BANG. BANG. BANG.
The sound was a hammer against my skull. Reality snapped back, cold and brutal. The roaring engine in my mind died instantly, replaced by the deafening thud of my own heart.
Status: ALERT.
Threat Level: CRITICAL.
Adrenaline: PUMPING.
I froze in the driver's seat of the Supra, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. Every instinct screamed to run, but there was nowhere to go. The warehouse had one exit, and it was blocked.
Think, Kaito. THINK.
The Enviro-Police didn't knock twice. They usually just breached. This was a patrol? A routine check? Or had someone talked?
The banging came again. "Enviro-Compliance Scan! Open up!"
My eyes darted around the dark warehouse. The Supra was out in the open. The tools were scattered. I was done for.
Then, my training from a thousand sim-racing emergencies kicked in. Look for the gap. There's always a gap.
My gaze landed on the main power switch on the far wall. It was a heavy, old-fashioned lever, not a digital pad. A plan, desperate and insane, formed in a split second.
I slid out of the Supra, my movements silent and fluid. I crept along the shadows, keeping the car between me and the door.
Step 1: Create a diversion.
I reached a stack of empty oil cans near the door. With a careful, calculated push, I sent them clattering to the concrete floor.
CLANG! CRASH! BANG!
The banging outside stopped. "Hey! What's going on in there?"
Step 2: Go dark.
I reached the power lever. I wrapped both hands around it and pulled with all my strength.
CLUNK.
The lever gave way. The warehouse was plunged into absolute, suffocating darkness. The faint hum of the overhead lights died. Now, it was just the sound of my ragged breathing and the muffled curses from outside.
"Power's out! Suspicious activity confirmed! Requesting backup!"
Backup. No. No time.
Step 3: The ghost.
I knew this warehouse blindfolded. I moved, a phantom in the dark, to the Supra. I put my shoulder against its rear quarter panel and pushed. It was on flat, dry concrete. It was heavy, but it moved with a low, grating sound, rolling silently backwards into a deeper, more recessed part of the storage area, behind a large stack of crumbling crates. It wasn't perfect, but in the dark, it might be enough.
I grabbed the heavy canvas tarp and threw it over the car, then scattered some loose debris around.
Footsteps. Outside the door. They were going to force it.
My eyes adjusted to the gloom. There was a ventilation shaft high on the wall, its cover loose. A childhood of hiding in Tokyo's cramped spaces came back to me. I scrambled up a shelving unit, my muscles screaming, and squeezed into the narrow, dusty shaft just as the warehouse door shuddered under a powerful impact.
CRASH!
The door flew open, splintering at the lock. Two figures silhouetted in the doorway, clad in the sleek, white-and-green armor of the Enviro-Police. Their helmet lamps cut through the darkness, twin beams of judgment.
"Scan the area!"
I held my breath, pressed against the cold metal of the shaft, dust tickling my nose. I dared not sneeze.
The beams swept across the floor, over the spilled oil cans, past the stack of crates... and moved on. They hadn't seen the Supra.
"Life signs?"
"Negative.Rodent activity on the thermal. Probably what knocked the cans over."
"Power failure is due to a faulty grid connection.Log it."
They poked around for another minute that felt like a lifetime. One of them kicked the tarp-covered shape of a broken-down forklift, not five meters from my hidden Supra.
"Clear. Nothing here. Let's go."
They left, their boots echoing on the concrete. The broken door swung loosely on its hinges. I didn't move. I waited, counting my heartbeats. One hundred. Two hundred.
Silence.
I slid out of the shaft, landing softly on the floor. I was covered in grime, my body trembling with the aftermath of the adrenaline. I looked at my Supra, still hidden. Safe.
But I was rattled. They had been here. This place was compromised.
---
When I returned to the Harrison estate, the fear must have been etched on my face. Eleanor gave me a look that could curdle milk, but Mr. Harrison was in his study, staring out at the city.
"You're late," he rasped, not turning around.
"I... there was an incident."
He finally turned his wheelchair, his blue eyes scanning me, missing nothing—the dust on my clothes, the slight tremor in my hands.
"Enviro-Police," I said, the words tasting like ash. "At my... storage unit."
His expression didn't change. "And?"
"And I hid. They left."
"Did they see it?"
"No."
"Then you got lucky." He wheeled closer, his gaze intense. "Fear is a throttle, boy. Too little, and you crash. Too much, and you stall. You found the balance today. Don't lose it."
He reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a small, metallic object. It was a key. Not a digital fob, but a real, physical, cut-metal key. It was attached to a simple keyring with a small, worn leather tab.
