The first thing Marcel noticed was the light.
Not daylight—neon. A violent, pulsing pink that bled across the wet glass streets, bending the shadows into jagged, shifting shapes. The entire district was bathed in it, like the heart of the city had been cut open and left to bleed color.
Adrian's fingers tightened on the seat edge. "This place wasn't here last week."
It wasn't. The "Neon Guillotine" wasn't on any map, and that was the point. Rumor said it appeared only at night, only for those marked by the underground racing circuit. The streets here were narrow and jagged, flanked by towering signs in languages long dead. Above, suspended cables hummed faintly, carrying an eerie vibration through the car.
Marcel eased off the throttle. He didn't trust calm.
The first trap proved him right.
A vertical blade of pure neon dropped from an overhead cable, slicing a road divider in half like it was made of paper. It hissed as it retracted, leaving the smell of scorched concrete in the air.
"That's new," Marcel muttered.
"Those things are motion-triggered," Adrian guessed, scanning the walls. "Move wrong, and they—"
The second blade dropped without warning, just meters ahead.
Marcel's reflexes fired. He flicked Omega sideways, the rear wheels kissing the glow of the descending guillotine before snapping back into line. The blade's light streaked across the paint in a shimmering pink scar.
They weren't alone.
From the far end of the street, three cars emerged, their bodies marked with glowing symbols—half tribal, half circuitry. Their tires hissed against the glass roads, and the sound of high-revving engines echoed between the walls.
"Executioners," Adrian whispered.
The Executioners didn't race for money, fame, or territory. They raced for elimination. Their goal wasn't to win—it was to erase you from the map entirely. And the Neon Guillotine was their arena.
The lead Executioner came in hot, drifting so close his rear fender scraped the wall in a shower of sparks. Marcel countered with a tight inside line, but the second Executioner lunged from the right, pushing him toward another descending blade.
Adrian shouted, "Left! Now!"
Marcel yanked the wheel, diving into a side alley so narrow Omega's mirrors barely cleared. Neon light poured down from above, flickering in time with the hum of the overhead cables.
Two more blades dropped—one in front, one behind. They were trapped.
Marcel glanced upward. "We're not stuck."
The alley wasn't just narrow—it had a maintenance ramp halfway up the wall. With a perfect angle, it could double as a launch point.
He floored it. Omega hit the ramp, climbing the wall like a lizard before tipping over onto the rooftop of an adjacent building. The wind screamed around them, the city's pink glow now spread beneath their tires.
The Executioners weren't giving up. They took to the roofs as well, chasing in parallel lines across the uneven terrain. Every jump sent a shock through Omega's suspension, but Marcel kept pushing.
Ahead, a final gauntlet awaited—a row of guillotines dropping in rapid succession across a narrow rooftop bridge. The timing was inhuman. One wrong move, and they'd be sliced in two.
Adrian's voice was tight. "We can't make it through."
"We won't," Marcel replied. "We'll go over."
The last building had an incline—just enough to launch them. Marcel lined up the approach, the Executioners closing fast. The moment the last guillotine dropped, he hit the nitrous.
Omega soared over the glowing blades, the neon slicing through empty air beneath them. They landed hard on the far side, skidding into safety as the Executioners braked just short of the deadly line.
In the rearview, the leader raised a hand—not in anger, but in acknowledgment. The kind that promised they'd meet again.
Marcel smirked. "Bring a sharper blade next time."