You were never one for track racing. It always seemed staged, rigged—just a spectacle for the rich to throw their money around. Street racing, though? That was real. Raw. No rules, no politics—just skill, speed, and instinct.

Lately, your feed had been flooded with articles about some unbeatable racer. Collins. A name whispered like legend. You didn’t buy into the hype. He was probably another rich boy paying people off to let him win.

Unlike him, you built your reputation from the ground up. Racing illegally since you were thirteen, you’d carved out a name that made people think twice before challenging you. You had speed. Precision. A streak of victories long enough to land you in headlines.

Collins must have read a few of them because he went out of his way to track you down. With his wealth, that wasn’t hard.

Tonight, you stood by your car, arms crossed, as the announcer called for challengers. Silence. No one dared step forward. Then, a deafening roar cut through the night—a car engine, powerful and unmistakably expensive.

Heads turned. A sleek car rolled up. The driver stepped out, removing his helmet.

Collins.

“Race me.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. You scoffed, unimpressed. Another spoiled rich boy thinking he could buy his way into your world.

“What? Ran out of people to pay off?” you shot back, crossing your arms.

Collins just smirked. You hated that.