The Eight-Six rolled up to the driveway on worn tires, its engine note tapering down from a low growl to a quiet idle before cutting off completely. The twin red taillights blinked out, leaving the AE86 to settle into silence beneath the tired glow of the streetlight overhead. The hood shimmered faintly with residual heat. Steam hissed out from the narrow seams of the carbon-fiber hood as the aluminum radiator cooled off. The acrid scent of cooked brake pads and rubber lingered faintly in the night air.
Collei stepped out, her hand brushing against the roof of the car as she shut the driver's door with a firm thunk. She paused for a second, letting the cool breeze of the early morning wash over her, the air still tasting like scorched pavement and ozone from the mountain. Her body moved automatically—legs stiff, wrists sore from gripping the wheel too hard, her back damp with sweat—but her mind was somewhere else, replaying every second of that last descent from Yougou Pass.
The rhythm of the course still haunted her muscle memory—heel-toe downshifts into third, the throttle feathered just enough to rotate the rear before catching it with quick countersteer. The tachometer needle dancing on the redline. The hiss of the tires skimming the gutter at the hairpins, the spine-jarring moment when the front-right tire hooked the edge of the drainage line perfectly, holding the inside line like a slot car. Her fingers tingled from the vibrations that had passed through the steering rack on that final corner.
She stretched her arms overhead, a long, quiet exhale leaving her lungs as the adrenaline began to ebb out of her bloodstream. That same buzzing quiet, like the aftermath of a fistfight where you're still standing and the other guy isn't, settled in her bones.
She walked toward the house, her sneakers making soft thuds on the concrete steps. The front door creaked open.
"Hey, I'm back," she said, the words coming out casual but laced with the exhaustion of someone who'd danced with death and come back alive.
Arlecchino was sprawled across the couch like a queen without a throne, one leg draped over the armrest, a phone glowing in her hand. She didn't even look up.
"Earlier than expected?" she muttered without much inflection, but the corner of her mouth twitched with amusement.
Collei stopped at the foot of the stairs and glanced back with a half-lidded smirk, a glint in her eyes. "I did what you asked," she said, voice barely holding back a note of pride. "You owe me a full tank for tomorrow. Don't forget—you promised."
She didn't wait for a response. The words had already been spoken. She ascended the stairs two at a time, the echo of her footsteps fading behind her.
Arlecchino didn't answer right away. She stared at the screen in her hand, then set it down slowly. After a moment, she rose with a lazy stretch, shoulders rolling back until her spine popped.
She stepped outside, barefoot, her eyes instantly locking onto the AE86 parked at the end of the driveway. The car sat there quietly, heat still radiating off the hood in waves, the scent of gear oil and exhaust clinging to it like a second skin.
Arlecchino stood in front of it for a moment, one hand resting on her hip.
The Eight-Six looked the same as always—beaten, faded, the black-and-white paint chipped in places and the wheel arches dusted with brake dust. But tonight, it was something else.
She let her hand trail along the hood as she passed by, fingers grazing over the faint indentations and imperfections only someone like her would notice. Battle scars.
"Atta Girl.." she murmured with a low chuckle, "Though... I'm not surprised..."
A ghost of a smile curled her lips—pride, not just in Collei, but in the machine too. That car had once belonged to her. And now, under Collei's hands, it was reborn as something dangerous.
Upstairs…
Collei collapsed onto her mattress, face-first, letting her entire body go slack against the sheets. Her arms flopped out to her sides, and her face buried into the pillow. She stayed like that for a moment, motionless, soaking in the silence.
Then she rolled over, blinking up at the ceiling, her hands fumbling for her phone.
She tapped into the group chat with fingers that still felt stiff from gripping the steering wheel too tight.
[Collei]: Seaside trip tomorrow? Who's in?
The responses came almost instantly:
[March]: Hell yeah! Weather's supposed to be perfect!
[Seele]: Sure. I need a break after tonight's insanity.
[Pela]: I'll come if you promise not to drive like a lunatic on the way there.
Collei snorted. "No promises," she muttered, setting the phone aside on the nightstand. She stared at the ceiling again for a long moment, that lazy post-race fatigue finally catching up to her in full.
