The following morning at Lyney's gas station.
The dim hum of fluorescent lights buzzed over the cramped, cluttered office, mixing with the rapid-fire tapping of keys as Pela worked the laptop. Dust motes floated lazily in the shafts of sunlight slipping through the blinds. Huddled shoulder to shoulder around the screen were Amber, Lyney, Pela, Seele, and Beidou—faces lit by the bluish glare of pixelated history.
On-screen, a battered VHS transfer played out like an echo from another world. The image was grainy, color-faded, riddled with static, but none of that mattered. What mattered was the car—the angular, snarling beast charging through a snowstorm like it wanted to kill the mountain itself. The 1983 Lancia Rally 037. Its twin round headlights cut a path through the white void of Snezhnaya's highlands, its boxy silhouette bouncing and twitching violently as it screamed through corners at suicidal speeds.
Amber leaned in close, practically pressing her nose to the screen. "Damn—check out those hairpins! That Lancia's eating them for breakfast!"
"Yeah," Lyney murmured, eyes locked on the screen. "That's Snezhnaya. Those roads back then? Not even three meters wide in spots. You made one mistake… you went over the edge. That wasn't racing—it was war."
Pela adjusted her glasses, more focused on the audio feed than the visuals. "Listen to that engine. That's a supercharged I4? It sounds more violent than some of the old Group C prototypes."
Before anyone could respond, the clip switched. This time, the Lancia was plowing through the muddy banks of Fontaine's backcountry, rooster-tailing sheets of water and dirt into the air. It four-wheel-drifted around a left-hand switchback, holding the slide with surgical control, rear tires skimming the very edge of a creek bed.
"HOLY shit!" Beidou barked, eyes bulging. "Did you see that?! That was insane!"
Amber pointed frantically. "Go back! Rewind it! I wanna see that again in slo-mo!"
Pela clicked the playback bar and started scrolling frame by frame. The group leaned in, silent now—watching every twitch of the suspension, every flick of countersteer, the way the Martini-liveried shell leaned into the chaos like it was dancing with death.
Seele's sharp violet eyes narrowed. "That's it," she said flatly. "That's the same Lancia we saw on Yougou last night. No doubt in my mind."
Silence fell. Even the laptop seemed to quiet, the low whirr of its fan suddenly ominous.
The next clip began. The setting changed again—this time to the rocky wastelands of Natlan. The Lancia soared off a small ridge, all four wheels off the ground, landing with a plume of dust and a savage bounce, its engine snarling like it enjoyed the abuse.
Lyney crossed his arms, smirking faintly. "They said the 037 was fragile. Hell, they weren't wrong. It broke a lot. But when it held together, it was lethal."
Pela looked up, skeptical. "I thought the Audi Quattros were dominant that year?"
Lyney nodded. "On paper? Yeah. Four Quattros started Natlan's leg that year. Every single one DNFed. Meanwhile, the best Lancia took first. Four of 'em ran, three finished. Fragile, sure—but it finished when it mattered."
Beidou let out a low whistle. "That's some cold revenge."
Lyney clicked through to the next clip. The camera panned across a sun-drenched plaza somewhere in Italy—San Remo, most likely. A whole fleet of 037s stood parked in formation, their white, red, and blue liveries gleaming like war medals under the sunset. Crowds packed around them, waving flags and screaming with fanatic joy.
Amber's jaw dropped. "No way—how many are there?!"
Lyney grinned. "Six. Every last one of 'em factory-spec. That was Lancia's home rally. They threw the kitchen sink at it and walked away with the Driver's and Constructor's titles."
Amber pointed at one of the drivers on the podium. "Wait—is that the Inazuman guy?"
Lyney nodded. "Yep. First and only Inazuman to win a Group B event. Nobody talks about it, but he was a damn monster."
Just then, the front door creaked open, and Collei stepped inside, rubbing her neck and yawning. "Hey, what's everyone watching?"
Amber lit up. "Collei! You gotta see this! We're watching old rally footage—Group B era. It's unreal."
Collei leaned in, eyes drawn to the screen. But before she could say anything—
A scream split the air outside.
A high-pitched, savage whine tore through the morning stillness. Not a rev, not a whimper—a full-throttle shriek, followed by the deep, hellish growl of a mid-mounted engine being flogged to its redline.
Beidou's head jerked toward the window. "What the hell was that?"
From outside, March's voice rang out like a fire alarm. "GUYS! It's HERE!"
