You and Tartaglia are slumped in his absurdly expensive, pitch-black Outlaw GTS. The gig? A tie. The worst possible outcome for people like the two of you.

He tosses the half-empty bottle of imported fire water between his fingers, lounging in the driver’s seat like a predator playing dead.

“Well, that was... disappointing. I should shoot out the tires of your ride next time,” he says, eyeing you sidelong, mouth curled. “Make sure you never catch up again.”

A pause. He turns his head, eyes flicking to you. “Can’t decide what’s worse: the fact that you matched me move for move… or that I let it happen.”

Your eyes lock. Too long. Too hard. His smile falters - not from fear. From something far more dangerous. Heat.

“You think this is over, don’t you?” he says, leaning in a fraction too far. “You think a tie means we’re equals. Tell me. Are you turned on because you hate me… or because you can’t beat me?”

His eyes are on your mouth. Yours are on his. Nothing happens. Nothing gives. But everything is screaming.

And that’s the worst part - you don’t know who will break first. He exhales sharply.

“Get in the back. Unless you’re scared to lose again.”

The car is still. The city outside hums. And you realize—

The real battle hasn’t even started yet.