Her muscles stopped aching. Her thoughts slowed. And just like that, she slipped into sleep, still smelling the phantom scent of tires and fuel in her memory.
Yougou Pass – Five Hairpins
The wind whispered through the leaves, cold and constant. The road was empty now, ghostly under the silver wash of moonlight.
Keqing stood with her arms folded, gazing silently at the inner curve of the fourth hairpin. Her posture was rigid. Her eyes, narrow and stormy. Her pride had taken a gut punch tonight, and she hadn't shaken it off yet.
Ningguang crouched near the gutter, fingers tracing the damp concrete in the drainage line. She examined it with the eyes of a tactician, not a racer. She spotted it immediately.
There—carved into the fine layer of moisture, only just beginning to evaporate—was a precise twin arc of tire marks. Not skids. Not slides. Controlled tracks, like the car had locked into the gutter.
She gestured Keqing over.
"Come look at this."
Keqing approached. Reluctantly. She was still too pissed to care about the details, but she glanced anyway.
"What? It's just a gutter." she muttered.
"No," Ningguang replied. "It's everything."
She pointed again. "The Eight-Six ran her inside wheels straight through this line. She hooked into the drainage trough intentionally. That's how she cut the angle on the turn and stayed flat on the throttle."
Keqing's brow furrowed, eyes darting along the gutter path. The realization came slow, like an itch she couldn't reach.
"She used the gutter… to hold the car into the turn?"
Ningguang nodded. "Right. She wasn't drifting. She was gripping. Using the edge of the gutter to stabilize the chassis at full load. The way the car's suspension would compress… she gambled everything on it not breaking."
Keqing stared at the tire marks, a pit forming in her stomach.
"She passed me like I was standing still," she whispered. "I had perfect corner exit. I had grip. I should've held the lead."
She kicked the guardrail, hard. The metal rattled and rang through the trees.
"Fucking hell."
Ningguang raised an eyebrow. "Feel better?"
"Not even slightly."
The older woman stood, brushing dust from her gloves. "Collei didn't beat you with horsepower, Keqing. She beat you with technique. And precision."
Keqing clenched her jaw. Then she exhaled.
"…You're right."
There was a pause. The moonlight glinted off the metal of her RX-7 down the hill.
"I got too focused on proving something," Keqing said. "Tried to force the win instead of adapting. She changed her line. I didn't."
Then, more softly: "She's good. Really fucking good."
Ningguang's eyes softened. "Then learn from her. Use this loss to learn from the young... Okay?"
Keqing nodded once. No more words. Just the low rumble of resolve building beneath her ribs.
They turned toward their cars. The engines roared to life, twin rotaries snarling like awakened beasts. The RX-7s pulled away from the mountain, taillights glowing red through the trees.
Back on the empty curve, the gutter lay quiet. Cold. Waiting.
But not forgotten.
The Next Morning – Araumi Streets
The morning sun clung stubbornly to the sky, already beating down on Araumi like it was personal. Heat shimmered off rooftops and the blacktop sizzled faintly under passing tires. Cicadas screeched from every tree, and the humid air carried the faint scent of exhaust, hot tarmac, and ocean brine drifting in from the bay.
Lyney stepped through the front door of Arlecchino's house with a dramatic flourish, wiping a hand across his brow like he'd just returned from a warzone.
"Arlecchino? You here? Damn, it's hot… like, furnace hot." His voice carried through the house with exaggerated despair, the kind of tone he used when he wanted to be noticed.
The sound of boot heels hitting hardwood snapped sharply down the staircase, rhythmic and deliberate. A moment later, Arlecchino emerged at the landing, pulling tight the last of her boot laces. The soft scrape of leather over skin and the click of metal buckles announced her as much as the glint in her eye did.
She smirked at the sight of him slouched against the doorframe like a wilted flower.
"Lyney. Perfect timing."
He narrowed his eyes immediately, suspicion hanging off the syllables. "That tone makes me nervous."
Arlecchino waved off the concern like swatting away a bug. "Give me a lift to the Chamber of Commerce meeting."
