The radios at every checkpoint crackled with urgent voices as spotters called in what they saw on the mountain road: the Audi TT and the War God GT-R had cleared the first hairpin, the GT-R nosing ahead while the TT clung to its bumper with barely two meters of daylight.
Cameras on tripods tracked taillights through the dark like comets, and each breathless update fed straight back to the start line where a crowd pressed shoulder to shoulder, eyes fixed on a makeshift display and ears tuned to the commentary. The bookies' booths rang like cash registers; as long as no one knew who would win, the odds stayed lively, and the money kept flowing.
Engines howled from somewhere up in the hills, a bright metallic roar that rolled down the slopes and skittered across the asphalt at the start like a storm arriving. People argued in clusters. Some swore the War God GT-R was simply built better for this course. Others, faces painted with team colors, insisted the TT's driver, the Black Widow, would prove them wrong by the final sector.
A few didn't care about machines or math; they said they were citizens of Great Xia and would back their own no matter what. All the while, the mountain air vibrated to the cadence of hard acceleration and sudden lift-offs, the sound of rubber finding its limit.
Inside the Audi TT, the view was all tunnel and rhythm, the road snaking through the high beams in tight lunges and brief straights.
Heifeng watched the chase unfold from the passenger seat, the world reduced to speed, grip, and the thin white line that stitched the turns together. The War God GT-R ahead was throwing its weight into the corners, letting the rear step just enough to pivot, tail flicking out and snapping back with practiced arrogance. The TT, by contrast, took the textbook paths, clipping apexes cleanly and saving drift for the few U-bends that truly demanded it. For long seconds, they felt welded together, two cars linked by tension and intent.
Then minor errors crept in. Heifeng felt them before he could name them: an entry that came a shade late, a throttle lift that lingered a heartbeat too long, a brake squeeze a touch more abrupt than it needed to be. They were the kind of mistakes that don't announce themselves with drama, only with the clock. The GT-R stretched its lead by meters that became car lengths, tail lamps growing smaller as though the night were swallowing them.
Another bend came fast, the kind that tightens as you see it, a sharp, punishing turn that would punish any misread. The speedometer on the TT still sat at 120 kilometers per hour as they reached the marker. Heifeng's stomach went cold. If the car did not brake immediately or swing the rear to rotate, the next second would mean a slide into real danger, the kind of loss of control that ends with guardrail and sparks.
"Careful," he snapped, voice louder than he intended.
A thin cry tore from the Black Widow's throat, more reflex than reply, and she stamped the brake pedal. The TT's nose dipped, tires sang, speed dropped hard. She caught the rotation, steadied the wheel, and the car shot out of the corner with a clean squirt of power. Only then did Heifeng realize he was holding his breath. He exhaled and turned, the world beyond the windshield momentarily forgotten.
"What's going on with you?" he asked, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. "You're not yourself tonight."
Even a casual passenger would have felt it by now. Her focus kept slipping at the margins. Reactions that were typically effortless looked forced, off by just enough to erode confidence. The mountain road did not forgive lapses, and speed was the most merciless judge of all.
"I… I don't feel well," she said, a mix of annoyance and embarrassment pinching her words. "My stomach hurts."
The admission explained more than any telemetry could. Pain dulled edges that must stay razor sharp in a race, and attention wavered when it should be welded to the road. One oversight becomes two, and the margin for error narrows to nothing.
She kept driving, jaw set, knuckles pale against the wheel. The GT-R's taillights were stars now, farther and farther ahead. Heifeng saw her reach down, almost unconsciously, and press a hand to her lower abdomen, and the memory clicked: a secretary, Xiao Ai, going white at her desk one morning, curled on the office sofa for hours until the cramps ebbed. He had not understood then how abruptly the pain could hit, how completely it could overrun a day.
"You can't keep this up," he said quietly. "Pull over before something happens."
"No," she shot back. The word was small but steeped in steel. "I've trained for this too long to quit now. Not like this."
Another spasm tore through her, sharpening the angle of her cheekbones and glossing her eyes. Sweat beaded at her hairline despite the cool air pushing through the vents. Pride, stubborn and fierce, kept her foot on the throttle, but pride could not take a corner for her or see through pain to the next turn's geometry.
"Listen," he said, gentler. "This is not about pride. It is about making sure there is a next race. Stop the car."
Silence held for a few heartbeats, filled only by the engine's steady growl and the hush of tires on the night road. She swallowed, then eased off. The TT's speed bled away; hazard lights blinked. They coasted to the shoulder at a wide turnout where the mountain fell away into dark trees. When the car finally settled, the sudden quiet felt vast.
Back at the checkpoints, the calculus changed in a flash. Spotters had called the GT-R through alone, then waited for the TT to appear in their frames. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Nothing. Radios carried the news downhill in overlapping bursts of surprise and speculation. The crowd at the start line pivoted as one toward the betting counters.
"What happened to the TT?"
"Is she out?"
"More than thirty seconds behind already. That's finished."
It didn't take a statistician to see which way the odds had broken. A gap like that, so early, could have been a canyon. People pushed forward to put money on the War God GT-R, chatter flipping from arguments about skill and loyalty to a practical scramble for a payout. The narrative hardened with each unreturned call-in from the next checkpoint. The TT had fallen away. The favorite had the road to itself.
On the shoulder, the hazard blinkers ticked time. The Black Widow loosened her grip and let her hands fall to her lap, breathing through another wave of pain. Frustration flickered across her face, then faded into a tight, controlled calm. She would not cry. She would not make excuses. She had pulled the car over because there was no other sane choice, and that, too, was part of racing.
Heifeng sat with her in the soft, amber pulse of the lights. He said nothing for a moment, offering the one thing that did not demand answers. The mountain road still sang in the distance with the GT-R's ferocious song.
Here, it was only the two of them, the cooling tick of metal, and the understanding that some battles are not lost to rivals but to the body's own clock. Tonight, the race would go on without them, the odds would tilt, the crowd would cheer. There would be more nights and more roads. For now, getting rid of the idea that grit alone can conquer everything was its own kind of victory.