The night road did twisted along the black cliffs above Hell's Paradise Lake, a private stretch of polished asphalt carved through sleeping forest and silver mist, emptied of traffic by money.
If you were not rich enough to clear a road for your race, then you were not rich enough to race properly.
Brian had enough money to burn.
Maddie had enough money to burn a second road beside the first one just for aesthetic symmetry. Cassiopeia, quiet mature menace that she was, had enough money to make both of them look like they were shopping with coupons.
So the road belonged to them.
And the night was not passive about it:
It pressed down over the cliffs like a living thing, thick, cold and royal, swallowing the forest until the trees became black ribs along the road. Mist curled low over the asphalt, pale as ghost breath, breaking apart whenever a car tore through it and then closing again behind the machines like the island itself was trying to hide the evidence.
