(A/N: Three months is a long time. A lot can change. Johnny quit the soul-crushing inferno of the ironworks and, through a twist of fate so absurd it could only happen in real life, fell into the world of underground racing. Don't ask how. Just hang on.)
The world was a screaming, strobing tunnel of concrete and neon. Johnny's knuckles were white on the suede-wrapped steering wheel, his body fused to the carbon fiber racing seat of the Nissan Silvia S15. The chassis vibrated so intensely his teeth hummed, a brutal harmony with the high-pitched shriek of the turbocharged SR20 engine bouncing off the rev limiter. Outside, the industrial district's warehouses blurred into streaks of rust and grey, punctuated by the sodium-yellow glow of the streetlights they used to mark the course. This was the final lap.
"You're two car lengths behind Rico," Sal's voice crackled through the cheap headset taped inside his helmet. "He's running wide in the corners. His tires are shot. You can take him in the S-bend if you get a perfect entry."
Johnny didn't respond. He couldn't. His entire being was focused on the car ahead, a fire-spitting Mazda RX-7 FD, its rotary engine howling like a banshee. Rico was a bastard on the track, all aggressive blocks and late-braking maneuvers designed to intimidate. But Sal was right. He could see the slight wiggle from the Mazda's rear end as Rico fought for traction, the dark rubber marks he was painting on the asphalt.
The S-bend was coming up, a vicious left-right transition through a set of shipping containers that narrowed the track to a single, unforgiving lane. This was where races were won and million-dollar machines were turned into scrap metal. Johnny's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm matching the staccato bang-bang-bang of the anti-lag system spitting flames from his exhaust.
He eased off the throttle for a microsecond, letting the Silvia's weight shift forward, then feinted to the outside. As expected, Rico moved to block, his RX-7 drifting just enough to cover the line. It was the opening Johnny needed. He slammed his foot down, kicking the clutch and yanking the handbrake in a single, fluid motion.
Time seemed to dilate. The Silvia pivoted, its tail swinging out in a controlled, elegant arc of screeching rubber and smoke. He was sliding, perfectly perpendicular to the track, his headlights illuminating the side of Rico's car. For a split second, they were door-to-door, two predators in a metallic dance of death. Rico's helmeted head whipped around, his posture screaming surprise and rage.
Johnny was already counter-steering, his feet dancing on the pedals, feeding power back to the wheels before the drift could lose momentum. The Silvia straightened out, hooking up with a violent jolt that snapped his head back. He shot past Rico on the inside line, a clean, impossible pass.
"Holy shit, kid!" Sal yelled in his ear. "You got him! Sixth place! Now hold it! Just hold it to the line!"
Elation surged through him, hot and potent. He could taste victory. The finish line, a spray-painted stripe between two flickering flares, was just two corners away. But the adrenaline, the ghost of a triumphant smile on his lips, made him greedy. He entered the next ninety-degree right-hander too hot. The front tires, tortured from the aggressive pass, scrubbed for grip. Understeer. The car pushed wide, the nose plowing toward the concrete barrier.
He corrected, sawing at the wheel, but the delicate balance was gone. He lost a precious second, the car bucking beneath him. It was enough. Rico, recovering with a veteran's poise, shot back past him on the inside. Then a flash of blue—a heavily modified Lancer Evo—slipped by as well. Seventh. He crossed the line in seventh place, the cheers of the crowd drowned out by the bitter roar of his own engine and the angry buzzing in his head.
He coasted down the cool-down lane, pulling into their makeshift pit area under a flickering fluorescent light. He killed the engine, and the sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the ticking of hot metal. He ripped his helmet off, sweat plastering his dark hair to his scalp, and slammed his fist against the steering wheel.
Sal was already at his door, a stocky, bald man in his forties with grease permanently etched into the lines of his hands. "Seventh is better than a DNF, kid. That pass on Rico was a thing of beauty. A work of art."
"A work of art that got me seventh place," Johnny spat, his voice raw. He unbuckled his harness and climbed out, his legs shaky.
"You got cocky," Sal said, his tone shifting from praise to pragmatic criticism. He began checking the tire temperatures with an infrared gun. "You had the position. All you had to do was drive clean for ten more seconds. You have the talent of a god, Johnny, but the patience of a flea. We'll work on it."
Johnny leaned against the car's warm flank, breathing in the intoxicating fumes of race fuel and burnt rubber. Three months. It felt like a lifetime ago that he had stood in Mistress Gable's office, the weight of his past crashing down on him. A son. He had a son. The thought still felt like a punch to the gut, a phantom limb he couldn't stop trying to feel.
