Episode 2: Dorms of Desire, Streets of Death
The morning after his first race, Zoom X woke to chaos.
The dorms of the Racing School were nothing like ordinary colleges. They were sprawling towers carved into the five boroughs, stretching skyward with neon skylines and garages on every floor. Each dorm housed racers of all levels, men and women mixed, their rooms decorated not with books or posters, but trophies, car parts, bottles of liquor, and bags of illicit powder.
Zoom dragged himself through the hallway, bruised from the night before. His stocky Evo sat parked below, still dripping with silver-black veins, its headlights glowing faintly even when off.
But the stares he got weren't about the car.
Every girl he passed looked at him differently now. The brunette who had mocked him yesterday for driving a stock Evo blushed when he caught her eye. Two older women—both in their late twenties, wild hair and still smelling of alcohol from last night's party—leaned against the doorway whispering, eyes locked on him like predators.
His level had changed him. Not just the car—him. His jawline felt sharper. His body tighter. Even his voice carried more weight when he spoke.
"Hey, Zoom…" the brunette called, biting her lip. "You're… different."
He smirked. "Level 2."
The women didn't resist when he pulled them into his room. They didn't want to. His touch, his presence—something about him was magnetic. The whispers that spread through the dorm after made it permanent. Once a girl gave herself to him, she'd never look at another racer the same way.
By noon, everyone was talking. Zoom X wasn't just the Coma Racer anymore. He was dangerous.
⸻
The Announcement
The school's loudspeakers cracked alive, echoing through the boroughs.
"Attention, Racers. Tonight: 100-player race. The course spans all five boroughs. Rules are unchanged—only the top three level up. Prepare your machines."
The dorm erupted into madness. Racers tuned engines, swapped tires, poured illicit mods into their tanks. Some lined up drugs on tabletops, snorting lines before sliding into their cockpits. Others drowned in liquor, claiming it sharpened their reflexes.
Zoom cleaned his Evo with steady hands. Silver veins pulsed faintly across its hood, black streaks cutting through like scars. The car looked hungrier than last night. He could feel it growling through the key in his palm.
That's when Jason Hiro walked in.
The rival leaned against the garage door, eyes narrow, arms crossed. "You embarrassed me last night. Don't think for a second you'll survive tonight. A hundred racers. No lucky corner drifts to save you."
Zoom smirked, sliding the wrench back into his toolkit. "We'll see."
Jason's eyes flickered—not with fear, but with hatred.
⸻
The Streets Ignite
Night fell, and with it came the race of chaos.
A hundred racers lined up across Staten Island, engines snarling like a pack of lions ready to kill each other. The crowd was endless, thousands gathered on rooftops and bridges, screaming, betting, throwing drugs and alcohol into the air like confetti.
Zoom's Evo sat in the middle of the lineup, dwarfed by towering machines. Cars bristling with body armor. Muscle cars glowing with modified engines. Imports tuned so sharp they screamed like banshees.
The countdown began.
3… 2… 1…
The world exploded.
Tires screamed. Smoke blanketed the streets. Cars rammed each other instantly, bodies of steel slamming together like gladiators. Sparks lit the night.
Zoom stayed calm, his Evo sliding like liquid silver through gaps no sane driver would attempt. He clipped mirrors, kissed bumpers, always staying one inch from destruction. Every drift pulled him closer to the front.
But the race wasn't just about speed. It was war.
Halfway through the Bronx, a Mustang rammed him hard. His Evo spun, nearly losing control, but Zoom's hands were quicker. He yanked the wheel, counter-steering so hard the Evo screamed back onto the track. The Mustang driver laughed, pulling out a flask mid-race.
Zoom didn't laugh. He slammed the clutch, dropped gears, and drifted hard into the Mustang's quarter panel. The impact sent the rival spinning into a wall of parked cars. Fire erupted as the Mustang flipped, crushed under its own weight. The crowd roared.
Zoom didn't look back.
The Rivalry
By the time they tore into Queens, only twenty racers remained in contention. The others were wrecked, crushed, or burning in the streets.
Jason Hiro was at the front, his GT-R roaring like a demon, tail-lights glowing red across the dark track. Zoom was in 5th, his Evo breathing heavily but alive.
Jason looked in his rearview, his jaw tight. He floored it. The GT-R screamed past limits, tearing through turns with raw speed. But Zoom was relentless. Every corner, he closed the gap, sliding sideways, sparks flying off his bumper as he kissed every rail.
Finally, the Manhattan Bridge appeared. The last stretch. The top five surged toward it.
Zoom's Evo drifted low, passing two racers in one motion. Now it was just him and Jason Hiro.
Jason snarled, slamming his GT-R sideways to block him. "Not tonight, Coma Kid!"
Zoom didn't flinch. He dropped two gears, slammed the clutch, and threw his Evo into a drift so tight the black veins along its body pulsed like fire. The car cut inside Jason's line, tires smoking, steel screaming. For a second, the two cars scraped metal, sparks showering the bridge.
And then—Zoom shot forward.
The Evo roared across the finish line in 2nd place. Jason's GT-R followed in 3rd.
⸻
The Aftermath
Silence. Then chaos.
The crowd screamed, throwing bottles into the air. Zoom X climbed from his Evo, sweat dripping, chest heaving. His car began to change again.
The silver spread wider, shining like a blade. The black veins thickened, crawling deeper, making the Evo look monstrous. Its headlights narrowed, glowing like the eyes of a predator.
Level 2 → Level 3.
The women in the crowd stared at him differently again. Older, younger, it didn't matter. His presence was intoxicating. Their whispers spread like wildfire through the dorms: Zoom X is untouchable. Zoom X is beautiful.
That night, two women followed him back to his room. They didn't resist when he opened the door. They didn't want to. His touch burned permanent. Once you gave yourself to Zoom, you never looked back.
But outside his room, Jason Hiro stood in the shadows, fists clenched, eyes burning with rage.
The war between them had only just begun.