The harbor wind shoved at her helmet, salted and mean. Three Lotus-Black engines still screamed behind her, neon tails scribbling nonsense across the rain. They wanted spectacle, and she was giving them scripture.
The city funneled her downhill into Central's spine, where trams cut the world into neat rails of steel and superstition. Monks in orange slickers had repainted the rails overnight. Vermilion smeared in rain—half prayer, half hazard sign.
She dropped onto the corridor, wheels clattering once against rail lips, then settled into the knife-thin strip between groove and paint. The bike purred like it belonged there. Her visor jittered with error glyphs, AR gridlines bending into horoscopes, then going dark. She grinned. Null meant freedom.
The Lotus-Black riders weren't built for null. Their chrome sang all the wrong notes for local magic. First one hit the rail and jerked sideways, his HUD vomiting koi outlines across his visor until he almost dumped the machine. He saved it with a scream of rubber, but the ward ink licked his tires again, sending sparks like a god had flicked him in the ribs.
Another leaned wide to pass her. His neon rims crossed a character meant to repel water. The storm had smeared it into something uglier: repel anything. His suspension jolted skyward like a trampoline. For a heartbeat he hung ridiculous above her, both wheels off the ground. Iris ducked instinctively. He came down crooked, fishtailing.
The kitten pawed her helmet—pam—soft but urgent. She adjusted two degrees right, clean line. Behind, the Lotus-Black clipped the lamp post shoulder-first. Sparks spat, his fairing shaving raw as he bounced off and wobbled sideways. The joss charms slapped against his visor, ash smearing across his HUD until it blinked blind. He fought it, barely kept upright, but his speed bled away until he crawled at tram pace.
"Two left," Iris muttered, the grin behind her visor edged in teeth.
The tram itself bellowed into view, bell clanging like a gong. Driver's face calm as a monk's, hands steady on a wheel that had outlived dynasties. Iris didn't flinch. She leaned off line, skirting close to a roadside shrine bolted to a pillar—fruit offerings drowned, a lone stick of incense still hissing in defiance. The flame snapped taller as she passed, heat kissing her calf.
The Lotus-Black weren't so devout. One rider clipped the shrine with his mirror. The talisman nailed above it spat blue fire, shorting his HUD. He cursed, veered, then barely caught balance. The tram roared past him, bell ringing like judgment.
Iris peeled off the corridor and into a tunnel mouth, low concrete scar still dripping from storm floods. Ghost marks crawled the walls—charms half-burned, chalk runes smudged by water, lanterns long dead.
Inside, the dark flexed.
Her visor filled with ghost trams barreling head-on. Her bike ignored them. She didn't.
"Cute trick," she growled, twisting throttle wide. "How about sound effects next time?"
The backpack pressed, claws kneading once. Sparks jittered across her shoulders. The phantoms peeled away like bad paint, leaving raw tunnel in front of her.
Not so for Lotus-Black. Their bikes howled confusion, brakes locking, suspensions juddering. One slammed sideways into the wall, tail whipping into sparks. The other two fought through, screaming engines, ghosts painted across their visors.
The tunnel spat her into rain again. She laughed once, short and savage. "Local discount, boys. Two-for-one."
Only two still followed, neon tails ragged, chrome hissing under ward-burn.
The tunnel spat her onto the open span like a bullet from a wet barrel. Air changed in a single breath — no longer city-thick with incense and exhaust, but sea-wide, salted, strong enough to peel a rider sideways. The Stonecutters Bridge rose ahead, a sword laid across the harbor's bruised water, pylons draped in fresh ward paint still streaked by rain.
The bike howled into the climb. Cables sang under wind, a chorus too high to be human. The kitten shifted in the backpack, claws kneading once, a pulse at her spine.
Two left now. Their engines weren't tired; they were furious. Neon undercarriage spat at the storm-dark steel, wards etched across fairings glowing in spasms. Pride kept them pinned to her wheel. Pride would kill them.
Wind shoved hard. She leaned low, body one line with the machine. A drone drifted in the crosswind, belly marked with police glyphs scribbled by some rookie monk — talismans meant to keep it steady. It caught her on camera, lens blinking. Then her aura brushed it and the glyph sputtered. The drone twitched sideways like it had been flicked by a god and vanished into mist.
Behind her, one rider jeered — she heard it in the vox crackle, a laugh too sharp, too sure. He pulled alongside, chrome fanged, intent clear: sideswipe her into the rail, claim the humiliation.
The backpack pam-pam'd her helmet — sharp, urgent. She swerved left, a breath sooner than her nerves told her. The rival's front wheel clipped the guardrail. At 160 kph, mistakes didn't forgive—but humiliation sometimes did. His bike shrieked, sparks biting the steel, before he wrenched it upright. Balance saved, speed gone. He limped along the shoulder at tram pace, visor dripping shame, engine coughing like it wanted to resign.
One left.
He screamed his engine wide, riding the steel mesh service strip along the span — the kind of stunt only a fool or a hero believed in. Sparks spat from his wheels, a comet line of arrogance. Iris matched him, slotting onto the mesh at his shoulder, her own tires clattering. For a heartbeat, they were mirror ghosts — two machines, two shadows, neon bleeding across the stormlight.
The kitten pressed hard against her back, warmth spreading like static. She didn't look — she felt.
Ahead, the bridge's end was teeth. Police vans idled sideways, their lights dark, patience humming. Patrol drones circled invisible above, recording every violation. Talismans glowed faint across fresh-painted barricades.
Kwan's voice cracked her comm, flat and steady: "That's enough. Bring him in."
Iris grinned under her visor. "On it, Inspector."
She braked sharp, body folding low. Tires screamed, fishtail snapping her sideways but catching just shy of disaster. Her rival didn't.
He overshot, momentum dragging him straight into the ward-painted barricade. The talisman flared white, not biting flesh but biting flame. His engine coughed once, then died outright, lights guttering like wet incense. The bike rolled to a pathetic crawl, HUD vomiting horoscope, leaving him shouting fury inside his helmet as police surged. Charms slapped onto his shoulders, binding him upright on his dead chrome. No blaze of glory—just capture by paperwork and wards.
Iris coasted to a stop on the wet steel, visor up. Behind her, the harbor stretched black and vast. Ahead, police had their prize pinned, wrists cuffed, camera drones filing evidence in triplicate.
She leaned back, exhaled once. The kitten shifted, then went still, warmth tucked against her spine.
Kwan's voice again, a fraction softer: "Clean work."
Iris laughed sharp, wiped rain off her visor with one glove. "You owe me dinner for this."
"You agreed to that already."
"Yeah," she said, throttling forward toward the blockade. "Doesn't mean I'll pay the tab."
The bike purred, steady and smug. The bridge's wind roared on.