The city went silent.
Not the peaceful kind of silence—the kind that comes after the heart stops.
Every neon sign across Valdora flickered, then died. The skyline dimmed to black, leaving only the faint glow of burning oil and the pulse of distant thunder. Streetlights snapped off in a wave, plunging districts into darkness like falling dominoes.
And in that void, engines began to awaken.
Marcel stood atop Omega's hood, his reflection faint in the glass-like asphalt. The air smelled of rain and static. Somewhere deep in the city's circuits, something had tripped. This wasn't a power outage—it was a reset.
Adrian was crouched beside the car, portable interface flickering blue. "Grid's gone. Every system. Cameras, traffic feeds, even the Syndicate's network. Someone pulled the plug on Valdora."
Marcel's gaze traced the empty skyline. "Or burned it clean."
Then it came—a sound so deep it shook the puddles at their feet. One by one, in the distance, engines roared to life. Dozens. Then hundreds. The blackout wasn't chaos; it was a signal.
Every racer who had survived the wars of the underworld, every ghost, every outlaw—they were all coming out.
Adrian's voice tightened. "This isn't a race."
"No," Marcel replied, sliding into Omega's seat. "It's a resurrection."
He twisted the key. Omega's heart exploded to life, flames kicking out from the rear exhaust, painting the alley in blue fire. The car's dashboard blinked red—NO GPS | NO SIGNAL | NO LIMIT.
A ripple of lightning tore across the sky, illuminating the city in brief, violent flashes. Between them, silhouettes of cars—Phantoms, Executioners, Gripless—lined the main highway like soldiers at the gates of war.
A voice cut through the comm static, distorted but commanding:
"Welcome back to zero, racers. The world's gone dark. Let's see who can make it shine again."
Marcel grinned. The voice was familiar—but older, sharper. He knew that tone.
It was Ryder. The original Drift King. The one who disappeared years ago in the Omega Collapse.
Lightning struck again. And in that split-second of blinding white, Ryder's car appeared across the bridge—a low, matte-black machine with twin red streaks blazing down its sides like scars.
Adrian froze. "That's impossible. He's—"
"Dead?" Marcel finished. "Guess the afterlife runs on premium."
Ryder's engine revved, the sound tearing through the storm like a challenge. The other racers roared in response, headlights flaring to life one by one.
Marcel's grip tightened on the wheel. This wasn't just a race—it was the rebirth of everything the streets had lost.
The signal changed from static to a single tone. The kind of sound that drilled into the spine.
A countdown.
3… 2… 1…
The city came alive.
Engines screamed, tires spun, and Valdora's streets—once dead—were reborn in streaks of blue and red fire. The blackout wasn't darkness anymore; it was the perfect canvas for chaos.
Omega tore through the rain-slick roads, reflections of flame rippling beneath her tires. Marcel felt every vibration, every jolt, every heartbeat syncing with the machine.
Ryder was out there. Waiting.
And somewhere beyond the static, the Mirage flickered again—like a ghost caught in lightning.
The road was calling.And this time, it wasn't asking for racers.It was asking for gods.