On the third underground floor, in another private room, Han Min-woo lounged comfortably, surrounded by girls in revealing clothes. Drinks lined the table. Laughter filled the space.
"Boss," one of the men said uneasily, glancing at the screen, "are you sure this'll work? We could've hired a real professional. Who even is this guy?"
Han Min-woo laughed.
"Shut up," he said, pleased. "You should be grateful he agreed to help us."
He leaned back, pride shining in his eyes.
"Do you know who he is?"
The others shook their heads.
Han Min-woo smiled wider.
"That's Luis Blake."
The name alone changed the atmosphere.
"His father owns the largest underground network in the country. Racing clubs. Fight pits. Gambling dens. Casinos. Nightclubs. Bars. Brothels." He took a slow sip of his drink. "And the things you can't escape once you touch them."
He gestured toward the screen.
"As his son, of course he knows every sport worth betting on. Every rule worth breaking."
The second board flashed beside the race screen.
TOTAL BET POOL: $50,000,000
Han Min-woo watched it climb.
"The prize money," he said lazily, "is ours."
In another private room in the same floor
"Tsk, these people are really serious— even copying Prim's car model," a guy scoffed.
"Even if he copied it, a copy is still a copy," another replied confidently. "Prim's model is customized by the best car dealers in the world—the Night Family. They don't replicate."
"What do you think?" James asked, turning to Daniel.
Daniel was sipping his wine, one leg crossed over the other, looking utterly bored. "They're talking nonsense," he said calmly. "The Night Family always makes two versions of everything they create."
James raised an eyebrow. "Two?"
"They call it Yin and Yang," Daniel continued, his eyes narrowing slightly. "They believe making pairs doubles their blessings. If you look closely—put the two cars side by side—you'll see they're the same model. Same frame, same design. The only difference is the engine."
James chuckled. "You really know your cars."
"And you don't know your business," Daniel replied softly, twirling his drink. "You let someone you know nothing about race in your club. They might know you—but you don't know them."
James laughed lightly. "The Night Family has their principles, and our family has ours. As long as money is being made dying is worth it ."
Daniel glanced at him coolly. "If you make money without dying, then you haven't really made it yet."
James chuckled again.
Daniel rolled his eyes.
The engines roared to life like awakened beasts, the sound shaking the underground club to its bones. In this place, everything was legal—speed, sabotage, even dying. No rules. No mercy. Only the finish line.
The signal flared.
Cars exploded forward in a storm of fire and smoke, tires screaming as metal surged into motion. Neon lights streaked overhead while the crowd pressed against reinforced glass, shouting names, betting lives, holding their breath.
Prim's black car launched cleanly, already ahead of the pack. It hugged the asphalt like it was born from it, slicing through the chaos as he approached the first bend. The speed climbed—too fast, even for professionals—but Prim didn't ease off. He never did.
Then—
A white car burst into view.
It slid sideways through the curve, drifting with surgical precision, its nose pointed straight at Prim's windshield as if daring him to blink. For a heartbeat, the two cars raced face-to-face, inches from collision.
Inside the white car, Luis smiled.
He lifted one hand from the wheel and waved.
Then he slammed into reverse mid-drift, tires screaming as the car snapped backward, spun, and shot ahead like a bullet—still drifting, still accelerating, leaving Prim with nothing but burning pride and engine smoke.
The race turned vicious.
Cars swerved, bumped, and rammed, drivers trying to force each other into barriers or off cliffs carved into the track. A blue car suddenly slammed into Prim's left side, shoving him toward the most feared part of the course.
The Death Lane.
The audience went silent.
The Death Lane was narrow, uneven, and unforgiving—no guardrails, no second chances. Drivers who entered it usually slowed down, crept through, prayed.
The Death Lane wasn't designed to test skill.
It was designed to erase drivers.
The stretch sat lower than the rest of the track, sunken like a scar, pulling cars into it once they crossed the line. The road was uneven by design—sections of torn asphalt, exposed steel grates, oil-slick patches, and sudden drops that unweighted tires at high speed. Steering felt delayed there, like the car was always half a second away from betrayal.
There were no guardrails because guardrails gave hope.
Instead, the edge fell away into darkness—open space where engines disappeared mid-scream. Cameras never followed what went down there. The club didn't replay those moments. Bets were settled, names were crossed out, and the race moved on.
The lane constantly fought the driver.