Lyney straightened, hand to his chest in mock horror. "Seriously? What am I—your unpaid, overworked, tragically handsome chauffeur?"
"Pretty much," she replied, not even bothering to humor the act.
He clicked his tongue, defeated. "Fine. But you're buying coffee on the way back."
Arlecchino gave a short, amused hum and followed him out.
A Drive Through Araumi
The car rolled through the city at a calm, even pace. Lyney's Century wasn't made for speed like the Eight-Six or the rotaries prowling the mountain passes, but the engine purred with contentment in the low RPM range. The A/C blew warm for the first few minutes—Yougou's heatwave didn't spare anyone—but finally settled into a soft breeze that made the sweat on his neck evaporate.
The streets were alive.
Morning deliveries clogged the curbside lanes. Office workers in dress shirts shuffled along crosswalks. High schoolers loitered near vending machines and corner stores. The city was wide awake.
For a while, neither said much. The low hum of tires on pavement and the occasional blinker click filled the silence.
Then, as the car eased through a gentle right onto an overpass, Lyney finally spoke.
"Saw Seele, Beidou, March, and Pela cruising past the gas station last night."
Arlecchino didn't react immediately. Her gaze was angled out the passenger-side window, watching a pack of scooters zip by in the opposite lane.
"And?"
He grinned, one hand resting loosely on the wheel. "They looked like middle schoolers cutting class—laughing their asses off, windows down. Whole 'we're invincible' vibe going."
Arlecchino shrugged. "Kids are easily impressed. Someone so much as downshifts aggressively and they start acting like they watched a Formula One highlight reel."
Lyney chuckled. "Maybe. But Collei's not just 'some driver,' and you know it."
"She only drives to help with the business," Arlecchino said bluntly, crossing her arms beneath her chest. Her eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead, unmoving. "I made her learn years ago. Though she never really cared about it."
"But last night…" Lyney trailed off, casting a glance her way. "That didn't look like someone who was just doing a job."
Arlecchino shifted slightly, her heel tapping the floor mat in a slow rhythm. She exhaled through her nose.
"She'll grow out of her dislike," she said quietly. "Eventually."
A pause lingered between them, filled only by the dull roar of the tires and the occasional clatter of loose change in the cup holder.
Then, almost like an admission to herself: "That race last night… might've done something. She's never pushed that hard before. Not like that."
Lyney turned his head. His voice softened. "So what, you think she might start enjoying it?"
Arlecchino tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. "She's too stubborn to admit it. But yeah—give her time."
The light ahead flicked yellow, then red. Lyney eased into the brake with a practiced touch, letting the car decelerate smoothly to a stop. The low idle thrummed through the steering wheel.
He leaned back, one arm resting on the window sill. "Where is she now, anyway? Took the Eight-Six out again?"
Arlecchino's lips curved faintly. She didn't turn her head, just looked up at the clear blue sky.
"She mentioned needing some air," she said casually. "My guess? Ritou."
Lyney whistled low, like that somehow made everything click into place. "Figures."
The light turned green.
He dropped the car into drive with a clean click of the shifter, and the vehicle rolled forward, slipping into the stream of morning traffic like a gear into place.
Across the Prefecture
The convoy glided along the coastal highway like a ribbon of steel and rubber, weaving smoothly between the jagged cliffs and the glittering sea. The sun hung high above, its light catching the metallic curves of the cars as they moved in perfect rhythm. Guardrails flickered past in a blur, casting sharp shadows that sliced across the asphalt.
Up front, Collei's Eight-Six led the charge.
Its inline-four hummed with that unmistakable high-rev whine, a steady note just above 3,000 RPM as she cruised in fourth. The engine was warm, responsive, eager—but caged. Not pushed. Just breathing. The car traced the edge of the road with effortless poise, its old chassis responding to her smallest inputs with the kind of loyalty that only came from a thousand runs through the mountains.
Windows down, salt air whipping through the cabin, the scent of ocean brine mixing with the faint tang of hot oil and rubber.
March had her upper body halfway out the passenger side, arms stretched wide, hair a mess of pink strands flung by the wind.
