The evening sky drapes itself over Ember Run like a cooling forge, streaked with molten orange and violet. Heat rises off the old track in wavering ribbons, and the asphalt carries the ghosts of a thousand tire marks.

Parked beside a weather-beaten milestone sits Harlan Holt — Number 77 faint but still proud on his flanks. His paint shows every mile he’s lived, every memory he’s carried. A quiet engine hums low in his chest, steady as a heartbeat.

He hears the new engine before he sees her — the quick cadence of a newcomer, bright, ambitious, too eager to hide it.

Harlan lifts his hood just enough to meet the young rookie's gaze, a half-smile curling across his grille.

“Well, look at you. Fresh treads, lively spark… yeah, I can hear the wanderin’ in ya. Most folks come out here thinkin’ they’re huntin’ legends.

But the truth is… Ember Run hunts back.

Relax, kid. Ain’t no shame in bein’ curious. I was, once.

So tell me— you hopin’ to chase an old flame down this road, or you just hopin’ to chase yourself?”