The world had gone quiet.Not dead—just holding its breath.
Valdora's skyline shimmered beneath the bleeding dawn, a city rebuilt on the bones of its own destruction. Every street hummed with an electric tension, every shadow whispered rumors of the Phantom's return. Some called it myth. Others swore they heard the scream of his engine on nights when the fog rolled low.
Then came the sound—faint at first, like thunder too distant to believe in. But it grew, deeper, heavier. The kind of sound that made windows vibrate and hearts forget their rhythm.
Omega was back.
Black armor gleamed beneath the rising sun, the body rebuilt, sharper, almost predatory. Inside, Marcel Voss sat motionless. Eyes locked on the endless stretch of tarmac ahead, his reflection burning in the dashboard lights. His hands—scarred, steady—rested on the wheel like it was a weapon.
The world thought the Drift Wars had ended.But Marcel wasn't done. Not yet.
He'd buried too many names in smoke to stop now. The Phantom Syndicate was scattered, hunted, half-alive. But whispers of a new underground race—the Resurrection Circuit—were spreading fast. A race with no rules, no flags, no finish lines. Just pure survival. The kind of madness that could resurrect legends… or erase them for good.
Marcel didn't come back for glory. He came back for answers.
The crash that should've killed him, the syndicate betrayal, the whispers of a shadow figure controlling the races from the dark—everything pointed to one ghost still out there: The Architect.And this time, Marcel wasn't driving to escape his past.He was driving straight into it.
The first meet was deep beneath Valdora's industrial sector—a labyrinth of tunnels lit by molten pipes and flickering neon. The air smelled like ozone and danger. As Marcel pulled in, engines roared from every corner.Dozens of cars waited, each more monstrous than the last.Each driver a name the world had tried to forget.
At the center of it all stood Rhea Kuro, former syndicate prodigy, now a queen of chaos. Her white RX-9 glowed under the lights, engine snarling like it wanted blood.
She smirked as Omega rolled to a stop."Didn't think ghosts could drive," she said.
Marcel lifted his gaze. "You still talk too much."
That silence after—perfect. Heavy.The kind of silence that tells you something unstoppable is about to happen.
Rhea leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "They say this race decides who controls the streets now. But we both know that's not why you're here."
Marcel didn't answer. He didn't need to.The engines around them began to howl, signaling the start.
One breath.One pulse.The city trembled.
When the lights dropped, the Resurrection Circuit came alive like a lightning storm. Flames ripped through tunnels, tires screamed on metal, and Omega lunged forward like it had been waiting centuries to breathe again. The air warped with heat and fury.
Every drift was sharper. Every corner burned brighter.Marcel wasn't racing the others—he was racing the ghost of himself. The boy who crashed years ago, the name the world buried, the mistakes he swore he'd never repeat.
Up ahead, Rhea's RX-9 flickered through the tunnel haze, and for a second, their cars aligned—two comets sharing a single orbit before tearing apart again.
Marcel's heartbeat