Engines roared like caged beasts under a blood-red sky. The night air over West Harbor was thick with gasoline and tension. Neon signs flickered against wet asphalt, the kind of glow that promised trouble before the first tire even spun.
Kelvin tightened his gloves, eyes locked on the stretch of abandoned dock road ahead. Next to him, Maya leaned on the hood of his matte-black GT-R, lips curling into that half-smile that was equal parts challenge and warning."You win tonight," she said, voice low, "you don't just take the cash. You take his territory."
His territory.The crowd already knew who "he" was—Viktor Kane. Ex-champion. Street king. And the kind of man who didn't lose without leaving scars on whoever beat him.
Across the line, Viktor revved his crimson Porsche 992 Turbo S, its twin turbos spitting flames. His gaze locked with Kelvin's, and for a moment, the noise faded, replaced by something sharper—an unspoken promise of violence.
The starter girl stepped forward, her sequined dress catching the light as she raised both arms. The crowd surged in, phones out, chants building.
Three… two… one…
Tires screamed. Smoke exploded from the asphalt as both cars launched forward like bullets. Kelvin's GT-R shot into second gear, twin turbos howling in harmony, the rear slipping for just half a heartbeat before catching traction. The Porsche stayed alongside, its exhaust snarling like a cornered wolf.
Halfway down the straight, Viktor made his move—cutting Kelvin off with a brutal swerve that forced him inches from the steel barricade.Kelvin didn't flinch. He downshifted, slammed the throttle, and let the GT-R's raw torque yank him out of the trap. The back end twitched violently, the tires biting hard enough to leave molten rubber in their wake.
Maya's voice echoed in his head—Don't play safe. Break him.
The final corner came into view, a wide right-hander lined with screaming spectators. Kelvin braked late, letting the GT-R drift so close to the inside barrier that sparks rained off the side skirts. Viktor stayed on the outside, trying to power through, but Kelvin's line was surgical—fast, precise, and lethal.
As they blasted out of the corner, the finish line was a heartbeat away. Kelvin slammed through the last gear, turbo boost maxed, engine screaming at redline.
He crossed first. By less than a car length.
The crowd erupted. Some cheered, some shouted in disbelief.
Viktor's Porsche skidded to a stop beside him. The man stepped out, slow, deliberate, his expression unreadable. Then—without warning—he swung a punch straight at Kelvin's jaw. Kelvin caught his wrist mid-air, twisting just enough to make Viktor's eyes flash with rage.
"You're done here," Kelvin said, voice low, dangerous. "And this street? It's mine now."
From the shadows beyond the crowd, a black SUV's tinted window rolled down. A face watched them—someone Kelvin didn't recognize. But the smirk on that stranger's lips said one thing:This was only the beginning.