Crosswinds hit without warning, slamming into cars sideways. The surface vibrated violently, shaking suspensions apart and blurring vision. Brakes overheated faster here, steering went light, and traction lied—gripping just long enough to make you trust it before letting go.
That was the trick.
Drivers who panicked died. Drivers who hesitated died. Drivers who got confident died.
The only way through was slow, precise, almost crawling—hands locked, heart pounding, eyes unblinking. Even then, survival wasn't guaranteed. Sometimes the road simply decided it was done with you.
That's why the crowd never screamed when someone was forced into the Death Lane.
They watched.
Quietly.
Because entering it at full speed wasn't bravery.
It wasn't madness.
It was a challenge to something that had never lost.
And when Prim didn't slow down—when he accelerated, engine screaming as the car tore into the Death Lane like it meant to break it—the audience realized something terrifying:
The Death Lane had claimed legends.
But tonight, it had met someone who didn't believe in endings.
Prim did the opposite.
He floored it.
The black car screamed down the Death Lane like it was mocking fate itself, sparks flying as tires barely held the road. The crowd erupted—some cheering, some covering their eyes.
Ahead, chaos unfolded.
A red car veered toward Luis, clearly trying to take him out before the final stretch. Luis's window rolled down smoothly despite the speed. With one hand steady on the wheel, he pulled out a pistol with the other.
One shot.
The bullet tore through the red car's tire.
Physics did the rest.
The car lost control, spinning wildly just as another vehicle crashed into it. The impact triggered a massive explosion, flames swallowing the track and blocking the only road to the finish line.
Cars slammed their brakes, skidding to a halt.
Too late.
Like a whisper cutting through fire, a black car surged forward.
Prim.
He hit the ramp at the exact second the explosion peaked, the blast lifting his car into the air. The crowd screamed as the vehicle flew over flames and debris, landing hard but clean on the other side—tires gripping, engine roaring.
The finish line loomed.
At the same moment, the white car burst through the smoke.
They crossed together.
Silence fell.
Both cars rolled to a stop. Prim remained unseen behind his tinted windows, but Luis turned his head anyway. Through metal, glass, and smoke, he felt Prim's stare—cold, dangerous, undeniable.
Two winners.
Or two rivals just getting started.
The crowd erupted, knowing one thing for certain—
This wasn't the end.
He smirked. "You're still as interesting as before," Luis said, chuckling as he stepped out of his car—just as Prim did.
Around them, workers rushed to put out the flames from the explosion, some checking for survivors, others guiding the racers who had stopped out of the lane.
"Nice car," Prim said lazily, his voice soft as usual, a faint smile on his face. "Next time, you can teach me."
"Hm." Luis smiled. "Your smile couldn't be any faker. I almost believed it."
Prim let out a short laugh—just as fake. "I was born this way," he replied, slipping his hands into his pockets and clicking his tongue.
"Your lollipop is very sweet," Luis said casually. He waved the lollipop he had carefully rewrapped, then put it back into his mouth, smiling openly—clearly enjoying how irritated Prim looked. "Do you want a lick, Young Master?"
"Prim! Are you okay—fuck!" Michael shouted as he ran toward him.
"I'm not dead yet," Prim replied calmly. "I'm going home. Tell James to handle the rest himself."
With that, he turned and started walking toward the exit, Michael quickly following behind.
"Why don't we do a rematch?" Luis called out.
Prim didn't stop. He didn't even turn around.
---
Back in his private room, Prim changed back into his school uniform, removed his face mask, and ran a hand through his hair.
"This is the first time you've ever tied with someone," Michael muttered, sitting on the couch and tapping his phone against his palm. "Tsk. New things really do happen. But I've never seen that guy before."
Prim stepped out of the dressing room. "You already have a small brain. Stop stressing it," he said flatly, rolling his eyes.
"Aren't you curious?" Michael asked.
Prim tilted his head slightly, as if considering it—then shook it. "Not at all. If anything, I'm exhausted. I've already passed my sleep time."
"Tsk. I forgot—you're the type who follows a strict schedule," Michael said sarcastically. "Sleep, eat, sleep, relax, sleep, eat, play, sleep, eat, relax. You definitely don't have time for nonsense."
"Wow," Prim said, clapping slowly as they stepped into the elevator. "You finally understand me. I'm so proud. It took you long enough, but still—proud."
"The others are heading to the club to keep playing," Michael added. "Daniel stayed behind to see how things would end."
---