He'd lasted exactly four days at the ironworks. It was a vision of hell. The clang of metal on metal was a constant, skull-shattering roar. The air was thick with soot and the smell of ozone, and the heat from the forges was a physical presence that baked the moisture from your skin and soul. He was just another faceless drone, his existence measured in steel ingots and the foreman's bellowing rage. He saw his future stretching before him: a long, grey road of sweat, burns, and exhaustion, ending in a cheap coffin. The ghost of Mistress Gable's voice, telling him this was a mercy, echoed in the din. One morning, he simply put down his tools, walked out the main gate, and never looked back.
He'd wandered the city for a week, sleeping in alleyways, surviving on scraps. The city was a vast, indifferent beast, and he was nothing to it. Then one night, drawn by a cacophony of roaring engines and pulsing bass, he found himself on the edge of the docks. It was an underground car meet, a vibrant, illegal festival of light and sound. Gleaming, modified machines were parked in rows—Supras, Skylines, Evos—their owners preening and posturing. It was another world, one of power, confidence, and freedom. He felt like a ghost haunting a feast.
He was staring, mesmerized, at a pristine, pearl-white Toyota Supra MKIV when a man, frantic and sweating, rushed up to him. It was Sal.
"Kai! There you are, you son of a bitch! I've been looking everywhere!" Sal shoved a set of keys into Johnny's hand. "Your gut couldn't have picked a worse time! We're on the grid in two minutes. Get in!"
Johnny just stared at him, then at the keys in his hand. He didn't know who Kai was, but he knew the crushing despair of his own life. He had nothing. No name, no future, no hope. In that split-second of confusion, a lifetime of being told what to do by figures of authority took over. He simply obeyed. He nodded, got in the car, and buckled the strange, five-point harness.
Meanwhile, in the singular, foul-smelling port-a-potty two hundred yards away, the real Kai was grappling with a violent case of food poisoning from a bad gas station burrito, oblivious to the fact that his prized, quarter-million-dollar Supra was being grand-theft-auto'd onto a starting grid.
Johnny's memory of that first race was a chaotic blur of terror and pure, unadulterated ecstasy. He'd never driven a car before, not really. But he'd played racing games for hours on a cracked console another orphan had smuggled in years ago. He'd watched countless movies. In his mind, he understood the theory—the racing line, the apex, the concept of braking points. The reality was a physical assault.
The launch threw him back into the seat so hard he saw stars. The raw power was terrifying. But as the first corner approached, instinct took over. The knowledge from the games, buried deep in his subconscious, surfaced. He turned in, his hands moving with a certainty that wasn't his own. He clipped the apex perfectly. He powered out of the corner, the massive turbo spooling with a jet-like whistle. He was a natural. A freak.
He tore through the pack, his driving a bizarre mix of god-tier instinct and complete rookie incompetence. He'd pull off a maneuver that seasoned professionals would envy, then almost spin out because he forgot which gear he was in. He didn't know the track, he didn't know the car, but he could feel it. He could feel what it wanted to do, where the grip was, where the limits were.
He found himself in second place on the final lap, hunting down the leader. He had him lined up, ready to pass, but in his excitement, he shifted from third to second instead of fourth. The engine screamed in protest, the rear wheels locked up, and he fishtailed wildly. He wrestled the car back under control, but the leader was gone. He finished second.
When he pulled back into the pit area, the real Kai had finally emerged from his plastic prison, his face pale and furious. He saw his car, saw Johnny in the driver's seat, and started screaming. But Sal just stood there, his jaw on the floor, staring at Johnny as if he'd just seen a ghost pilot a spaceship.
He'd grabbed Johnny by the arm before Kai could throttle him. "Who the hell are you?"
"Johnny."
"Have you ever driven that car before?"
"I've never driven any car before."
Sal's expression was one of pure, unadulterated disbelief, which slowly morphed into the avaricious grin of a man who'd just found a winning lottery ticket lying in the gutter.
Now, three months later, Maya, their data tech and logistics chief, walked over with a tablet. She was the calm center to Sal's stormy personality. "Tire wear on the front right was seventeen percent higher than projected," she said, her eyes scanning the data. "You're still too aggressive on corner entry, Johnny. You're asking the tires to do too much, too soon. You need to be smoother."
Johnny nodded, still breathing hard. "I know. I felt it go."
"Yeah, we all did," Sal grunted, kicking one of the tires. "From sixth to seventh. That's a ten-grand mistake, kid."
Johnny looked away from them, out towards the track where other cars were still finishing. He was Johnny the Racer now. He had a team, a purpose. He slept in a real bed in the small apartment above Sal's garage. He was a universe away from the orphanage, from the ironworks. But as the adrenaline faded, the ghosts always crept back in. The memory of Gill's gasp in the cold bathroom. The echo of Mistress Gable's condemnation. And the face of a son he'd never see, a child cast out into the world, just like him. He was driving as fast as he could, but he still hadn't figured out how to outrun himself.