The track is wrong.
I know the Redline Circuit. I've memorized every glitch, every dip, every hairpin that shouldn't be there. But this stretch—this breath between checkpoints—feels off. Artificial.
Engine growl hums in my bones. My tires kiss the asphalt like they're whispering secrets.
And he's behind me.
Again.
Axton Reyes.
I can see him in my rearview—his headlights flashing like taunts, his Skyline trailing close, but not close enough to overtake.
Why isn't he passing me?
That's the problem with Axton. He drives like a fuse already lit, but in moments like this, he holds back just enough to make you wonder if he's watching you more than the road.
And when he watches—it feels like gravity thickens around me.
We hit the junction.
Tunnel left. Spiral right.
I go left.
He follows.
---
The explosion doesn't sound like a crash. It sounds like betrayal.
A steel beam drops mid-tunnel. My car slams sideways into the shoulder with a scream of rubber.
Behind me, his Skyline drifts into a vicious, perfect halt. No panic. No loss of control.
The tunnel seals behind us in flame and falling debris.
We're trapped.
Timer still ticking.
No exit.
No backup.
No rules.
---
I step out.
He's already out of his car, standing near the beam—tall, shirt clinging to his frame from heat and dust. And it's then, even in the chaos, that I notice him again like I'm seeing him for the first time.
Not just the driver. Not just the rival.
But the man.
Lean muscle runs beneath his sleeves like he was carved, not built. There's a scar on his collarbone — just a slash of faded silver — and it draws the eye like a road sign you're not supposed to read. He moves like a predator who's survived every hunt. Like he doesn't just drive fast — he is the speed.
And God help me, he's beautiful.
Not pretty. Not clean.
He's the kind of beautiful that gets your pulse wrong.
The kind you want to argue with just to hear him say your name.
But none of that matters now.
He doesn't look at me at first. Just glares at the rubble.
> "This wasn't part of the circuit," he mutters.
I cross my arms. "Obviously."
> "We've been set up."
I nod.
My pulse is too loud. Not because of the trap — but because of him.
Why the hell did he follow me into the tunnel?
> "There's no way back," I say. "Only one of us makes it."
> "Wrong," he replies, already walking toward a twisted scaffold. "We go up. Together."
I scoff. "That thing barely holds your ego."
> "Then you go first."
His voice is rough, low, infuriating.
The kind that sticks in your chest long after he stops talking.
He points to the vertical beam.
> "Boost me. I'll pull you up."
I hesitate.
Not because it's a bad idea. But because it's his idea.
Because he's making sense.
Because a part of me wants to trust him — and I don't know when that started.
I step forward. Lace my fingers.
He places one boot in my hands — and for a second, our eyes lock.
His eyes aren't soft. They're wild, unreadable. Darker than midnight oil.
And I hate that I feel it.
---
She's light. Not weak — precise. Balanced. Powerful in the way ice is before it breaks under pressure.
Axton hauls himself up the scaffold beam, shoulders flexing under the strain, sweat tracing down the hollow of his spine. The heat swirls, the air burns, but he doesn't falter.
He doesn't let go.
When he glances down — she's looking up at him.
Her face glows in the dim amber light — moonlight carved from bone and flame.
Sora Kurosawa isn't beautiful.
She's divine.
Sharp cheekbones, sculpted like the brushstroke of a god too obsessed with detail. Pale skin luminous beneath ash and grit. Raven-black hair tied back in a clean knot, strands falling loose across her temple in perfect rebellion. Eyes like obsidian glass — cold, unreadable, and far too deep.
She doesn't look at people. She looks through them.
Except now, she's looking at him. And that alone might be enough to ruin him.
> "If you drop me," she says, gripping the beam, "I'll kill you."
> "If I drop you," he murmurs, "I'll deserve it."
That gets her to smile — the barest curl at the edge of her mouth.
Then she takes his hand.
And he pulls her up like he was always meant to.
---
They crawl through the shaft.
The walls groan. The screws whine.
At one point, she slips — just a second — and Axton doesn't even hesitate. He catches her by the waist, pulls her close, steadies her.
She doesn't say thank you.
But she doesn't pull away either.
---
They surface behind the checkpoint lot.
600 meters from the beacon.
They run.
Silent. Fast. Together.
She crosses first.
He follows — heartbeat just one blink behind hers.
The crowd never knows what nearly killed them.
But they do.
---
After the crowd fades, I'm alone in the pit bay.
I wash the dust from my arms, but I can still feel the heat of his grip on my wrist. Still hear the silence between us in the shaft. Still see his eyes — not asking for trust… but earning it.
Why did he follow me?
Why do I care?
Why do I hate that I care?
He's reckless.
Chaotic.
Infuriating.
And the most dangerously beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes on.
And yet…
For a second back there, I wasn't Sora Kurosawa — the champion of Eclipse Run, heir of precision.
I was just a girl… watching a boy pull her out of the dark.
And I'm not sure what terrifies me more —
That he caught me.
Or that I wanted him to.
---
□■□■□■□
Beneath the roar of engines, beneath the heat of friction and flame,
there exists a silence that knows both of them better than they know themselves.
Sora Kurosawa — the girl who was raised by the road, sculpted by discipline, tempered by the weight of a family name that demanded victory and punished hesitation.
Her beauty is divine not because of softness, but because of precision.
She is winter frost — untouchable, perfect, and dangerous if you linger.
Axton Reyes — the boy who was never supposed to come back.
A ghost behind the wheel. A body shaped by survival, not vanity.
He is what happens when obsession becomes identity.
He doesn't fall in love — he becomes possessed.
They were never meant to stand beside each other.
Their bloodlines forbid it. Their reputations deny it.
But fate does not follow blueprints.
It drags wires through oil and dreams through fire.
In a tunnel with no exit, they moved in sync.
And something shifted.
A glance held too long.
A hand that pulled instead of let go.
A silence that screamed everything they refuse to say.
This wasn't love.
Not yet.
This was the beginning of combustion.
And like all engines running too hot…
They will either burn brighter than the sun—
—
Or destroy everything around them when they finally collide.
.