"Take the van," he said, tossing me the key. "There's a garage. 77B, in the old industrial sector. A part I ordered has arrived. Bring it to me."
My hand closed around the key. It felt heavy, significant. This was a test. A real one.
"The van? But it's registered to you... if I get stopped..."
He smirked, a dry, knowing expression. "The van is... compliant. Just drive."
---
The van was a bulky, anonymous vehicle. But when I turned the key, the electric motor whirred to life with a surprising smoothness. The dashboard was standard issue. I pulled out into the silent flow of traffic, my nerves still on edge.
The navigation led me to a decaying part of the city, where the holographic ads flickered and died. I found the address: a nondescript garage door with "77B" stenciled in faded paint.
I pulled the van in and shut off the engine. The silence was immediate. I got out, the key clutched in my hand.
There was a single, ordinary-looking door to the side. I inserted the key. It turned with a solid CLUNK.
I pushed the door open.
And the world changed.
It wasn't a storage room. It was a small, but impeccably organized, garage bay. And in the center, under the stark glow of LED work lights, was a car.
A Nissan Skyline GT-R R32. Gunmetal grey. The iconic four round tail lights. The boxy, aggressive stance of a 90s legend.
My breath caught in my throat. It was pristine.
"Can I help you?"
The voice was female, laced with a sharp, no-nonsense tone. I spun around.
She emerged from behind the Skyline, wiping her hands on an oil-stained rag. She was maybe my age, with dark hair tied back in a messy but practical ponytail. Her eyes, a startling shade of green, assessed me with a mechanic's cool efficiency. She wore coveralls rolled down to her waist, tied around her hips, over a black tank top. A faint smudge of grease adorned her cheek.
"I... I'm here for Mr. Harrison's part," I stammered, completely thrown.
She nodded, not smiling. "You're the new guy. Kaito, right? He said you'd be... scrawny." She walked over to a workbench and picked up a small, carefully wrapped package. "Here. New ECU for the old man's project. Don't drop it."
I took the package, my eyes drifting back to the Skyline. "Is this... is this yours?"
She followed my gaze, and for the first time, a flicker of pride crossed her face. "She's my responsibility. For now. Name's Chloe."
I was mesmerized. "The RB26... it's... original?"
She raised an eyebrow. "You know your engines. Mostly. We had to swap the turbos. The stock ones are a time bomb." She walked to the driver's side door and opened it. "Get in."
I blinked. "What?"
"Get in," she repeated, impatient. "Harrison said you have the instincts. Let's see if you can follow basic instructions. Passenger seat. Now."
I obeyed, sliding into the worn bucket seat. The interior was a mix of vintage and modern—original dash, but with a state-of-the-art digital display integrated seamlessly. It smelled of leather, oil, and her—a faint hint of citrus and engine grease.
Chloe slid into the driver's seat, her movements economical and confident. She didn't start the car. Instead, she placed her hands on the wheel.
"Lesson one," she said, her voice low. "The police aren't your biggest problem out here. It's the other drivers. The sharks. They smell fear, they smell a newbie, they'll run you off the road for fun."
She looked at me, her green eyes deadly serious.
"Harrison sees something in you. I don't. Yet." She gestured out the windshield. "But if you want to survive in this world, you need to understand pressure. Not from the law. From the driver next to you."
She mimed gripping a shifter.
"Foot on the clutch."
CLUTCH: IN.
"Hand on the gear."
GEAR: FIRST.
"Eyes on the light."
She stared straight ahead, at the blank garage door, her body coiled like a spring.
"You don't wait for green. You anticipate it. You feel the rhythm. The engine's RPM is your heartbeat. The boost gauge is your breath."
Her right hand twisted an imaginary key.
IGNITION: ON.
The RB26 in my imagination roared to life.
BOOST: 0.5 BAR.
RPM: 4000.
"The light is about to change. You know it. He knows it. Your foot is feathering the throttle. The turbos are spooling. It's a scream waiting to happen."
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"Then... the last red glow."
SILENCE.
And...
GREEN.
Her right foot stomped down. Her left hand released the imaginary clutch. Her right hand slammed the shifter.
VROOOOOOM! SCREEEECH!
The sound was so vivid in my head, I felt the G-force.
She turned to me, the intensity in her eyes burning.
"That's the pressure point. The moment between control and chaos. That's where we live."
She leaned back, the lesson over. "Now get out. Deliver the part. And don't mention me to anyone."
I stepped out of the Skyline, my mind reeling. This was more than a delivery. This was an initiation.
As I walked back to the van, the package in my hand, I understood. Mr. Harrison hadn't just sent me for a part. He'd sent me to meet my first test.
And her name was Chloe.