Days had passed since Beidou's unforgettable ride with Collei. The memory still clung to the gas station like lingering smoke—palpable, but unspoken. Now, the place had fallen into one of its rare lulls, the ever-present hum of tools and engines quieted. Late morning sunlight slanted across the lot, hot on the pavement, but there was no rush, no noise—just that heavy, idle stillness.
Lyney stepped out of the office, arms stretched overhead in a lazy arch. His eyes swept the empty garage bays and the lot beyond, then locked onto two familiar shapes by the vending machines.
Collei and March.
He sauntered over, hands tucked in his pockets.
"Where's Beidou?" he asked, voice easy.
Collei didn't even bother lifting her head. "Out on a delivery," she muttered, tone flat. "Took the pickup."
Lyney nodded, like it lined up perfectly with what he figured. "Figures." He pulled a set of keys from his pocket—black, polished fob gleaming—and passed them to Collei, along with a plain manila envelope.
"If she's tied up, maybe you can help me out. Just a drop-off at Yamada's parts shop. Nothing special."
Collei glanced up at him, then down at the keys. She clocked the emblems, instantly recognizing the logo.
"Your Century?" she asked, one brow arching.
"Yep," Lyney said, flashing that smooth grin of his. "Treat her nice."
Collei gave a slight nod and turned on her heel. The Toyota Century sat tucked in the shade, black paint glinting like obsidian, its lines clean and dignified—an absolute stealth-luxury behemoth. She climbed in and fired it up. The 1GZ-FE V12 coughed to life with a muffled, buttery purr, almost too quiet for something so large.
The car eased out of the lot with regal grace. March watched the whole thing with a growing scowl etched into her face.
She crossed her arms, shifting her weight. "Hey, Lyney."
He stopped mid-step, halfway back to the office. "Yeah?"
March jabbed a thumb at herself. "You do know I have a driver's license, right? Why is it always Beidou or Collei doing your errands when I exist?"
Lyney paused, turned slightly, then pointed at her.
"Put your hand on your chest."
March squinted, confused. "…Okay?"
She pressed her palm to her sternum. "Now what?"
Lyney's smirk deepened. "What do you feel?"
March blinked. "My… heartbeat?"
"Exactly." He sighed, overly dramatic. "And now you get it."
"…No I don't," she said flatly.
Lyney chuckled and spun on his heel. "Simply put," he called over his shoulder, "I trust Beidou and Collei to bring my car back without a scratch."
He pointed lazily at her without looking back.
"You? You'd come back with a dent so big it'd look like someone kicked your ribcage in with steel-toe boots."
March physically recoiled. "WHAT THE HELL?!"
Lyney didn't break stride. "That's the long and short of it."
March stood there, sputtering indignantly. Fists clenched. Jaw twitching.
"One day, Lyney…" she muttered under her breath, seething. "One day, I'm gonna have my own car. And you? You're gonna eat those words."
Before March could finish her dramatic vow of vengeance, a low-pitched whoosh tore through the stillness of the gas station—like thunder muffled by silk. Her head snapped up.
A sleek, jet-black Porsche 930 Turbo coasted into view. Its flat nose and flared hips caught the sunlight with a dangerous glint, every inch of its bodywork pristine and hungry. The air shifted with its presence, heat rippling off its dark skin like a predator stalking through the savannah. The turbocharged boxer-six beneath its slotted tail whined softly as the car pulled up to the pump.
March's indignation evaporated in an instant. Her jaw went slack.
"Whoa," she breathed. "Porsche Turbo. You don't see these every day."
The driver stepped out—tall, striking, and coiled like a spring. Black leather jacket, sunglasses slid down with a single fluid motion. Eyes sharp, smile sharper.
"Hey, kid," the woman said. "Name's Yelan."
March blinked as the woman leaned casually against the car, one foot crossed over the other like she owned the whole world and was just taking a pit stop to admire it.
