Qiren sat back down and switched off the radio.
"Did I just get possessed?" he muttered, staring at his reflection. "Aren't I supposed to be the demon here? How did Falco take over for that long?"
He looked exactly like Falco Moretti—from his appearance down to the minor mannerisms and speech patterns.
Something had happened when he consumed Falco's soul.
The essence that made Falco Falco had merged with his own, becoming dominant the moment he stepped into the car. His eyes flicked to the traffic light as it turned green.
He started driving.
He needed to get rid of the body in the back seat before he could think any further. The worst possible outcome would be being seen when the cops officially pronounced Falco deceased.
"I need to get rid of Mix—before I forget who I am again," he whispered, pressing down on the pedal. "The scrapyard. If I dump him in the press with the car, I can get away with it."
He exhaled slowly.
"I'll have to kill the workers. But it needs to look like gang violence."
Qiren placed the charm on the dashboard, then reached into his coat.
He pulled out the bullet case and opened it.
If he was going to do this, he needed ammunition.
His fingers fiddled with a shell before tossing it onto the seat. Then he hooked his finger back.
The bullet snapped into his hand, dragged by two bursts of miasma.
He shook his head in disappointment.
"I'm trying to keep my supernatural side hidden. So I can't just shoot and reuse the same rounds. Still, would that even be possible? Wouldn't the gunpowder be used up with one shot?"
"Bullets aren't made to be reused, after all. The only way summoning them back would work is if I retrieved them after they were fired and threw them hard enough to be lethal without gunpowder."
That was useful—just not right now.
Maybe later, once he had a stronger throwing arm capable of launching projectiles at lethal speeds.
His thoughts raced.
Time's running out. I need bullets. Think—
The garage.
The gang owned a small warehouse not far from here, converted into a garage.
Falco had been there.
He couldn't let that slip.
Qiren dug through Falco's memories, searching for details about the place.
They used it to strip stolen cars, resell parts, and store drugs for small-scale distribution.
More than thirty gang members worked there—some as mechanics, others as guards or enforcers. They held the keys to the weapons room, stocked with firearms, bats, and other tools.
That was what he needed.
"If I can clear out the weapons room, I'll have what I need for the scrapyard."
A smile crept across his face.
"No," he corrected himself. "That's still too tame."
"I don't want another relapse council session anytime soon. This time, I'll go big."
"I won't show my demonic claws—but I will make an impact. Something loud enough to mask me while I figure out this world."
The smile widened as a more sadistically violent plan took shape—one that would shake the city by dawn.
"But first," he murmured, "I need to keep you in sight. I can't risk forgetting again."
Qiren lifted the charm from the dashboard and hung it from the rearview mirror.
In the mirror, he caught a faint silhouette holding Mix across its lap—a figure with large, tucked wings. Golden feathers cut through the darkness.
That made him smile.
He closed his eyes. "I just said I don't want another session with you~" He laughed softly. "Don't worry. I'll act like a demon—without showing I am one."
He accelerated, cutting through a red light.
A car honked as he overtook it.
The vehicle sped up, pulling alongside him on the opposite side of the road.
"Oi!" a woman called out. "You've got a pretty fast car there. You nearly scared me to death pulling ahead like that."
The sleeve of her leather jacket hung out the window as she gently tapped the side of her car. Her manicured nails clicked lightly against the metal.
"How about we race as compensation?" she mused. "My poor heart got quite the fright, you know."
She pointed to a broken-heart decal worked into the car's frame.
Her engine roared— Redemption Model 7, it was a red two-door sports car.
It wasn't a brand you'd usually see in this part of the city. It wasn't local either—right-side drive, cherry blossom decals lining the body, hinting at Asian origins.
And yet, here she was—lollipop in her mouth—offering a race in gang territory with an illegal showpiece.
Qiren stared at her, wondering if she was some kind of adrenaline junkie. No sane person would drive something like that here. If she wasn't robbed at gunpoint, she'd be fined heavily just for owning it.
As they passed beneath a streetlight, her features became clear—short black hair, sharp eyes marked with small metal piercings, red heart-shaped liner dotting her lower eyelids and trailing toward her cheeks.
She was stunning—innocent and dangerous all at once. Likely in her late teens or early twenties, her youth only heightened the effect.
Her eyes sparkled with catlike excitement when she noticed his gaze.
She slowed slightly and drifted closer, her side mirror barely an inch from scraping his car. Subtle—but deliberate. Her control was precise. Each time he tried to pull away, she matched his speed perfectly, never touching his vehicle.
It made him think she had been looking for a race all along, especially at this empty hour.
He glanced at the back seat, then back at the leather-clad girl.
"Sorry, beautiful. How about a rain check?" he teased—and sped off.
She watched him go… then smiled.
And sped after him.
Qiren didn't signal as he turned right, his tires drifting through the sharp corner. He shifted gears and streaked toward a line of taillights ahead.
She reacted instantly, catching up with ease. Her face appeared beside his window.
"Sorry to disappoint," she said, cruising alongside him, "but I don't really take rain checks."
"You know," he replied, "most guys don't find it attractive when a girl can't take no for an answer."
She chuckled.
"Hmm. Maybe I'm the exception?"
She overtook him—but not conventionally.
She shifted into reverse.
Her car drove backward, bumper-to-bumper with his.
"So," she called out, "how about we make this race official?"
"You're crazy," Qiren muttered, pulling back and switching lanes.
"What do you mean~? I'm not even doing anything crazy yet," she replied, spinning forward smoothly as he passed her on the right.
She shifted and gave chase again.
They tore through the rain, unrestricted, engines screaming into the night. The city stirred as they passed early-morning commuters, buses, and taxis.
Eighty miles an hour.
No matter how many times Qiren turned or tried to lose her, she always reappeared behind him.
At first, it was charming—watching her try to predict his next move. His indicators became traps, forcing her to hesitate. He led her through potholes, slick streets, sudden brakes, even abrupt U-turns.
And it told him something.
She was talented. Skilled. But inexperienced.
She had the instincts of a great street racer—just not the scars.
"Let's end this cat-and-mouse chase," Qiren said, hanging his arm out the window, rain pooling along his skin.
"Cheap move, mister," the woman snapped from his left, mistaking it for an attempt to block her. "But you're sorely mistaken if you think this'll stop me."
She veered onto the sidewalk without hesitation.
She didn't realize that was his plan all along.
An expert would've looked ahead before changing course.
And they wouldn't drive against Red Flags' ace drifter.
Qiren accelerated as she closed in.
He yanked the wheel hard left—then snapped it right, moving in a sharp S-curve.
She braked.
"Mmm." She licked her lips, ready to follow—
When a taxi swerved into the intersection.
CRRRR—
Brakes screamed.
The taxi lost control and slammed into an oncoming car.
Metal shrieked.
Bang!