped, her wintery gaze slicing to him, "is predicated on competence and discretion. Your new member attracted two interceptors and led them on a chase through a federal facility. That is the opposite of discretion. Now he proves his competence, or I revoke my… selective blindness."
The truth slammed into me. She wasn't just an inspector who had found them. She was their inspector. The one they had in their pocket. The one who looked the other way. And I had jeopardized that.
"I'll do it."
The words left my mouth before I could stop them. My voice was stronger than I felt.
Rostova's eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly. "Good. The course is the I-515 Mag-Lev Construction Zone. Ten kilometers of open decking, rebar, and half-finished support pillars. You will race one other driver. You win, you earn your place. You lose, you come with me, and the club undergoes a full compliance audit."
"Who's the other driver?" I asked.
A sleek, silver Porsche 911 GT3 RS pulled forward, its engine ticking over with a metallic, precise cadence. The door opened, and Julian stepped out, adjusting his driving gloves. A cruel smile played on his lips.
"I'll volunteer to clean up this mess," he said, his eyes glinting. "It's the least I can do for the club."
Of course. It was a perfect way for him to eliminate me and curry favor with Rostova.
Chloe grabbed my arm, her voice a low, urgent hiss. "Kaito, no. You can't race him in the van. It's a death sentence. That GT3 is a track weapon. It's 500 horsepower and weighs half what the van does."
"He doesn't have to use the van."
The new voice was a dry rasp, cutting through the tension. Mr. Harrison's wheelchair hummed as Eleanor pushed him through the parted crowd. He held a simple key in his hand.
He looked at Rostova. "Valeria. Still using a hammer to swat flies, I see."
"Samuel," she nodded, a flicker of old respect in her eyes. "Just maintaining the ecosystem."
Harrison's gaze fell on me. "The boy has the instincts. He just needs the right tool." He tossed me the key. "Bay 7. The white hatchback. Don't scratch it."
I caught the key, my mind reeling. Bay 7? I ran, my feet pounding on the concrete, the eyes of the entire club burning into my back. I found Bay 7, a secluded nook near the cavern wall.
And I stopped dead.
It wasn't a supercar. It wasn't a muscle car.
It was a white, 1980s Toyota Corolla Levin TE71. A boxy, humble hatchback. It looked utterly, completely out of place.
My heart sank. Was this a joke? A punishment?
"Don't judge a book by its cover, rookie," Chloe said, coming up behind me. She popped the hood.
I stared. The engine bay wasn't stock. It was pristine, a work of art. A custom turbocharger was plumbed into a high-performance 4A-GE engine, reinforced with aftermarket internals. An aftermarket ECU, massive intercooler, and braided steel lines everywhere.
"It's a sleeper," I breathed, understanding dawning.
"Harrison's personal project," Chloe said, a grin spreading across her face. "Lightweight, all-wheel drive conversion, and that little four-banger makes 400 horsepower. It's a go-kart with a rocket engine. The construction site is tight, full of sharp turns and narrow gaps. Julian's Porsche needs sweeping curves. This thing… this thing will dance."
A spark of hope ignited in my chest. I slid into the driver's seat. The interior was stripped, a roll cage welded in, and a pair of deep bucket seats replaced the originals. The steering wheel was a small, suede-covered Momo. It felt right.
I turned the key.
VROOM-RUMBLE-RUMBLE.
The engine barked to life, the sound surprisingly aggressive for a four-cylinder. It idled with a choppy, anti-lag lope. This was no ordinary Corolla. This was a wolf in sheep's clothing.
I pulled up to the start line next to Julian's shimmering Porsche. The contrast was laughable. He looked over and smirked, shaking his head in mock pity.
Rostova stood between us, a handheld flare in her hand. The entire club had gathered on the sidelines, a sea of expectant faces. Chloe gave me a sharp nod. Harrison's expression was unreadable.
The flare hissed to life, casting a bloody red glow.
Engine: ON THE BOIL.
RPM: 5000.
Heart: POUNDING.
Julian's Porsche screamed, a high-strung, technical wail. My Levin rumbled, a deceptive, low-frequency threat.
The flare dropped.
LAUNCH!