"A buddy of mine from Inazuma City told me to swing by," Yelan added. "Said I'd find someone here. Girl drives an Eight-Six. Yougou Speedsuns crew. That ring a bell?"
March stood a little straighter, puffing out her chest like it might help her seem older, more important. This was her moment.
"Oh, Collei? Yeah! I know her. We're like—" she made a vague hand gesture "—sisters. Really tight. Best friends forever."
Yelan arched a brow. "That so?"
March nodded with smug confidence. "That's right. Me and her? Fastest racers on the mountain."
Yelan didn't answer. She didn't have to. A sound rose in the distance—deep, guttural, and unmistakable. It wasn't just an engine. It was a warning.
A howl of forced induction, air violently compressed and detonated inside flat-six cylinders. The sound crescendoed as the car crested the nearby road, and then—like a bullet streaking through time—the Blackbird appeared.
Jet black. Chrome delete. Low as hell.
The Porsche 930 Turbo snarled into the lot, a different animal entirely now that it was alive under Yelan's control. Its presence was suffocating. Commanding. Like it knew exactly what it was, and didn't give a shit who feared it.
March's confidence cracked like brittle plastic. "Wait—is that…?"
Yelan was already sliding back into the driver's seat.
She leaned out the window, elbow on the sill. "Pass a message to your girl. Saturday. Ten PM. Summit of Yougou."
She gave the throttle a teasing brush—just enough to let the turbos snarl.
"Tell her to look for the Blackbird."
March swallowed hard, already sweating. "Uh… and… and then what?"
Yelan flashed a deadly smile. "Then it's a race. To the bottom."
The Porsche launched out of the lot like a goddamn missile, rear tires chirping once as they caught grip, the engine note fading into a howl as it devoured the horizon.
March stood frozen in place. Her mouth was open. No words came out. She blinked, blinked again—and then reality dropkicked her in the chest.
"Oh no."
She looked down at her shaking hands.
"What have I done?"
She'd just accepted a street race on Collei's behalf. With the Blackbird.
The fucking Blackbird.
Just then, Lyney's Century coasted back into the lot—silk in motion, elegant and slow. Collei parked it with surgical precision, the engine purring down to a whisper.
Collei rolled down the window. "March? Why do you look like you just committed a crime?"
March snapped upright, face stretched into a rictus grin. "Uhh—no reason! Nothing to see here! Hey! Wanna, uh… do some downhill runs tonight? Y'know. Practice."
Collei narrowed her eyes. "You never ask to practice."
March gulped.
"What did you do?"
Before she could invent a lie, Lyney walked out holding a fresh coffee. "Yo, Collei. Got a fresh brew here. You want some?"
Collei sighed and got out of the car. "Sure."
March stood there, staring at her back like it might be the last time she saw her alive.
I am so fucking dead.
The Next Day
The station settled into its usual lazy rhythm. Midmorning sun. Faint traffic. A soft breeze carried the scent of oil, warm concrete, and gasoline.
Beidou, Collei, and March were wiping down pump handles and rechecking stock. March, dead inside but trying desperately to play it cool, whistled tunelessly as she scrubbed one of the dispensers.
"B—Beautiful day today, huh?" she said with way too much fake cheer.
Collei didn't even look up. "Uh-huh. Why are you being weird?"
March laughed like a broken wind-up toy. "Weird? Me? Hah! Pfft. No way."
Then it hit—the sound.
A different roar this time. Sharp. Metallic. Unfiltered aggression.
A twin-turbocharged straight-six screamed through the trees like it was chasing something—or being chased.
Before anyone could say a word, a blood-red Nissan S30Z drifted into the gas station, tires screeching in protest. The car snapped into a dead-straight position at the pump. Brake rotors steamed faintly.
The door flew open, and Seele exploded out of the cockpit, eyes blazing.
"BEIDOU!"
Beidou blinked, rag still in hand. "Uh… what?"
Seele stormed up to her like a hurricane. "Don't give me that! What the hell is this I hear about you accepting a race against the Blackbird?!"
Beidou looked genuinely stunned. "The what-now?"
