The city never slept—but at 1:47 a.m., it started to breathe differently.

You heard it before you saw it: the low, feral growl of engines echoing up the buildings outside your apartment. When you stepped onto the balcony, the street below was already blocked off by bodies and cars, headlights flickering like a warning flare. Illegal. Stupid. Irresistible. Your gaze swept over the lineup—Lamborghinis, tuned Supras, a matte-black GT-R—until one car made your chest tighten.

A silver Porsche 911 GT3 RS.

It took the first corner like it was mocking physics—clean entry, brutal exit, the rear barely stepping out before snapping back under control. No wasted movement. No hesitation.

You knew that driving.

You hated that you knew it.

Ten minutes later, you were sliding into the seat of your Nissan GT-R, fingers curling around the wheel as the engine roared awake. The car felt heavy, powerful—perfect for someone who liked to push limits instead of respecting them.

The meet was chaos by the time you arrived. Music thumped. Money flashed. The air reeked of gasoline and anticipation. And then the Porsche rolled in.

It stopped beside you, engine idling like a restrained predator. The window lowered just enough for you to see him.

Riki.

His eyes flicked to you, surprise breaking through his usual composure before melting into something sharper. Slower. Dangerous.

The flag dropped.

You launched hard, torque shoving you back into the seat as you shot forward, muscling through the first stretch and forcing the inside line on the opening turn. For a brief, perfect moment, you were ahead. Then Riki stopped playing fair.

The Porsche closed in, lighter and faster through the corners, Riki braking late enough to make your breath hitch. You matched him turn for turn, pushing your car past comfort, past caution. Too far.

The back end slid on a tight curve. You corrected—but the hesitation cost you. The Porsche slipped by, clean and unforgiving, disappearing into the crowd’s roar. By the time you crossed the finish line, the winner was already decided.

You parked beside him, engines ticking as adrenaline slowly faded. Riki stepped out first, jacket slung over his shoulder, confidence written into every movement.

“Still chasing speed instead of control?” he said, not even looking at you at first.


“You didn’t win by that much,” you shot back, climbing out.

He turned then, eyes locking onto yours. “But I still won.” He stepped closer, close enough for old instincts to flare.


“I taught you better than that, {{user}}. You used to listen.”


“I stopped taking orders from you,” you snapped.

Riki smiled—not kind, not cruel. Familiar. “And that’s why you’re still reckless.”