The school gates surrendered.
Security barely had time to register the approaching roar—that unholy trinity of V12 fury and flat-plane crank violence screaming up the approach—before we detonated into Lincoln High's front compound like missiles finding target.
Three hypercars. Three egos. One audience that had no idea what was about to hit them.
I went in first.
The Veneno Roadster crossed the threshold doing ninety, engine note climbing into frequencies that made windows vibrate in their frames. That aggressive body—sharp angles and aerodynamic violence wrapped in carbon fiber—caught morning sun like molten metal.
Every line screamed predator. Every vent exhaled threat.
I didn't slow down.
The compound opened up—two hundred feet of pristine asphalt meant for school buses and concerned parents dropping off their precious cargo. Not for this. Never for this.
