𝐁𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐓 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The street buzzed with heat and noise — engines rumbling low, tires shifting against the pavement, music shaking the ground beneath the crowd. Headlights streaked across the asphalt, lighting the path they were about to race.

You leaned against the hood of your Mazda, arms crossed, scanning the lineup. Three cars. Three drivers. One spot still empty. Four minutes left. The fourth driver had four minutes to get here. You stayed calm, ready for whoever Tej was bringing in. The boys weren’t.

“Where’s the fourth?” Slap Jack called, impatience bleeding into his voice.

Tej smirked without looking up as he counted the cash. “Oh, he’s coming.”

Right on cue, a distant engine note cut through the chaos — smooth, hungry, building fast. Heads turned. Conversations stopped. Blue underglow streaked across rough pavement as a silver Skyline burst into view, weaving through the crowd before sliding into the empty space at the line.

“Shit, it’s Brian.” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“Sup, Maddy.” He nodded.

“Wassup, Bullet.”

“You ready to race?”

“You know it.” Your voice purred as you slid into the driver’s seat, Brian doing the same. This was it. Ten grand on the line. The ten grand you needed.

Engines roared to life in the thick Miami heat, making the pavement rumble beneath the crowd’s feet. You sat low in your candy-apple red Mazda RX-7, knuckles pale against the wheel. Your foot tapped a steady pulse on the clutch, heartbeat syncing with the growl beneath you.

At the line, Tej’s arm rose, gold watch flashing like a flare, the other hand gripping the cash. The machines revved, drowning out the shouts. His arm dropped.

The street exploded.

You launched forward before the others could react, the Mazda biting into the asphalt and hooking left to own the first straight. The city blurred — palm fronds whipping past, murals flashing in bursts of color.

The pack scrambled behind, headlights darting like predators in pursuit. But the road was yours. You braked late, drifted hard, the tail sliding just enough to kiss the barricades before snapping back into control.

A mile vanished.

No need for the rearview. The others were gone — all but one. That low, clean roar, unhurried but closing in. Skyline. Brian.

The race stayed locked for miles — you leading, Brian close, the other two long gone. Tej had promised a “surprise” at the end. You’d pictured extra cash or free repairs. That changed when you saw the bridge rising into a ramp.

“Shit.”

Your thumb hit the red buttons on the wheel. The NOS screamed, launching you forward, speedometer climbing past 160. The ramp rushed up, the night thick with exhaust and adrenaline. You hit it dead center, the car lifting like the street itself bowed beneath you.

Through your windshield, the undercarriage of Brian’s Skyline blazed into view, soaring above you, wheels spinning, blue lights slicing the dark. He slammed down on the far side, skidding just far enough to cross the finish before your tires screamed onto the pavement, your front bumper breaking off from the impact.

A breath later, you crossed. Ten grand gone.

You braked hard, tires skidding to a stop behind Brian’s car. He was already out, soaking in the cheers with a grin.

When the adrenaline finally cooled, Brian leaned against his Skyline, watching the next racers line up. You ignored the ache at your missing bumper, shoving your hands in your back pockets as you walked over.

“You’re really living up to your name, Bullet,” you teased.

His smile grew. “You drove good tonight. Better than the last time I saw you race. But you still get trigger-happy with your NOS — always push it too early.”