Neon flickered off wet pavement as engines growled like beasts caged in chrome. The underground circuit was alive in the heart of Prague beneath the city, in abandoned metro tunnels now reborn as an illegal racing haven.
Devon stood beside a matte-black Jaguar XJR, the engine purring low, tuned far beyond legal limits. Carbon body. AI-assist traction. Custom afterburners for short bursts. He built it himself.
But he wasn't here to win.
He was here to hunt.
The racers here weren't kids with daddy's cars. These were veterans of warzones, ghosts of defunct militaries, rogue agents with turbo-charged death wishes. Devon was looking for the rarest kind skill sharpened by chaos.
And that's when she pulled up.
A low, violet Koenigsegg CCR Clean. Silent. Controlled. It slid into position like a snake eyeing prey. The driver stepped out tall, slim, with a dark jacket and no visible insignia. Jet-black ponytail. Steel-grey eyes.
No flair. No trash talk.
Just presence.
"Name?" the organizer asked.
She didn't answer.
Someone else whispered, "That's Lacy. No last name. Never talks. Never loses."
Devon arched a brow.
Interesting.
He stepped forward, keys spinning on his finger.
"Race me. Pinkslips," he said. "Winner keeps the other's ride."
She glanced at him. Measured. Then tossed her keys.
Deal.
Engines howled as the countdown began. The route was brutal: tunnels, broken rails, spiral ramps, and wet steel. No room for error. No second chances.
3. 2. 1. GO.
They exploded off the line. Lacy's CCR slipped into second gear like it had read her mind. Devon grinned, keeping pace. The crowd above screamed as the tunnel echoed with thunder.
She was fast. Faster than expected.
Her reflexes weren't just sharp they were evolving mid-race.
Adapting. Improving.
A corner came up at 130 mph. She didn't brake. She drifted. Smooth, perfect angle, missing a concrete divider by inches.
Devon leaned into his AI-assisted wheel, countering with his own custom slide, using inertia and micro-thrusts from the undercarriage.
The race burned through the final sector a rising helix ramp where centrifugal force threatened to throw them into the walls.
She pushed ahead.
For a moment, Devon saw her profile through the blur of motion serene, almost detached. Like her body was racing, but her mind was somewhere else.
Then Devon flipped the switch.
Afterburners.
Nitrous? Outdated.
His design forced super-compressed air through micro turbines, propelling the Jaguar forward like a railgun.
He surged past her at the last second and crossed the line.
Victory.
The crowd roared. Bets changed hands. Lacy's car now belonged to him.
She parked, stepped out, and met his gaze without flinching.
"You had me at the ramp," she said quietly.
First words.
"You were adapting as you drove," Devon said. "Military?"
"Former," she replied.
"Special ops?"
She nodded. "Ghost division. Black bag."
"Ever feel like everything you learned was leading to something else?"
A pause.
Then: "Yes."
He tossed her keys back.
"I don't need your car. I need your mind. Your reflexes. Your calm under pressure."
Her eyes narrowed. "And you are?"
"Devon Shaw. I'm building something. Bigger than racing. Bigger than nations."
Another pause.
"Your car's tech… you built it?"
He nodded.
"I'll join you," she said, "if I get to learn how."
He smiled.
Welcome to the crew.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION
Crew Member Recruited: Lacy
Role: Combat Driver / Tactical Ops Specialist
Skill Synergy Detected: Advanced Reflex Prediction (Lv.1) unlocked
They drove into the night. Two ghosts of different worlds, now accelerating toward the same future.
The crew had begun.