"Oh, come on!" Seele shouted, gesturing wildly. "Everyone's talking about it! Saturday night. Porsche Turbo. Blackbird versus the Eight-Six. Don't bullshit me! You're keeping this from me?!"
Beidou looked to Collei, who was already shaking her head. "I don't know anything about this either."
Seele threw her hands in the air. "So what—what the hell is happening? Did the ghost of Mount Yougou make a pact or something?! Who the fuck said yes?!"
All eyes turned to March.
Who was now visibly sweating. Trembling slightly.
"…March?" Beidou asked slowly. "What did you do?"
March dropped to her knees like her legs had just shut off. "I—I'M SORRY!"
Silence.
Beidou's brow twitched.
Seele just stared in open-mouthed horror.
Collei pressed her palm to her forehead. "No…"
"I didn't mean to!" March wailed. "She pulled up in that scary-ass car and looked at me with those murder eyes and I just—I panicked! I was trying to sound cool! And before I knew it I said yes! I said yes to Yelan!"
Beidou's whole body tensed. "YOU—"
Seele lunged to hold her back as she tried to strangle the smaller girl. "WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL US EARLIER, YOU ABSOLUTE DUMBASS?!"
"I panicked again!" March wailed. "I didn't know how to tell you!"
She turned to Collei like a condemned soul begging the Archons themselves.
"I fucked up. I really, really fucked up. Please forgive me. I promise it won't happen again! Please!"
Collei stared at her for a long moment. Then sighed.
"…It better not."
She exhaled slowly. Then looked up toward the mountains.
"But Archons almighty, man."
That night, the café sat under the orange glow of flickering neon signage, a lone sanctuary tucked between shuttered storefronts and alley shadows. The windows fogged faintly from within, diffusing the city's electric chaos into a blur of reds and yellows. Inside, a jazz record played low, barely audible over the distant grind of traffic and the occasional burst of laughter from a passing group of teens.
Beidou nursed her coffee, its bitter steam coiling up around her tired eyes. Her elbows rested on the table, leather jacket creaking with every small shift. She looked across at Seele, whose fingers were drumming in a steady, silent rhythm against the ceramic rim of her mug.
"So, Seele…" Beidou asked, voice just above a murmur, "who the hell are we waiting for?"
Seele gave a slow, knowing smirk. "You'll see. Before she left the scene, we kept in touch. Just in case the day came when something like this happened."
Beidou's eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across her face, but before she could press further, the calm of the street outside fractured with the distinctive whirring snarl of a rotary engine—metallic, angry, high-strung.
Both women turned toward the window.
A white Mazda RX-7 FC glided into view under the glow of a buzzing streetlamp, its low stance and polished body slicing clean through the night. It pulled in beside Seele's midnight blue S30Z with a mechanical purr, idling for a few seconds before the driver cut the engine. Two figures stepped out.
Beidou blinked, straightened. "No shit. Ningguang?"
Seele nodded, sipping her coffee like this had all been planned. "Yep. And Keqing. They know the Wangan inside and out—hell, if anyone's cracked the code on the Blackbird, it's them."
The café's door chimed softly as the pair entered. Ningguang, immaculate as ever despite the casual outfit—pressed trousers, a tailored blouse, gold-rimmed glasses perched on her nose—moved like the room belonged to her. Keqing followed, lean and sharp, eyes scanning the room with the efficiency of a driver scouting a track.
Ningguang extended a hand with the faintest curve of a smile. "Beidou. Seele. It's been a while."
Beidou grinned and clasped it. "Still got that same charm, huh?"
Seele stood and shook hers firmly. "Glad you could make it."
They all sat down around the table, sliding chairs over the tile with a muted scrape. Ningguang wasted no time. She placed a thin, sleek tablet on the table, already active. Her fingers swept across the screen, shifting between folders, clips, and documents with clinical precision.
"Let's get to it," she said.
The Blackbird
Seele leaned in close. "Alright. What do we know?"