They didn't wait. All six of them bolted for the door, stumbling over each other as they exploded out into the sunlit gas station lot.
And there it was.
The Lancia 037.
It idled with mechanical menace under the cloudless sky, its signature Martini stripes practically glowing. The body sat low and wide, rear bumper gone entirely, the exhaust poking out like a weapon. Its ducktail spoiler cast a harsh shadow on the tarmac. The 037 wasn't a car—it was a goddamn statement.
The supercharger whine faded into a low, rumbling idle before the engine choked out and fell silent. For a moment, the air itself felt muted.
Beidou clenched her fists. "No… no way. That's the same fucking car."
Lyney stepped forward, eyes narrowing. "If it's here… it didn't come for gas."
The driver's door clicked open.
Collei's breath caught in her throat.
Out stepped a girl—no more than eighteen. Purple hair swept back in a deliberate cut. Clean jacket. Confident gait. Not swaggering, not cocky—measured. Controlled.
She shut the door with a solid thunk, turned to face them, and smiled.
"Hey," she called out. "Can I get some fuel, please?"
Collei, recovering first, nodded. "Y-Yeah, of course!" She jogged over and began refueling, trying to keep her hands from shaking.
The girl—Clorinde—glanced at Beidou, who had instinctively started wiping the windshield.
"You work here?" she asked, voice cool but friendly.
Beidou hesitated. "Uh… yeah. Sometimes."
Clorinde leaned her hip against the fender, her smirk widening slightly. "Good. I'm looking for someone."
Beidou's hand froze. "…Who?"
"Yougou's Eight Six," Clorinde said without blinking. "I want to race it. Saturday. Ten PM."
The words dropped like a bomb.
Collei nearly spilled the nozzle. "Wait, what?"
Clorinde looked right at her. "You're Collei, right?"
Collei nodded, slowly.
Clorinde offered her hand again, polite. "Clorinde. Pleasure to meet you. I've been looking forward to this."
They shook.
Then came the challenge. Clear. Undeniable.
"I challenge you," Clorinde said. "Downhill. Yougou Pass. Saturday night."
Collei stared. For a long moment, her lips didn't move.
Then—quietly, steadily—"Challenge accepted."
The handshake locked like a trigger pull.
Beidou let out a breath. "Oh shit… it's on."
Seele folded her arms, eyes narrowed. "This isn't going to be easy. This girl's the real deal."
Clorinde nodded once, respectfully, before climbing back into the Lancia. The engine screamed to life, and she vanished in a blur of tires and torque.
Silence.
Collei stood rooted to the spot. "What the hell just happened…?"
Seele broke the silence. "Beidou. It's time."
Beidou's face hardened. "We upgrade the Eight Six."
March jumped. "TURBO! Come on, let's do it!"
Collei blinked. "Wait—guys, I can't. It's not even my car. It's… hers."
Beidou groaned. "Damn it. Forgot that part."
Seele tapped her chin. "Maybe… we convince her to approve it? Fund the parts ourselves?"
Beidou grinned. "Split it six ways, and it's doable. No way she turns that down."
Collei looked unsure. "She's stingy as hell, you guys. Like—legendary."
The group groaned, collapsing theatrically before springing back up.
Beidou shouted, "You can't say that! She's our idol!"
Collei blinked. "Wait, you idolize her?"
March grinned. "Are you kidding?! Arlecchino is the pinnacle. She's like a ghost with a clutch pedal!"
Lyney chimed in. "She doesn't drive—she orchestrates. Precision like that? You don't just respect it. You worship it."
Collei felt something in her chest shift. Pride. And a pang of anxiety.
"She's not… easy," she said quietly. "She wants perfection. Nothing less."
Seele's voice softened. "That's because she sees your potential. But she needs to know you're ready."
Beidou rested a hand on her shoulder. "You won't. We'll do this right. You just need to ask."
A long pause.
Collei sighed. "I can't believe you actually idolize my father that much..."
The cheer that erupted from the group echoed across the gas station, louder than the Lancia's roar.
The battle was set.
And the Eight Six had to evolve—or fall behind.
That night, Lyney pulled up to Arlecchino's place with a low hum from the Eight Six's tired heart. The engine still had its voice, but it was a raspier one now—weathered, strained, whispering that its best days might soon be behind it. As the headlights swept across the cracked pavement of the garage lot, he felt the weight of a long-overdue conversation settle squarely on his chest.
