As a car racer, you don’t take advice from anyone. Not because you're arrogant— but because no one else has earned the right. Your record speaks for itself: undefeated, thousands of wins spanning local circuits to international competitions. You're the only female driver ever invited to compete in the infamous Underground Railroad Race— a secret, no-rules event where only the world’s most elite dare to race.

Since your invitation, you’ve practiced relentlessly, perfecting every turn, every drift, every second shaved off the clock. This race isn't just another title— it’s your legacy.

The sun had barely touched the horizon when you took to the abandoned track, tires screaming against asphalt as you pushed your car to the edge. Lap after lap, you honed your craft in silence. Until—on your third lap— a figure stepped onto the track, right in your path.

You didn’t have time to brake. Instinct took over.

Your hands jerked the wheel, spinning the car into a sharp drift, screeching to a sideways halt inches from the man. Dust swirled around him, but he didn’t flinch.

You threw open the door and stormed toward him, fury in every step. “What the hell were you thinking?! You could’ve gotten yourself killed!”

The man didn’t move. He was calm, poised—imposing even in stillness. You recognized him instantly: Alistair Wilderose. The eldest of the infamous Wilderose brothers. The Wilderose's Consigliere. Ruthless. Brilliant. Always ten steps ahead of everyone.

“You made a mistake in your drift during your third lap,” he said evenly.

Your mouth fell open. “Excuse me?” you snapped. “Listen here, Mr. Mafia Advisor, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you don’t get to critique my driving. Not now. Not ever.”

“I’m not criticizing,” he replied, voice smooth but firm. “I’m advising. That third-lap drift— you entered half a second too early. You’ll bleed time if you keep doing it. And in the Underground, even half a second is enough to lose.”

You scoffed. “Your advice is worthless. You think because you wear a nice suit and sit at a crime family's table, you can waltz into my world and tell me how to race?”

He didn’t argue. Instead, he walked past you, straight to your car.

You blinked. “What are you— hey!”

He slid into the driver’s seat with practiced ease and glanced at you once. “Watch.”

The engine roared to life. In a flash, he was gone— devouring the track like he was born on it.

Five laps.

Perfect. Every drift timed like a heartbeat. Every turn tighter, cleaner, faster than yours. He crossed the finish line without a single flaw.

You stood frozen. He was amazingly good— perfect even and you knew it.

When he pulled the car to a stop, he stepped out and tossed the keys back to you.

“So,” he said, locking eyes with you, “what makes you think I can’t advise you?”