The sky cracked before the storm hit.
Not with thunder—
but with engine noise.
Low. Deep. Relentless.
Like a titan revving in its sleep.
The Bone Line hadn't seen life in years. Acondemned track buried under salt winds and desert myths. No starting line. No finish.
Just wreckage. Rust. Ruin.
And now?
A storm.
Marcel stood on the ridge, visor down, heart up.
Ayaka's voice came through the comms—crackled, jittering from interference.
"That's no natural storm, Vega. That's something built."
"Built to do what?"
"To erase you."
The wind howled.
From the horizon, the first thing to appear was a grille—taller than a car, sharper than a missile nose.
Then wheels—six of them, each treaded like tank tracks but spinning faster than fighter jet turbines.
And then the rest.
A black, juggernaut-class drift machine.
Built like a truck.
Moved like a whisper.
Above it floated a name:
PROJECT: THROTTLESTORM
RAVYN: "Warning. Target is not constrained by physical track limitations.
This race will adapt dynamically."
Marcel: "So will I."
The signal dropped.
Then the Bone Line woke up.
Old wreckage floated off the ground, shifting into barriers. Road lines lit with electric plasma. Drones from Syndicate satellites came alive—projecting new roads mid-air, mid-turn, even mid-crash.
ThrottleStorm didn't drive the circuit.
It created it.
Real-time.
RAVYN: "Track Analysis: No repetition. Every drift is unlearnable."
"Then I won't learn it," Marcel said, dropping the handbrake. "I'll feel it."
He launched.
The Skyline hit the circuit like lightning
striking glass.
First turn — a full vertical loop conjured from a war memorial.
Second — drifting across glass, just inches thick, with salt flats below.
ThrottleStorm chased like death incarnate.
No tire squeal. Just pressure.
It didn't drift. It devoured.
Every turn, the road mutated.
One second—brick.
Next—metal.
Next—airborne tiles hanging in nothing.
Marcel bled reflex.
His fingers played the wheel like an instrument.
Tap. Pull. Snap.
Each move a gamble.
"Come on, come on—show me what scares you."
The Juggernaut behind him growled—and for a moment, the HUD flickered.
A human face.
Brief. Scarred.
Eyes cyber-patched.
ThrottleStorm wasn't AI.
It was piloted.
And it was getting angrier.
The sky fractured.
The track ahead—gone.
Only air.
Only choice.
Marcel hit full Bloodshift.
Nitro core surged red.
The Skyline soared.
In midair, he whispered:
"You think you're the storm?"
"I drift through storms."
He spun.
Landed.
Perfect.
Behind him—ThrottleStorm hit unstable terrain.
Too fast. Too brutal.
The monster tipped.
Skipped.
Flipped.
And detonated in a cyclone of black static and shattered code.
Silence.
Only Ravyn's voice, like rain after fire.
"Storm circuit… cleared."
Marcel exhaled.
Ayaka cheered over comms.
But deep beneath the crash site, hidden by static, a red light blinked once.
[SYNTH PILOT: SURVIVED]
[PHASE 2 READY]