Arlecchino was already outside, sitting casually at the edge of the garage, legs stretched out, arms folded, a half-spent cigarette smoldering between her fingers. Her eyes cut toward him the second he stepped out of the car—sharp and unreadable as ever. She didn't move. She didn't need to. The air around her was all steel and gravity.
Lyney stopped just short of her, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, posture relaxed but voice serious. "I've been thinking."
Arlecchino raised an eyebrow. "A dangerous habit?"
He smirked. "Upgrading the Eight Six. You've thought about it too, right?"
The silence that followed was brief, but pointed. Then she rose to her feet, brushing ash from her jacket, gaze flicking to the parked Eight Six, then back to Lyney.
"Upgrading the Eight Six, huh?" she murmured, her tone unreadable.
Lyney gave a dry laugh, lips curling. "Come on. Don't act surprised. It was bound to cross your mind eventually. Collei's improving—fast. And we both know it: there's gonna come a point where raw skill won't make up for mechanical limits. She's gonna slam into that wall, and when she does, she's gonna need more from the machine. The Eight Six deserves to grow with her."
Arlecchino exhaled through her nose, slow and thoughtful. Her arms folded again, eyes narrowing slightly as she scanned the AE86 parked under the garage floodlight. The cracked front lip, the grime-smeared black hood, the faded redline on the tach. It was still the same car that carried tofu downhill every morning—but it was more than that now. A legend in the making.
"You're not wrong," she said quietly. "The engine's tired. I've been hearing the hesitation in fourth gear—valve float's creeping in. Oil pressure's not what it used to be either. We're on borrowed time."
Lyney nodded, just once. "Exactly."
But then, Arlecchino's posture shifted. Her weight moved onto her back foot. The corner of her mouth tugged into a faint, dangerous smirk. One of those expressions that meant she was already five steps ahead.
"Actually," she said, voice smooth as ice on asphalt, "I already have a plan."
Lyney blinked. "You do?" His grin broke out wide. "Don't fuck with me, Arlecchino."
She tilted her head, the smirk deepening. "Do I look like I'm messing with you?"
He squinted. "You always look like you're messing with people."
"Fair. But I'm dead serious." She leaned slightly closer, lowering her voice. "I got my hands on something… special. Not local. Out-of-town. Imported. Untouched."
Lyney furrowed his brow, now genuinely intrigued. "What is it?"
"You'll see," she said. "We're going to your sister's shop."
They didn't waste another word. Lyney climbed back into the driver's seat of the Eight Six, and Arlecchino swung the door shut beside him. The engine sputtered into life, idling unevenly as they pulled away from the lot. The night air was cool, crisp, and dead quiet. Only the high-pitched whine of the underpowered inline-four broke the silence as they carved through the back roads of the town.
By the time they rolled into Lynette's garage, the hour had grown late. The place was quiet—shutter half-pulled, lights low, but still open just for them. Lynette was already waiting inside, arms folded, leaning against a metal tool chest. She didn't say a word.
In the far corner of the shop, beneath a heavy black canvas, something hulking sat under a pair of fluorescents, draped like a hidden beast. Lyney's steps slowed as he approached it. His fingers twitched, just above the edge of the cover. He took one breath, then yanked it off with a swift pull.
The tarp came free in a wave of dust.
Lyney's breath caught in his throat.
There, gleaming in the pale garage light, was an engine out of this world. Individual throttle bodies. Polished intake manifold. Every bolt spotless. The ITBs were already fitted with chrome bellmouths, and the wiring harness looked brand new, Factory fresh. It was the pinnacle of naturally aspirated racing team engineering. A holy grail.
Lyney stood frozen, mouth half-open. "No way…"
He took a hesitant step closer, reaching toward the engine but stopping just shy of touching it, like it might vanish if he got too close.
"It's surreal. This is… this is gold."
Arlecchino lit another cigarette and took a slow drag, exhaling smoke with a smirk. "Told you. Even I get chills just thinking about it."
Lyney turned to face her, incredulous. "And this… this is going into the Eight Six?"
"Yeah," she said simply. "But it's not gonna be a slap-and-go job. We're not just swapping motors. This changes everything. The suspension needs a full re-tune. Gear ratios, too—she'll need a new final drive. Collei's going to be running the engine higher, harder. She'll be reaching the high five digits without even realizing it."
Lynette finally stepped forward, her voice quiet, cool, precise. "And with this setup… the Eight Six won't just keep up anymore. It'll dominate."