"Man… this is just what we needed, huh?" she called out, her voice nearly lost in the wind, but light and carefree.
Collei didn't glance over—her eyes stayed locked on the road ahead—but a ghost of a smile touched her lips. Her left hand rested loose at twelve o'clock. Right hand on the shifter. Calm. Still. But beneath it, her thoughts weren't here. Not really.
"…Definitely. Nothing like the sea air to end the week," she replied, but the tone was distant—almost like muscle memory speaking for her.
The weight of the wheel in her hands reminded her of the night before. The tactile memory of downshifts into third, the moment her tires kissed the inside line, the rear sliding out just enough to paint a perfect drift. The feel of the RX-7's taillights receding, and then suddenly—closing in.
The tension. The quiet. That final pass through the gutter line.
That shit was still sitting in her chest like a low drumbeat.
"That race was something," she said quietly, more to herself than to anyone else. Her eyes narrowed as the next sweeping curve approached, hands subtly adjusting the steering input. "Chasing down that RX-7… for some reason, I actually enjoyed it."
Pela looked up from the backseat. Her boots rested against a duffel bag, and her fingers were idly flipping through a dog-eared travel guide. She raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in her cool tone.
"Clear skies, the ocean, and no blown engine gaskets." She reached forward and gave the dashboard a light tap with her knuckles. "That's a miracle in itself."
Collei let out a short chuckle—low, under her breath. "Yeah. I'll take a peaceful drive over another midnight battle any day."
But even as she said it, she knew it wasn't true.
The steering wheel felt empty without the fight. The tachometer looked too clean, the redline too far away. She glanced in the rearview mirror—caught a flash of March's pink hair—and then looked past her reflection, out to the vanishing point of the road.
Maybe she wasn't ready to say it out loud.
But a part of her wanted more.
Time for a Lunch Stop
The soundscape around them was pure road trip serenity: wind buffeting the windows, the low harmony of engines rumbling in time, and the rhythmic whoosh of tires carving across weathered pavement. Somewhere below the cliffs, waves smashed against rocks in violent crescendos—nature's own percussion line to match the automotive symphony.
But hunger was catching up.
March yawned, then rubbed her stomach, the sound of it barely audible over the rush of air. "Uh… Collei? It's way past noon. My stomach's staging a revolution. Let's eat."
Collei's eyes flicked to the dashboard clock, then to the rearview mirror. Behind them, Seele's Z-car drifting lazily to the right lane to overtake. She gave a small nod.
"Call Seele. Let's find something in Ritou."
March tapped open her phone, tossed it on speaker, and held it up like a mic at a press conference.
"Hey, Seele! Where's the best place to eat? We're starving over here!"
The reply came not from Seele—but from the unmistakable boom of Beidou's voice on the other end, half-laughter and full authority:
"Ritou's got this hole-in-the-wall joint by the docks—real ramen, none of that fancy shit. Comfort food that'll knock the crank outta your pistons."
From the backseat, Pela deadpanned: "Was that a metaphor or a death threat?"
March and Collei both laughed.
"Sounds perfect," Collei said, voice lighter now. She puts her hand out and rocks it forward the signal to pass her
Up ahead, Seele's Fairlady Z responded immediately.
The exhaust note changed pitch as she dropped a gear, the blow-off valve giving a sharp psshh! like a snake letting off steam. The Z surged ahead, engine snarling as the turbo kicked in full, slicing through the sea breeze like a blade.
Collei didn't hesitate.
Clutch in, heel-toe rev match—tap blip click—third gear.
She rolled onto the throttle, the Eight-Six responding instantly. The rear squatted just slightly as she followed Seele's line into the next curve, downshifting one more time as the incline began to roll upward. The convoy fell into formation like clockwork: March whooping with delight, and Pela smirking at the burst of acceleration.
No one spoke.
They didn't have to.
Their engines did the talking.
The coastal road stretched ahead, undulating like a rollercoaster built into the earth itself. The ocean caught the sun and threw it back in silver bursts. The wind roared. The horizon shimmered.
Lunch waited up ahead.
But for now—it was about the road, the rhythm, and the machines carrying them forward.