The Maybach was parked "dirty" in the corner of the Nanshan Karting Circuit lot.
Its rear fender sat flush against a Lizard Green Porsche 911 GT3 RS, parked so close that the Maybach's bodywork effectively pinned the Porsche's driver-side door shut. It was a blatant, petty blockade.
From the track beyond, the high-pitched scream of engines tore through the air like a chorus of chainsaws. Zack leaned against the Maybach, looking more dejected than the owner of the trapped Porsche.
"Is that your brother's car?"
Roan adjusted his backpack, which was heavy with ice packs and Coke. He stared at the Porsche. He had the exact same model in his iRacing garage. In a fraction of a second, his mind calculated the extent of its modifications; his conclusion was that the cost-to-performance ratio was abysmal.
"Yeah," Zack muttered.
That was indeed his older brother Justin's ride. Zack knew his chances of hitting the track today had just flatlined. He had spent all yesterday bragging to Roan about his parents being out of the country, only to find the one person more restrictive than his father waiting at the family-owned circuit.
Zack reached into the back of the Maybach, pulled out a green box, and shoved it into Roan's hands without a word. Then, with practiced ease, he fished a Coke out of Roan's bag, cracked it open, and took a moody gulp.
"Not only is he here, he brought company," Zack said, gesturing toward a Nissan GT-R parked nearby.
At a glance, the GT-R looked stock. But Roan's eyes went straight to the front wheels. They sat with a distinct "stance"—narrower at the top, wider at the bottom. It was an aggressive negative camber setup, designed specifically to fight centrifugal force in high-speed corners.
Sacrificing straight-line stability for cornering grip—the hallmark of a serious driver.
"I'm cursed," Zack sighed, the plastic Coke bottle crinking under his grip. "I thought I was free once my parents left, but I forgot we have a local dictator. He spends half his life racing—and he's not even that good—but the moment I want a turn, it's a 'high-risk activity' and strictly forbidden. He already cornered me inside. My day is ruined."
Zack started to slump against the car, but then he snapped upright, looking at Roan as his only hope for vengeance.
"Roan, man, you have to show them something today. My brother brought some 'pro' with him, and they're acting like they own the place. Take the GPU. Just... let them know who the real Legend is."
Roan filtered out the whining and latched onto the only relevant data point: Pro. That meant there was a benchmark on the track today—a tangible variable to measure himself against. He ran his fingers over the box containing the RTX 3090 and nodded.
"Okay."
The entrance to the paddock lounge was blasted with cold air.
Justin didn't act like a typical villain. Instead, he adjusted the collar of his pristine Alpinestars racing suit and approached them with a polished, welcoming smile.
"Zack! You brought friends? Good, good. Plenty of energy."
Justin's eyes swept over the group. When he saw Roan in his school uniform, his smile became even more patronizing—the look of an adult humoring a child who had brought home a stray cat.
"Justin, this is Roan," Zack said, pushing Roan forward like a prized trophy. "I told you about him. He's a god-tier driver!"
Justin looked at Roan again. The boy looked half-asleep, as if his internal battery was at 1%. Justin's smile faltered for a micro-second before his "perfect older brother" mask slid back into place.
"God-tier, huh? Pleasure to meet a master."
His tone was dismissive, the way one speaks to a toddler. He immediately turned toward a man standing by a monitor in the back.
"Let me introduce you. This is Marcus. Two-time CTCC champion. I brought him in today to help me dial in the car's setup."
The man, Marcus, turned around. He was lean, his skin bronzed from years of exposure to the sun on asphalt. His eyes held the cold, detached focus of a professional. He wasn't arrogant, just occupied. He was currently using a microfiber cloth to wipe his helmet visor with the reverence one might show a holy relic.
He gave the students a polite nod but said nothing.
"Marcus is a legend in the circuit..." Justin continued, piling on the titles.
"Don't use that word here," Marcus interrupted. His voice was quiet but carried an absolute, grounded humility. "I don't deserve it."
An awkward silence settled over the room.
Marcus seemed to sense the tension and gestured toward a framed poster on the wall. It was a historical lap-record board for the circuit, the paper yellowed with age.
"On this track, there is only one legend."
Marcus's gaze fixed on the ID at the top of the list: MV1.
"For five years, across karts, touring cars, GT3, and GT4—almost every single track record was set by him." Marcus's eyes showed a hint of melancholy—the look of a chaser staring at a phantom's taillights. "The rest of us, no matter how many trophies we win, are just chasing his ghost."
The students looked at the name MV1 with newfound respect.
"Right then," Justin clapped his hands, his voice shifting back into a business-like tone. "Today was supposed to be Zack's birthday bash, and I appreciate you all coming out. However..."
Zack's stomach dropped. He tried to speak, but Justin cut him off.
"It's my fault for not coordinating better," Justin said, his expression dripping with "sincere" regret. "Marcus needs to test the dry-weather setup on the GT3 RS. For safety reasons, the track is restricted to the touring car group today. Next time—I promise—I'll set up a private karting session for you all."
Zack's face darkened. Next time. It was always "next time." Not only was he barred, but his classmates were now stuck watching from the sidelines.
Before anyone could complain, Justin turned and pointed toward a glass-walled room at the far end of the lounge, his smile as perfect as ever.
"But since you're here, I won't let you leave disappointed. I've arranged a much better spot for you guys."