The words lingered like static in the still air. This wasn't just an upgrade. It was a resurrection. A statement. A turning point.
The three of them stepped outside after a while, the garage door rolling shut behind them. The sky overhead was starless, clouds drifting over the moon. Somewhere in the distance, the faint drone of a late-night exhaust echoed through the hills.
Arlecchino lit another cigarette, the flame from her lighter briefly illuminating her face. She took a long drag, then let the smoke curl from her lips.
"But there's one thing," she said, voice lower now, the edge back in it.
Lyney turned to her, brow furrowed. "What thing?"
Arlecchino didn't look at him. She stared off into the night, eyes hard. "There's one thing Collei hasn't done yet."
Lynette looked over. Lyney stepped closer. "What do you mean?"
Arlecchino's eyes met his, cold and surgical. "I'll tell you… but you can't tell her. Either of you."
Brother and sister exchanged glances. The unspoken pact was immediate.
"Not a word," Lynette said.
Lyney nodded. "We swear."
Arlecchino smiled faintly. "Good. I can tell you why..."
Then, she spoke softly, but every word landed like a hammer blow.
"And that is.. She hasn't lost. Not once."
Lyney's eyes widened. "Lost?" He almost laughed, but it died in his throat. "She's been fighting tooth and nail to keep that streak. She's undefeated. That's her pride."
"And that's exactly the problem," Arlecchino said.
She dropped the spent cigarette to the asphalt and crushed it under her heel.
"Winning teaches her how to survive. But losing…" She paused, letting the silence build. "Losing teaches her what she really is. Where her limits are. And what it means to break through them."
Her eyes flicked toward the Eight Six, sitting silent in the lot like a coiled ghost.
"She thinks that car is invincible. She thinks she is, too. But she hasn't hit the edge yet. Not really. She's never spiraled out in third, never misjudged a line, never walked home wondering if she's cut out for this. Until she does—until she feels that break—she won't appreciate what this upgrade really means."
Another long breath. Her tone dropped to a whisper.
"So until she loses," Arlecchino said, steel in every syllable, "I'm not putting that engine in."
Days passed. Finally, race day arrived.
The word spread like wildfire through Narukami—Collei's Eight Six was going head-to-head with a fucking Lancia Rally 037. No one could believe it at first. A ghost from the Group B era, a rally monster from the '80s, facing off against the legendary AE86 that ruled Mount Yougou's downhill. A clash between history and legend. The kind of matchup that didn't just get people talking—it set the whole street racing scene ablaze.
Anticipation crackled in the summer air like static on dry asphalt. At every café, tuning garage, and roadside meetup, whispers echoed like engine notes:
"Did you hear?"
"She's going up against that car?"
"Shit… this is gonna be insane."
Ningguang's Apartment – Afternoon
The late-afternoon sun slanted in through the half-closed blinds, striping the floor in gold. Inside, the apartment was still—quiet save for the gentle click-clack of fingers flying across a laptop keyboard.
Ningguang sat composed at her desk, legs crossed, posture perfect, a calm storm of precision and focus. The glow of the screen bathed her face in cool light as her fingers moved with mechanical elegance, executing code, commands, or perhaps drafting strategy. Whatever she was working on, it was deliberate—like everything else she did.
Then—
BAM.
The door slammed open, the wood frame groaning on its hinges from the sheer force. Keqing stormed in, practically bouncing off the floor with the kinetic energy of a power surge.
"Hey! Did you hear?" Her voice came out hot and sharp, charged with enough voltage to flip a breaker. "The Eight Six is racing a damn Rally Car tonight!"
Ningguang didn't flinch. She didn't even look up. Her fingers kept gliding across the keyboard like the door hadn't just been assaulted. "Yeah. I heard. Lancia Rally 037."
Keqing closed the distance in two quick strides, brimming with restless excitement, her violet eyes wide and alive. "It's huge! Some old-timers say it's the only car that's ever tied with the Eight Six."
That made Ningguang pause.
Just a breath. A fraction of a second. But her fingers stopped mid-keystroke.
"Tied?" she echoed, slowly raising her gaze. Her voice dropped in tone—cooler now. Sharper. "That's a first." Her crimson eyes locked onto Keqing's. "Even I couldn't pull that off."
Keqing nodded, the corners of her mouth twitching up into a grin. "Yeah. Apparently the driver was a legend on Yougou's uphills. Back in the '80s. Raced for Lancia Martini Racing."
