Cassandra quickly deletes the message, pockets her phone, and stares at the ceiling.
"I'll drive you. Your parents will nag less than Mikey," she says, grabbing her bag.
"Since when do you help me?" Takemichi doesn't sound convinced. He stares at her curiously.
"If you don't want the ride… enjoy Mikey's foot in your face," Cassandra shoots back, every word dripping with venom. It works: Takemichi nearly falls out of the chair scrambling for his jacket.
"Sorry, Cassy. Can you drop me at the old factory?" he asks, checking his wallet.
"Sure. Just don't wait days for me to pick you up. Here—this is for a safe taxi ride back." Cassandra pulls out a thick wad of yen—roughly two weeks of Takemichi's allowance.
They head down to the garage and get in the car.
"One of these days you're gonna tell me where you get all this cash, right?" Takemichi whispers, clutching the bills.
"My mom was military… Her pension came to me," she answers automatically. Same response as always, whenever anyone asked.
For fifteen minutes, the roar of the engine is the only sound between them. Takemichi stares out the window in silence—not the suffocating kind like at home. Here, it's easy to breathe.
"Don't bow your head to Mikey, Takemichi. He's supposed to treat you like a friend, not a doormat. Got it?" Cassandra—who almost never starts conversations—speaks up, biting her tongue right after. Her ears burn red from the embarrassment of actually caring about this crybaby potato sack.
"Easy for you to say… You're insane!" Takemichi replies, rolling his eyes. Silence settles again until they reach the factory. About twenty bikes are parked there, and right away Mikey and Draken are standing at the entrance, less than two meters from the car.
"Delivered… Take care," Cassandra tells her brother.
"Hey, Takemichi? You good? Cassandra… how's it going?" Mikey approaches, leaning against her door. His scent slips through the open window, sending a shiver down her spine. She grips the wheel tighter without meaning to.
"Mikey… don't drag my brother into your bullshit. Goodbye," Cassandra says, locking eyes with him. Today his eyes look… happy?
"That quick?" Mikey flashes a grin, noticing her rigid hands clamped on the steering wheel.
"Got somewhere to be, gremlin," Cassandra snaps, venomous. A few of the guys overhear and start laughing.
"Come on, Mikey," Draken calls. His deep, commanding voice shuts the laughter down. His gaze meets Cassandra's; the phantom ache in her hand reminds Draken what she's capable of. She holds his stare for another second—almost hearing him call her a rabid bitch in his head—before looking back at her brother.
"See you tomorrow, Cassy," Takemichi says, stepping away from the car. Cassandra waves and peels out. Nothing but lunatics here, she thinks, trying to ignore the shiver and their stares. Arrogant idiots… that's all they are.
She accelerates harder. The protesting engine drowns out her stubborn thoughts.
As soon as she rounds the corner—half a block away—eight Tenjiku members hand-picked by Rindou are waiting for the "cleanup." She stops. Doors fly open instantly: rear seats removed, spare tire, everything from the trunk, even the carpet. All to shed weight. Doors slam shut, and she guns it toward the docks.
By day, the place is just a pile of tires and debris—an abandoned spot with almost no civilian traffic, only a few workers. It used to be active, but after the expansion of Dock 3 and the rise of the gangs, it was forgotten… until nightfall. Now tires form a circular barricade around the dock. Neon light panels pulse to a mix of electronic music and rock. Gangs from all over Japan show up at this neutral ground. Bets and fights flow between cars and bikes. The air is thick with gasoline, cheap booze, and chaos.
Cassandra rolls into the makeshift autodrome. Her Impala immediately draws eyes. She quickly pulls on the Ghostface mask—the rule is no racer gets named. She thinks it's stupid, but Ran and Rindou insist on the whole circus.
As the cars line up, Cassandra pops the glovebox and downs two painkillers. The heat in her knee is already nagging; the tendon protests every time she presses the pedals. In the distance, she spots Rindou's silhouette up in a control booth by the sound system, next to a white-haired guy. His leader? No time to wonder.
Ran steps in front of the lineup, baton in hand, venomous smile spreading when he sees the unmarked Impala purring at the front. He raises his arm high, pointing the bat to the sky like a trophy.
"Alright, you fuckers! You know the rules: don't die before the second lap, or the fun ends! And tonight… winner takes the second-place car!" he drawls lazily, eyes on Cassandra. She smirks at his audacity. His way of saying: Don't lose, bitch—I'm betting big.
She revs in place. The others follow.
"Three… now!" Ran shouts, dropping his arm. The bat hits the ground.
Five cars blast forward, missing Ran by inches. He grins, coughing through the dust and exhaust smoke.
The start is thunder.
Five engines explode at once—tires screaming, exhausts spitting blue fire. Cassandra's black Impala pulls ahead by half a car length, but the orange Supra on her right is already glued to her bumper, trying to force her off the track on the first corner.
Cassandra doesn't even blink.
She lifts off the gas for half a second—just enough to let the Supra think he's passing—then slams it back down. The Impala jerks violently left, cutting across his nose. The Supra driver panics, brakes hard, spins, and slams rear-first into the tire wall. One out.
First lap: four left.
Her knee throbs like someone's driving hot nails into the bone. She grits her teeth, swallows dry, and snaps into fourth with a sharp click. The V8 roars so loud it drowns out the electronic music.
Tight left turn, dropping into the old dock section. The asphalt here is shattered, full of potholes. Everyone brakes. She doesn't.
The Impala flies. Literally airborne. All four wheels off the ground for a full second; the Ghostface mask swings from the rearview. When it lands, the impact shoots up her spine and detonates in her ruined knee. A scream rips out behind the mask, but no one hears it—just the engine howl and the crowd roaring from the makeshift stands.
Two cars try to squeeze inside. Fatal mistake. She throws the Impala sideways, blocking both at once. A white Civic tries to muscle through on the outside and scrapes its entire side, sparks flying. The silver Silvia loses grip and spins out. Two more gone.
Now it's just her and a matte black Nissan 350Z with purple underglow. The guy's good. Really good. He's glued to her tail, waiting for her to slip.
Second lap begins.
Ran yells into the mic, voice hoarse with excitement:
"SECOND LAP, YOU SONS OF BITCHES! IF YOU'VE GOT THE BALLS, FLOOR IT!"
The 350Z dives inside on the guarita curve. Cassandra lets him. Lets him think he's got it. The exact second he draws level, she yanks the wheel hard right and pulls the handbrake.
Perfect drift.
The Impala spins 180 degrees in the middle of the track—nose to nose with the 350Z. For a split second, both cars sit frozen, headlights staring like two beasts about to clash. The Ghostface mask reflects in the opponent's tinted glass.
Cassandra smiles behind the white plastic.
She throws it in reverse, backs up five meters at full throttle, slams it into drive, and swings around the 350Z like it's a training cone. The guy's so stunned he doesn't even react.
Final lap.
Her knee is on fire now. Vision blurs at the edges. She feels hot blood soaking into her jeans—probably tore open an old surgery scar. Doesn't matter.