Marcel "Switchblade" Vega's tires screamed across the asphalt of Terminal Station Zero—an abandoned shipping yard repurposed at midnight for the underworld's most dangerous drift duels. Neon floodlights carved shards of color through the inky darkness, and each skid marked a promise: leave no rubber, leave no witness.
The roar of engines filled the stale air as Marcel eased his cherry-red Nissan Skyline R34 into position. He ran his hand along the carbon‑fiber hood, feeling its minute vibrations. This wasn't just a race; it was his redemption. Two years ago, a perfect drift gone wrong had cost him everything—his reputation, his team, and nearly his life. Now, scraped-lip and spirit sharpened by pain, he'd returned for one final shot at the Burnout Oath: conquer the impossible, or burn in shame.
As the countdown ticker glowed on the cracked concrete, Marcel's mind drifted back to the vow engraved inside his steering wheel: "One last drift. One last chance." The air crackled like electricity when his name was called. Opposite him, the reigning Drift King, Li Na "Phoenix" Chen, revved her twin-turbo RX‑7, flames licking out the exhaust. Her reputation was as untouchable as her flawless drifts—until tonight.
Green flash. The engines exploded forward in unison. Marcel's Skyline leapt, front tires dancing on a patchwork track. He clipped the first apex with surgical precision, launching into a countersteer that sent sparks spitting from his footwell. His heart hammered to the rhythm of the clones of V6 intakes echoing around the yard.
Phoenix matched him on the next corner; her RX‑7's purple underglow painted Marcel's windshield in surreal hues. She smiled—a flash of white teeth—then threw her car sideways, hugging the barrier as if she and the concrete were lovers. Marcel felt that spin in his bones and mirrored it instantly, their cars weaving an intricate ballet of smoke and steel.
Yet just when victory seemed certain, the unexpected happened: a rogue drone buzzed into the course, its spotlight nearly blinding Marcel as it flickered overhead. He blinked—lost focus for an instant—and that was enough. The Skyline fishtailed. Tires howled. Marcel fought the wheel, trying to wrestle control, but gravity and rubber and momentum had already conspired against him.
He grazed the barrier. Metal screeched. Sparks erupted beneath his chassis. The crowd gasped. Phoenix shot past him, neither pausing nor gloating—her eyes fixed on the finish line. Marcel's echoes of defeat reverberated in his skull, but something deeper clenched: fury.
With a roar, he slammed his foot down, tires gripping the asphalt like claws. The Skyline lurched back onto the track, hunting. For a heartbeat, Marcel was no longer a fallen hero—he was a predator. As he reeled Phoenix back into sight, the drone's light cut out, plunging them into darkness save for the scoreboard's glow.
The crowd held its breath—
Next move.