Ningguang's curiosity surfaced, subtle but unmistakable. Her posture straightened just slightly, her interest drawn out like a blade.
"WRC?" Her tone dropped, a note of admiration coloring the words.
Keqing's grin widened, that flicker of pride lighting her features. "Yup. Group B era. But he's been out of the game for years. Retired. And now?" She folded her arms, leaning in just a little. "His daughter's behind the wheel. Clorinde."
Ningguang arched a single brow.
"A battle between the next generation, then." She looked out the window, her eyes narrowing on something unseen—something distant.
"When history repeats itself… you don't look away."
Collei & March – Walking Home
The heat of the day had mellowed into a golden haze as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Collei and March walked side by side along a quiet Narukami street, their footsteps rhythmic against the pavement. Orange light filtered through the trees and rooftops, casting long shadows on the road.
They didn't speak for a while. The air between them was heavy—not with tension, but thought.
Then—
March broke the silence. Her voice was unusually quiet, her usual chirpy tone stripped down to something more thoughtful. "Collei… you really should think about putting a turbo in your Eight Six. Clorinde and that Lancia? They're on a different level."
Collei let out a sigh, long and tired, like air bleeding from a high-pressure line. Her gaze dropped to the road as she nudged a pebble with the tip of her shoe. "I know." Her voice was low. Rough around the edges. "But if my father's not gonna budge… it's not happening." She kicked the stone again, her eyes darkening. "Right now, I've got to make do with what I've got. Doesn't matter what I'm up against."
March shot her a sideways glance. Collei wasn't showing it on the outside, but she could feel the weight bearing down behind those words.
She didn't push. She just nodded and walked beside her in silence, letting the conversation trail off like exhaust into night air.
Arlecchino's House – Evening
When they reached Arlecchino's place, March gave Collei a quiet nod—no words, just an unspoken understanding. Then she turned and disappeared down the street, leaving Collei alone in the creeping dusk.
The Eight Six sat in the driveway, parked like a sentinel. The worn white paint soaked in the last of the sunlight, its black hood dull but dignified. The car looked static—but it had presence. A quiet sort of gravity that pulled Collei in.
She walked up to it slowly.
Stared.
This machine had been through hell and back with her. Uphills, downhills, hairpins, redlines. It knew her. It was her.
"More power…" she muttered under her breath, voice tight. "I need more power."
She popped the hood.
The gas struts creaked slightly as the lightweight panel lifted. Beneath it—simple, clean, and battle-hardened—was the 1.6-liter 4A-GE Bluetop. Twin cam. N/A. The old-school heart of the Eight Six. High-revving, raw, and starting to feel its age.
She stared at it for a long time. The cooling fan clicked. A bit of oil sheen clung to the intake manifold. The engine had never let her down. But was it still enough?
Her fists clenched at her sides, knuckles tight.
She didn't have the answers.
With a snap, she dropped the hood. The metallic clunk echoed across the quiet street.
"I don't even know where to start…" she whispered.
And then—
A distant whoosh rolled in like thunder.
Collei's head snapped up. Her ears sharpened on instinct.
The distinct spool of a turbocharger sang out over the neighborhood. Not loud. Controlled. But unmistakable. Seconds later, a low, throaty rumble followed—a flat growl on the overrun as a blue Sileighty glided around the corner.
The headlights cut through the dim like knives. The car rolled to a stop with practiced ease.
Hiss.
The turbo purged softly as the ignition cut.
The door popped open.
Amber stepped out, slinging one leg over with the fluid grace of someone who lived behind the wheel. She grinned. Wide. Unapologetic.
"Hey, Collei!"
Collei blinked, caught mid-thought, the tension in her shoulders not yet released. "Amber? What are you doing here?"
Amber scratched the back of her head, her usual cocky swagger slightly blunted by hesitation. "Uh… thought maybe you could use a drive. You know, before the race. Clear your head a little?"
Collei let out a breath, slow and steady. A grin finally cracked the corners of her mouth. "Yeah. That sounds good."
Overlook – Sunset
The road to the overlook twisted through the forest like a ribbon of black silk. The Eight Six and the Sileighty climbed it together—amber paint and pearlescent blue flashing through the trees. Gearshifts clacked. Engines revved. Tires hummed on cooling asphalt.