Ningguang brought up a high-res image of the car—sleek, obsidian black, headlights sharp as a hawk's eyes, nose dipped low like it was always on the hunt. The Porsche 930 Turbo.
"The Blackbird isn't just a car," she began. "It's a legend of Inazuma's Wangan. High-speed, straight-line battlegrounds. Endless expressways. No rules but horsepower and balls."
She tapped again. Natasha's profile appeared—mid-thirties, stoic face, long black hair tied back. "The driver's name is Natasha. Doctor by day. Street demon by night."
Keqing folded her arms, speaking coolly. "She wasn't alone out there. She had a rival—someone who pushed her past her limits. There was no hatred. Just respect. They were chasing the same ghost."
Beidou leaned back, letting out a low whistle. "Sounds poetic. But I want to know what's under the hood."
Ningguang obliged, pulling up schematics and dyno charts. "Custom 3.6-liter flat-six, twin-turbocharged. Estimated output—seven hundred horsepower. The Blackbird's built for long, high-speed pulls. Minimal drag, brutal acceleration."
Beidou sat up straighter. "Seven hundred?! That's insanity. Tell me it's got a flaw. Anything."
Keqing cracked a small grin. "It does. Snap oversteer."
Seele raised a brow. "Meaning?"
Ningguang explained, her voice flat, focused. "It's a phenomenon common in rear-heavy, high-powered cars. Let off the throttle too abruptly while cornering, and the car's rear end unloads. The back gets loose. If you overcorrect, it'll spin violently."
Beidou's grin returned. "There it is. That's the opening. If Collei can push her into late braking on the hairpins—stack pressure through tight technical sections—Yelan might drop throttle mid-corner and lose it."
Keqing nodded. "That's the strategy. Collei's precision shines in the downhill. Her weight transfer control is better than anyone's we've seen."
The discussion surged into theory and tactics—chassis dynamics, tire temperatures, throttle modulation on downhill grades. But while the others traded knowledge, Seele's focus drifted. Her fingers had stopped tapping. Her eyes were locked on something beyond the glass.
The S30Z.
Her S30Z.
It sat beneath the streetlight, paint gleaming like dark water. Something in her chest stirred.
"…Ningguang," she said suddenly, cutting the conversation cold. "You said Natasha had a rival. Do you know what they drove?"
Ningguang tilted her head, puzzled. "A Midnight Blue S30Z. Fairlady Z."
The blood drained from Seele's face. Her jaw locked.
"License plate?" she asked, tone flat.
Ningguang paused. "Inazuma 33. 53–68."
Seele's breath hitched. Her heart began to hammer behind her ribs. She stood up so fast her chair screeched.
"Come outside," she said, voice hoarse. "Now."
Confused, the others followed her out. The air outside was crisp, silence draped over the lot like a held breath. The S30Z stood still, unknowable.
Seele walked up to it, eyes flicking from bumper to plate, fender to fender. She reached beneath the dash, popped the hood.
The latch clicked.
The hood rose.
And there it was.
Nestled in the bay—an L28 twin-turbo setup. Dual carbs. Custom manifold work. Handmade heat shielding. The unmistakable thrum of history soaked into every part.
Ningguang's breath caught. "No… way."
Keqing whispered, stunned. "This is it…"
Ningguang nodded slowly, eyes wide. "This is the Devil Z. Natasha's rival."
Seele stepped back, her limbs suddenly heavy. Her voice cracked. "I bought it off Asta. She said it had 'good bones.' Said she wasn't driving anymore."
Ningguang looked at her gently. "Asta was Natasha's rival. The only one who could go toe-to-toe with the Blackbird at speed."
Another silence fell, heavier than the first.
Keqing finally spoke. "So what now? How do we break this to Collei?"
Beidou, recovering first, gave a half-grin. "Simple. We catch her on a delivery run. She can't escape forever."
Ningguang raised an eyebrow. "You know her schedule?"
Beidou's grin widened into something feral.
"Oh, I know the time."