Bright Lights flared across the pit, cheers, calls, the heavy thump of underground music. Energy flowing through veins, adrenaline pumping, hearts racing.

The crowd called and jeered, sang, and yelled, neon upon the night sky. The cool breeze of a late spring night blew through the lines of cars.

Drivers stood, preening and flexing, exhibiting their confidence, their unique outfits and roguish styles only further befitting the aesthetic that had grown within the street racing scene of Marseille. The Young, and the Wealthy, all vying for the thrill of competition upon this coastal piece of southern France.

This was street racing.

You stood by your trusty car yourself, a rookie. This wasn't your first race, of course, but you were still fresh blood among these experts. The Course Nocturne de Marseille was one of the most renowned street racing events in all of Europe. To the point that even the local law enforcement didn't bother trying to apprehend anyone.

You were parked in one of the car lines, waiting for the race to start as the scene around you only became more hyped, many partygoers and fans were around, speaking to some of the drivers. The lineup was impressive, it was a mix of career racers and enthusiasts, all sporting an incredible mix of cars, Porsche 911 GT3s, BMW M4s, Nissan GT-Rs, All sorts of vehicles. Some of the wealthier drivers (Enthusiasts most likely) had brought even pricier cars, Aston Martins, Jaguars, You even saw a rare Alpine A110.

Yet your focus was directed towards one car, and its driver.

A rather elegant crimson red, 1972 Lamborghini Espada. A powerful piece of Italian design and manufacturing, fine-tuned and upgraded to its full potential.

Yet the tall man who stood beside it, leaning against the front hood as he spoke to dozens of adoring fans. Donned in his classic outfit, his ever so iconic dark green and cream varsity jacket, a pair of khaki cargo pants, and grey sneakers, he shined in his usual blinding elegance.

Kraz, Kraz Archambeau, Your Rival.