At the top, the two cars pulled into a gravel turnout near the barrier that overlooked Lake Yougou. The sun was nearly gone, but the world still burned with its afterglow—fiery orange melting into bruised violet.
Amber stepped out first, her boots crunching on gravel. She wandered to the edge, leaning on the barrier, eyes on the glinting water below.
"Look at that…" she murmured. The lake shimmered, glass-still, the treetops swaying in the breeze like spectators waiting for a show.
Collei joined her silently, footsteps lighter than usual.
"Yeah… it's beautiful," she said, barely more than a whisper.
Amber's eyes didn't leave her. "You nervous?"
Collei didn't answer right away. She swiped a bead of sweat from her temple.
"…Yeah," she admitted finally. "It's been almost a month since I raced Ningguang. And this time, it just… feels different."
Amber nudged her, shoulder to shoulder. "You'll be fine. You've smoked faster cars than this. And you know Yougou like no one else. Trust that."
Collei stared down at the gravel, her lips thinning.
"I… I don't know, Amber. Clorinde's a rally driver. That Lancia? It's not just fast—it bites."
Amber didn't let the silence grow.
Instead, she reached up—
—and kissed her.
A short, warm, grounding kiss. It didn't linger. But it hit like lightning.
Collei froze. Then melted.
When Amber pulled back, her grin returned—bright and cheeky. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind Collei's ear like it was the easiest thing in the world.
"That's for good luck, sunshine."
Collei's face lit up in a flush so red it rivaled the taillights of her car. "I—uh—"
But then her mouth tugged into a shy, genuine smile.
"T-Thanks, Amber."
Amber gave a soft laugh. "Come on. Let's get moving. You've got a race to win."
They climbed back into their machines. Engines fired. Headlights flared.
And just like that, the calm before the storm evaporated in the heat of exhaust and resolve.
Yougou Pass – The Gathering Storm
Night falls, and the mountain awakens.
The road coils like a serpent across the face of Yougou Pass, its curves now swallowed by the inky blackness of night. But the mountain is far from silent. It's alive—alive with the electric hum of anticipation and the thrum of performance engines idling in the shadows. From the summit to the base, the entire pass is packed, crawling with spectators shoulder to shoulder. They line the guardrails, perch on rocks, and crouch in the underbrush. Headlights, flashlights, and smartphones beam through the trees, flickering like stars across a forested sky. The scent of pine mingles with exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke. It's more than a race. It's ritual.
A restless buzz infects the crowd, a contagious thrill that crackles under every breath. This isn't just any street battle—it's a ghost of a rivalry long buried in the mountain, digging itself back up for one last scream into the night.
Near the heart of the throng, Arlecchino stands motionless, arms crossed loosely over her chest. She looks like she's carved from stone—expression unreadable, eyes sharp and still as a hawk's. The breeze lifts her coat slightly, the tails of it fluttering like warning flags. Her gaze sweeps over the sea of faces, over the silhouettes of steel and carbon fiber, the floodlit finish lines, the tension thick in the air. She says nothing for a long time.
"I still can't believe you dragged me here," she mutters finally, her voice low and cool, more of a verbal exhale than a complaint.
Lyney stands beside her, leaning on the guardrail like he owns the place. His magician's grin never quite leaves his face—eyes glinting with a dangerous sort of glee. "Come on! This is your rival's daughter racing your daughter. That's poetry! This shit writes itself. It's practically karmic."
Arlecchino exhales through her nose—slow and sharp like a puff from a cigarette she's not holding. Her jaw shifts ever so slightly. "Fair point," she admits, and for the briefest moment, a sliver of something tugs at her eyes. Nostalgia? Regret? It's gone before it can grow roots.
At the summit, Clorinde leans against the wedge-like flank of her 1983 Lancia Rally 037. The car looks like it's coiled to strike, even at rest—its boxy frame draped in matte white, vents and scoops giving it the menace of something bred for violence. Her arms are folded across her chest, gaze fixed far down the mountain, scanning the dark like a sniper waiting for a target to breach the treeline.
A few meters away, Navia is leaning with easy grace against the midnight blue arc of her Acura NSX. The polished bodywork catches every splash of light and throws it back like a mirror. She stands there like she belongs to the road and the mountain both, her expression tranquil, unmoved by the building frenzy.
Clorinde flicks her wrist and glances at the face of her watch. Her fingers tap restlessly against the worn leather strap. "Where the hell is that Eight-Six?" she mutters, her eyes narrowing to slits. "It's almost ten."