The Porsche shot forward with brutal, all-wheel-drive grip. I fed the clutch out too fast, the lightweight Levin's tires screeching, hopping for traction. He was three car lengths ahead before I'd even found second gear.
"Smooth, Kaito! Be smooth!" I heard Chloe's voice in my head.
We hit the first tunnel leading to the surface, a narrow, spiraling ramp. Julian's car was a silver bullet, his tail lights already disappearing. I kept my foot in, the turbo spooling, the boost gauge needle swinging into the positive.
BOOST: 0.8 BAR.
Speed: 110 KM/H.
We burst out onto the mag-lev construction site. It was a skeletal world of half-finished concrete, open gaps showing the city lights far below, and rebar jutting out like skeletal fingers. It was a nightmare course.
Julian had a clear lead, but the first chicane—a slalom between massive support pillars—was coming up fast. I saw his brake lights flash. He was slowing, setting up for the clean line.
But the clean line wasn't the fast line. Not here.
Chloe's lesson echoed. "The pressure point. The moment between control and chaos."
I left my foot on the throttle a fraction longer.
BRAKE: LATE.
CLUTCH: IN.
HAND-BRAKE: PULL.
The Levin's rear end slid out, the car rotating in a beautiful, controlled four-wheel drift around the first pillar. I straightened it, stamped on the throttle, and shot through the gap.
GAP: CLEAR.
I was on his bumper.
Julian's eyes flicked to his mirror, wide with surprise. He accelerated, his Porsche's superior power pulling him away on the next straight. But another tight section was coming—a series of 90-degree turns between construction trailers.
This was my domain. The Levin, so much lighter and shorter, changed direction like a thought. I could brake later, turn sharper. I glued myself to his rear diffuser, the pressure relentless.
We weaved through the obstacle course, the sounds of our engines echoing off the concrete canyon walls. His wail, my rumbling growl.
On a long, elevated straightaway, he pulled away again, hitting over 200 km/h. I pushed the Levin, the tiny car shaking violently, the turbo screaming.
BOOST: 1.5 BAR.
Speed: 215 KM/H.
Then, the final challenge. A partially completed bridge, with a gap in the middle where the decking hadn't been laid. Two temporary metal plates, just wider than a car, were the only way across.
Julian took the left plate, slowing dramatically to navigate the narrow path.
My mind calculated in a split second. The plates. The gap. The Levin's agility.
"It's a dance."
I didn't slow down.
I aimed for the right-side plate, but at the last second, I jerked the wheel left.
TURN-IN: SHARP.
WEIGHT: TRANSFERRED.
The Levin's rear kicked out again. This time, it wasn't a drift. It was a full, intentional spin.
The car rotated 180 degrees, sliding backwards across the metal plate. I was now facing the way I came, but still moving forward, watching Julian's stunned face in his mirror as I passed him, sliding backwards over the chasm.
As soon as my rear wheels hit solid concrete on the other side, I slammed the shifter into second, dumped the clutch, and executed a perfect J-turn, the tires screeching as the car snapped back into the correct direction.
I was ahead.
I could hear Julian screaming in fury over the roar of his engine. He was charging now, desperate. The finish line was in sight—a spray-painted stripe across the deck.
He pulled alongside, our doors almost touching. I looked over. His face was a mask of rage.
Then, a new sound cut through the air.
WHOOP! WHOOP!
Two unmarked black interceptors, different from Rostova's, surged onto the construction site from a side access road. They weren't part of the race. Their lights were dark, but their intent was clear.
"Kaito! They're not ours!" Chloe's voice screamed over the open comm-link I hadn't realized was active. "It's Internal Affairs! They've been tracking Rostova! RUN!"
The race was over. Now, it was survival.
Julian saw them too. His eyes met mine for a split second. The hatred was still there, but it was now mixed with a shared, primal fear.
The finish line was forgotten. The two of us, the wolf in sheep's clothing and the silver bullet, became temporary allies against a common enemy. We split apart, diving into two different exit routes, the unmarked interceptors dividing to chase us.
I plunged the Levin down a dark service ramp, the G-force pushing me into my seat, the city's neon glow rising up to meet me.
I had proven myself to the club. But I had just ignited a war within the police itself.