The Los Angeles night was thick and humid, heavy with the scent of hot asphalt and evaporating gasoline. Luka parked the R34 on a dark side street, two blocks from the spot indicated by the anonymous message that had arrived on his phone hours earlier: "Boyle Heights. Midnight. Entry: $5,000. Three laps. No rules. No mercy."
He stepped out of the car, closed the door firmly, and adjusted the harness beneath his black jacket. The R34 was still warm from the drive, its low idle rumble echoing off the graffiti-covered walls. He took a deep breath, feeling the air dense with anticipation and exhaust smoke. His hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the mix of adrenaline and accumulated exhaustion.
He walked to the location: an abandoned stretch of old freeway, now transformed into a clandestine track. Neon lights from parked cars illuminated the scene like an illegal circus. About sixty people crowded the sides—men and women in their twenties, tattoos visible, bottles of tequila and beer passing hand to hand. Heavy electronic music blasted from subwoofers in an open Suburban, the bass shaking the ground. Loud laughter, shouts, someone smoking something sweet in the corner. The air smelled of alcohol, marijuana, and burnt rubber.
In the center of the track, three cars lined up under portable spotlights: a red Honda S2000 with a giant rear wing and open exhaust, a blue Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution IX with purple underglow lights, and Luka's R34—matte gray, discreet, but loaded with menace.
He approached the organizer, a man with dreadlocks and a thick chain around his neck.
"Five grand to enter, brother. Three laps. First place takes it all."
Luka pulled the stack of bills from his jacket—part of the $10,000 the system had released the night before. He counted out five thousand dollars and handed it over without hesitation. The man counted quickly, nodded, and pointed to the starting line marked with white adhesive tape.
"You're the fourth car. Good luck."
Luka returned to the R34, slid inside, and closed the door. The interior was dark, lit only by the glow of the dashboard. He tightened the harness with sweaty hands and took a deep breath. A warm wave surged through his body—the system sharpening his reflexes, expanding his perception. For a moment, he thought about how alone he was in this: no one to tell where he was going, no one waiting for him to come back. Just him, the car, and the empty warehouse that awaited him.
A random guy with a backward cap raised a simple red flag in the center of the track. No spectacle—just the signal. He lifted the flag, waited for relative silence to fall over the engines, and dropped it sharply.
The engines detonated.
**First Lap**
The R34 launched forward with controlled violence. First gear engaged, clutch released in a perfect snap. HKS turbos whistling loudly, boost rising instantly. Speedometer rocketed: 100 km/h in under three seconds, 140, 180, 220 km/h in moments.
The S2000 led by a fraction, the Evo IX glued to it, the Supra trying to overtake on the right. Luka held the inside line, heart pounding hard in his chest. Every beat of the engine seemed synchronized with his pulse.
Tight left turn.
He trail-braked deeply, turned with surgical precision. The car rotated at the absolute limit—rear tires lost grip for a fraction of a second, the system compensated: a hot wave surged up his spine, reflexes adjusting the steering in milliseconds. The R34 slid controlled, tail dancing, nose pointing to the exit.
He exited the turn already on power, turbos screaming, accelerating to 260 km/h on the next straight. Wind whipped through the cracked window, cold and real.
**Second Lap**
The crowd roared, cellphone lights flashing like fallen stars. The S2000 still led by half a car. The Evo tried to overtake on the left.
Open right turn.
Luka downshifted one gear, trail-braked, turned. The car rotated perfectly. Tires screamed, rubber burning, but held. He exited the turn on full throttle, boost at 1.6 bar, accelerating to 280 km/h.
The S2000 lost traction on the turn exit. Luka saw the opportunity—floor it, pass inside, the R34 glued to the asphalt, turbos howling. Now he led. His heart beat so hard he felt it in his throat.
**Third Lap – Final Turn**
Final straight. Final turn.
The Evo IX came from outside, trying to block. The S2000 glued inside. The Supra behind, desperate.
The final turn was a tight right: concrete barrier on the right, wall on the left. No room for error.
Luka downshifted two gears, trail-braked deeply, turned.
The car entered the turn at the absolute limit. Rear tires slid, body fully tensed. The system responded: intense hot wave, reflexes adjusting counter-steer in fractions of a second. The R34 slid controlled, tail dancing dangerously close to the barrier, nose pointing to the exit.
The Evo lost grip trying to overtake outside. The S2000 tried to close the door inside.
Luka accelerated mid-turn, boost at 1.8 bar, turbos screaming like sirens. The R34 exited the slide like a bullet, passing the S2000 and Evo inside at the exact moment both cars lost traction.
He burst onto the final straight.
Floor it.
Speedometer exploded: 280 km/h, 300 km/h, 320 km/h.
The R34 shot forward like an arrow, the RB26's roar a continuous bellow that swallowed all other sounds. The world became a blur. Luka's heart pounded so hard it felt like it would burst from his chest. Sweat streamed down his face, hands steady on the wheel despite the tremor.
Finish line.
First place.
The crowd erupted in deafening cheers. Luka slowed, stopped at the marked line. Killed the engine. Sudden silence inside the car. Hands shaking on the wheel. He breathed deeply, several times, trying to calm the chest rising and falling rapidly.
Opened the door. The organizer approached, counting the pot of money—$20,000 in crumpled bills.
"You won, brother. Clean."
Luka took the money without counting. Stuffed it into his jacket. Legs felt weak as he stepped out.
The crowd still celebrated. Someone shouted "What a fucking machine!" He didn't respond. Just stood there, watching the R34 cool, feeling the sweat dry on his skin, his heart slowly decelerating.
Returned to the car, turned the key. The engine woke again.
As he drove back to the warehouse, money in his pocket, the car's roar filling the silence, he felt a warm wave course through his body—system approval.
The streets had been blooded.
And for the first time in a long while, Luka felt truly alive. The emptiness still existed, but now something filled it: the roar, the speed, the risk.
The dominance was only beginning.