Navia doesn't even blink. Her voice is soft, unbothered, almost dreamy. "She'll be here. She always is."
And then—
The trees shiver. A shrill scream pierces the forest canopy—metallic and bright. It's the sound of raw induction, of air being sucked down twin throttles and compressed into power. A high-revving, razor-sharp wail cuts through the night like a thrown knife. The crowd stirs instantly, turning their heads toward the lower bend.
Headlights flash through the trees. Twin beams slice into the gloom. The whine of the 4A-GE engine hits a crescendo as the car ascends through the final hairpins. It's not just an engine sound—it's a war cry.
The Eight-Six crests the summit in a smooth, unbroken glide. White over black. No decals. No numbers. Just a clean, lethal silhouette. The AE86 rolls to a stop beside the Lancia like it belongs there, as if it's never belonged anywhere else. The idle hums steady, the loping rhythm of the 16-valve four-banger twitching with impatience. The hush that sweeps the crowd is instant. Everyone knows what's about to happen.
Collei steps out.
She moves with purpose—shoulders squared, spine straight, her eyes lit with a predatory focus. There's a stillness to her that commands attention without shouting for it. She adjusts her gloves with a practiced tug, her knuckles popping beneath the fabric.
"Well, I'm here," she says simply, her voice low but clear, cutting through the thick night air.
Before she can fully settle into the moment, a cacophony of voices and footsteps barrels toward her. Beidou's crew descends like a squad of rowdy pirates.
"You've got this, kid." Beidou's voice is like steel wrapped in leather—firm, warm, and unyielding. She claps Collei on the shoulder hard enough to rattle her bones. "Don't let the weight of history slow you down. Tonight's yours."
Seele plants her fists on her hips and grins like a lunatic. "Yeah! Go smoke that rally queen! Show her what a street racer really looks like!"
Pela steps up more quietly, her tone softer, but her eyes no less intense. "Make it count. All of it."
March winks, tossing her a mock salute. "No pressure, champ. Just don't blow up or anything."
The group retreats a few steps as Pela moves to the front. She stands centered between the two machines like a line drawn in the sand, her presence somehow calming even as the engines breathe low and hungry. She doesn't say much—just enough. The quiet between her words says the rest.
Then Collei turns, and walks forward—past the line, past the noise—toward Clorinde.
The light catches her hair, her shadow long and sharp across the pavement. She halts a meter from the Lancia, then extends her hand. Her voice is flat, resolute, but there's fire behind her eyes. "It's time to continue some history," she says. "Shall we?"
Clorinde grins, teeth flashing. She reaches out and clasps Collei's hand, firm and unflinching. "You betcha."
The handshake is brief, but heavy. It lingers in the air even after they part and turn away, each stepping back toward their own cockpit. The mountain watches.
Then—
"Hey, Collei!"
The voice cuts through the night like sunlight through fog.
Collei stops, mid-step. Her head turns on instinct, green eyes searching. And then she sees her—pushing her way through the crowd like a fire breaking through smoke.
Amber.
She's not running, but she's fast. Her eyes lock onto Collei's like magnets. When she reaches her, she doesn't say a word. She just pulls her in—arms wrapping tight, pressing them together like she's anchoring her.
Collei stiffens for a heartbeat. Then she melts into it, just a little. The world fades, the engines disappear, the mountain pauses.
"Good luck," Amber whispers, breath brushing Collei's ear.
Collei exhales, slowly. She rests her forehead against Amber's shoulder. "Thanks, sunshine."
They pull apart reluctantly. Amber's grin is crooked, eyes bright. "Now go show 'em what you've got."
Collei smiles—barely, but it's real—and turns without another word. She swings into the driver's seat of the Eight-Six in one fluid motion, shuts the door with a solid clunk, and twists the key.
The engine flares instantly to life. The 4A-GE snarls awake, idling in sharp, controlled pulses. She gives it a quick blip of the throttle—one sharp bark—and the crowd quiets.
Beside her, Clorinde's Lancia 037 growls to life. The old-school supercharged inline-four lets out a throaty, uneven roar, like a beast disturbed in its lair. The idle surges, burbles, and settles into a loping rhythm that vibrates through the asphalt. Mechanical, unfiltered. Angry.
Both cars sit like predators at the top of the food chain, radiating raw intent. The air thickens with gasoline, rubber, sweat, and history.
Two legends. Two drivers. One race.
The mountain holds its breath.