Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound of my cheap wall clock is the only rebellion in my sterile apartment. It's an analog relic, a physical tick in a digital world of silent, seamless time. It's my heartbeat.
My name is Kaito. I'm a ghost in the humming machine of New Las Vegas. I fled the rigid order of Tokyo for this neon-lit illusion of freedom, only to find a bigger, shinier cage. The air is artificially pure. The streets are silent rivers of electric pods. The only roar is the simulated one from the holographic ads that bleed across the sky.
Unemployed. Status: CONFIRMED.
Purpose:NULL.
Future:LOADING...
That's what my life looks like on a screen. But screens lie.
My truth is in a magazine from 1998. The pages are yellowed, the ink smudged from my fingertips. A Toyota Supra, glistening under a setting sun, its curves a promise of raw speed. I run my hand over the photo. I can almost feel it. Almost.
COMM-LINK BUZZING. UNKNOWN ID.
I ignore it. The sim-race is about to start. I strap into my worn rig, my hands settling on the fake leather of the wheel. The visor descends.
Track: Nürburgring Nordschleife.
Car: Nissan Skyline GT-R R34.
Engine: RB26DETT.
Status: GO.
The lights flash. My foot slams down.
VROOOOOOM!
The synthetic engine scream fills my ears. The force feedback rattles the wheel. It's good. But it's not right. It's a recording. A ghost. There's no smell of high-octane fuel, no real vibration in my bones. It's a perfect, empty copy.
I push it, hard. Taking the corners on the edge, the digital tires screeching.
Traction: LOST.
Spin: 720 degrees.
Impact: BARRIER.
Race: OVER.
I tear the visor off. Failure. Again.
The comm-link buzzes once more, more insistent this time. A job offer. Harrison Industries. "Personal Attendant for Mr. Harrison. Live-in. Non-Disclosure Agreement Required."
Desperation is a powerful fuel. My credits were running lower than a busted suspension. I accepted.
---
The Harrison estate was a monument to a dead world. Real stone, real wood, not synth-concrete and light-panels. Eleanor, a woman so sharp she could cut silence, led me to the study.
Mr. Harrison was a king dethroned, his body confined to a wheelchair that hummed softer than the city's drone. But his eyes… they were twin blue flames, burning with an intensity that seared through me.
"You are Kaito." A statement, not a question. His voice was a dry rasp, like sandpaper on old metal. "You know of internal combustion."
It was a test. I just nodded.
He gestured a trembling hand towards a framed schematic on the wall. It was an engine. Complex, beautiful. "What is it?"
I didn't hesitate. "2JZ-GTE. Inline-six. Twin-turbo. Cast iron block. Legendary for its strength."
A flicker in his eyes. A spark. "Hmph. Most your age think a '2JZ' is a droid model." He stared at me, the silence stretching. "The job is simple. You are my hands. You do not ask questions. You see nothing. You hear nothing. Understood?"
"Understood, sir."
Job: ACCEPTED.
Freedom: [REDACTED].
---
Days blurred into a routine of silent service. Fetching books, adjusting lights, pushing his chair. He was a vault, sealed shut. Until one night.
It was late. The city's holograms cast a sickly green glow through the window. He was staring at a blank wall, but I knew he was seeing something else.
"The SR20," he muttered, so low I almost missed it. "In the 240SX. A tuner's dream. But the stock turbo… a chokehold."
My breath hitched. I was polishing a vintage brass astrolabe. I didn't look up. I just listened.
"Spool time… too slow. You swap it. A Garrett GTX2867R. Ball bearing. The response…" He made a faint, whistling sound, like a turbo spooling up. "Instant. The power… linear. A surgeon's knife, not a sledgehammer."
He fell silent. The ghost of a smile touched his lips. It was the first time I'd seen one. My heart was pounding. He wasn't just an old man. He was a library, and he'd just opened a forbidden book.
---
My secret haven was a crumbling warehouse on the city's edge. The air here was thick, real. It smelled of dust, rust, and hope.
I pulled the tarp.
My 1998 Toyota Supra. Midnight Purple.
She was my masterpiece, my rebellion. I'd spent a year, credit by stolen credit, part by illicit part, bringing her back from the dead. I slid into the driver's seat. The worn Nardi wheel fit my hands perfectly.
I couldn't start her. Not here. The sound would bring the Enviro-Cops like hornets.
But I could pretend.
My hand rested on the gear knob. My other hand mimed turning a key.
Ignition: ON.
Fuel Pump: WHIRR.
Gauges: SWEEP.
My foot pressed an imaginary clutch. My right hand moved the shifter.
First Gear: ENGAGED.
Clutch: OUT.
Throttle: STOMP.
In my mind, the world exploded.
VROOOOOM!
The 2JZ roared to life. A deep, guttural awakening that shook the very foundations of my soul. The turbo spooled, a high-pitched whistle building into a scream.
BOOST: 1.0 BAR.
RPM: 7000.
Shift: NOW!
I slammed the shifter into second. The force shoved me back into the seat. The tires screeched, fighting for traction.
Speed: 100... 130... 160 KM/H!
I was flying. Free. The warehouse walls melted away, replaced by a desert highway under a blanket of stars. There was no hum. Only the roar. No sterile air. Only the smell of burning rubber and hot oil.
This was living. This was—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The sound wasn't in my head.
It was a hard, official rap on the warehouse door.
My blood turned to ice. The fantasy shattered, leaving me in a cold, silent sweat.
The banging came again, louder, more impatient.
Identity: ENVIRO-POLICE.
Status: PROBABLE CAUSE.
Escape: IMPOSSIBLE.
I was trapped. My dream was over before it ever truly began.