Engines aren't supposed to scream like this--tearing heaven apart--at 7:13 AM.
Mine didn't care. It was a beast woken too early, hungry and savage.
The Lamborghini Veneno Roadster didn't just accelerate—it detonated. The instant I slammed the throttle pedal to the firewall, the V12 behind my head unleashed a howl that scraped the marrow from my bones. It wasn't a roar; it was a physical blow, a sonic fist punching the dawn silence into oblivion.
Tires—massive, slick Pirellis—bit into the cool asphalt with a shriek of tortured rubber, shredding the quiet like it owed me a debt paid in smoke and fury. The open cockpit wasn't just ventilation; it was a portal to chaos.
The wind became a hurricane, a roaring, physical force slamming into my skull, whipping at my jacket, trying to tear the sunglasses from my face.
The world warped and stretched.
