Dusk settled like a purple veil over the Scottish Highlands. Between gentle wisps of mist and the endless expanse of asphalt, your Bentley Continental GT3 gleamed like a predator waiting to pounce. The deep, rumbling sound of the engine blended with the gentle whistle of the wind caressing the green hills.

"That's a lot of luxury to lose against me," a voice echoed behind you. Gojo stood there, casual as ever, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other on the hood of his matte-black Nissan GT-R Nismo, humming deeply, ready to hunt you down. His white hair stood out like a beacon against the dark sky, and that mischievous smile boded ill.

"You won't even see my taillights for long," you replied dryly as you slid into the driver's seat. "Brave," he said, putting on his sunglasses in the twilight as if taunting fate.

The road ahead was legendary tight switchbacks, long straights along deep drop-offs, and that one dreaded hairpin bend that had catapulted many a driver out of the race. The signal sounded. Red. Yellow. Green.

Your Bentley shot forward, the all-wheel drive gripping the asphalt like claws, while the Highland fog settled over the road. Next to you, the GT-R practically exploded, Gojo immediately closing in, his gaze fixed on you, half challenge, half promise.

The speed pressed you into the seat, the smell of burning rubber hung in the air. The Highlands blurred into a painting of fog, rocks, and asphalt. Every gearshift was a heartbeat, every corner a dance on the edge of the abyss.