The night gripped the mountain like a sleeping beast, cold breath rolling down the slopes and into the cracked pavement where two machines crouched, engines whispering promises of violence.
The Silvia lurched ahead at the flag drop — tires squealing, exhaust howling, Shohei hammering the gas like a man possessed.
Riku followed.
Not racing.
Just driving.
---
The first bend came fast — a wide left sweeper with a steep camber.
Shohei barreled into it, late-braking aggressively, tires yelping against the asphalt.
The Silvia swung wide, fighting the turn, rear end twitching under heavy throttle.
Behind him, Riku's hands barely moved.
He braked early, turned in smoothly, clipping the apex with silent precision.
The Prelude floated through the curve like mist — no wasted motion, no screeching tires, no drama.
Only forward.
---
Shohei checked his mirrors mid-turn and scowled.
The old Prelude was there.
Closer than it should have been.
No way, he thought, stomping harder on the gas.
The next section tightened — a rapid-fire series of right-left S-curves where most drivers lost their nerve.
Shohei attacked it like a brawler in a street fight, swinging wide into the first right, overcorrecting into the left, tires screaming protest.
The Silvia danced at the edge of control.
And Riku...
He flowed.
---
Hand over hand, throttle feathered with a surgeon's precision — the Prelude laced through the S-curves like a thread through a needle.
The gap closed.
In the night fog, the silver hood of the Prelude gleamed faintly under the starlight — silent, patient, inevitable.
Shohei could feel it now.
Breathing down his neck.
---
Another hard right ahead — the infamous Kurokawa Cutter — sharp enough to rip tires from rims if you misjudged the entry.
Shohei charged into it recklessly, desperate to shake the ghost behind him.
Riku rolled the weight of the car outward, easing into the slipstream Shohei left like a signature across the asphalt.
Shohei's rear tires kissed the dirt at the curve's outer edge.
He fought it — hard correction, hard throttle.
Too hard.
The Silvia fishtailed, momentum surging sideways.
---
Riku saw the mistake before it even happened.
No panic.
No anger.
No excitement.
Just inevitability.
He shifted down, felt the Prelude's frame coil like a spring, and slipped to the inside line — so clean, so natural — it didn't even look real.
As Shohei wrestled his car back under control, Riku was already past him.
Silent.
Effortless.
Like the mountain itself had decided who should lead.
---
The final straight unfolded like a black river before them — the old bridge's lights flickering like dying fireflies in the distance.
Shohei roared after him — raw power, fury, pride — but it was too late.
Riku wasn't running anymore.
He was flying.
The Prelude's high-rev scream echoed down the mountain, thin and sharp and pure.
---
When they crossed the makeshift finish line, nobody cheered.
Nobody moved.
The crowd just stared.
At the battered silver coupe that shouldn't have been anything special — and the quiet boy behind its wheel who had driven it like a ghost through the mist.
---
Riku eased the Prelude to a gentle stop, breathing evenly, heartbeat steady.
He sat there for a moment, hands still on the wheel, the world creeping back into focus around him.
Tatsuya was the first to run over, practically falling over himself.
"Bro — BRO — what the HELL was that?!"
Riku looked at him, confused.
"I just drove," he said.
Simple.
True.
He didn't realize that behind him, the lot had begun to whisper.
Softly at first.
But growing.
A name forming in the mist.
The Phantom's Blade.