The Invitation (Luna's POV)
1299 Words
My hands moved without thinking, tightening bolts, patching leaks, rewiring what shouldn’t be rewired. I was bringing my brother’s old Mustang back from the grave, piece by stubborn piece. God, I should. This baby is my only hope and my trusted duo.
It wasn’t pretty. It was chaos on wheels. Rust on rust. Parts from three different models, maybe four — even a truck that hadn’t moved since 2012. I called it Frankenstein tuning: a little bit of everything, stitched together with duct tape and defiance.
Every clang of the wrench was a heartbeat. Every spark, a promise I was stupid enough to keep.
When the engine finally coughed to life, it didn’t purr — it growled. Uneven. Angry. Alive.
“Welcome back, baby,” I whispered, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my wrist.
People name their cars like lovers. I name mine like soldiers. Because love gets you killed, but soldiers get the job done. And this one? She was coming out of retirement for war.
By sunset, the sky was bleeding orange and steel, and my pulse was already ahead of me. I didn’t need GPS to find the next underground race. All I had to do was follow the noise — bass lines deep enough to shake teeth, laughter that sounded like trouble.
Williamsburg again. But deeper this time.
The heart of Brooklyn’s underbelly — where dreams went to crash and burn.
A Syndicate bouncer stood at the entrance, arms crossed, tattooed from sin to salvation.
“No invite, no entry.”
I pulled out a crumpled wad of bills — everything I had. Gas money. Rent. Maybe food for the week if I stretched it. I shoved it into his palm without blinking.
“How about now?”
He counted, smirked, and stepped aside. “Welcome to the circuit, sweetheart. Hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I never do,” I said, brushing past him.
Inside, it was another planet.
Engines purred like predators. The air was thick with exhaust and ambition. Girls in neon jackets handed out betting slips; smoke machines blurred the faces of people who didn’t want to be remembered.
And then — a voice cut through the chaos.
“Yo! We got newbies in the pit tonight!”
The crowd parted, and there she was — standing on top of a toolbox like she owned gravity. Silver hair, combat boots, eyeliner so sharp it could file metal.
“Name’s Zee!” she yelled, hopping down with a grin that could start fights. “Resident DJ, chaos coordinator, and part-time therapist for people who think nitrous is a personality trait.”
I cracked a grin. “You do therapy too?”
“Only if you pay me in Monster and trauma.”
We clicked immediately — like gasoline meeting spark.
She gave me a once-over. “You’re new here. What’s your poison?”
“Adrenaline.”
Zee whistled. “Cute answer. Dangerous too. But this place doesn’t hand out highs for free. Win, and the Syndicate notices. Lose, and you’re background noise.”
“Then I’ll just have to win,” I said, tightening my gloves.
“Confidence. I like that,” she said. “You look like someone who writes poetry about car crashes.”
I smirked. “Poetry is just pain with rhythm.”
“Damn,” she said, impressed. “Okay, Shakespeare with a socket wrench.”
I laughed, but inside I was shaking. Because this wasn’t just a thrill anymore. This was survival.
My Mustang sat at the edge of the pit — matte silver, rough around the edges, the kind of car people underestimate right before it bites.
I ran my fingers along the hood, whispering, “Don’t die on me tonight, okay?”
Zee leaned beside me, sipping an energy drink like she was watching a movie. “You got a name?”
“Luna.”
“Like the moon?”
“Yeah. Always showing up when it’s dark.”
Her grin widened. “I like you, Moon Girl. Try not to die.”
A voice from the speakers roared to life.
“Next heat — four drivers. Two rookies, two pros. Winner gets the pot and a Syndicate spot.”
Zee blinked. “Wait — you’re going straight for the Syndicate race?”
I shrugged. “Can’t pay debts with small talk.”
She laughed, half-crazy, half-admiring. “Alright then. Burn the sky, Luna.”
At the starting line, I could feel my pulse syncing with the Mustang’s idle growl. My chest was tight, my mouth dry, but my mind—sharp as a blade.
To my left: a guy dripping in gold chains, driving a neon-green Lambo that screamed insecurity.
To my right: a girl with pink hair and rage in her eyes.
Ahead of me: fifty grand and thirty days to keep breathing.
Zee’s voice echoed through the mic, loud and wild:
“Engines up! Lights go green in three—two—”
The world tilted.
“—ONE!”
The sound that came next wasn’t noise. It was rebirth.
Tires screamed. Gasoline burned. The night ripped open like a wound.
I slammed the clutch, shifted hard, and the Mustang came alive beneath me — roaring like it had something to prove.
First corner — drift tight. Perfect.
Second — too close. Sparks kissed the wall, glowing orange like fireflies on speed.
The crowd lost their minds. Someone yelled, “Who the hell is that?!”
Zee’s voice cut through, manic and gleeful:
“Vega’s flying like she stole lightning!”
I laughed. I actually laughed — sharp, breathless, half-insane.
Because this was it.
The feeling I’d buried a year ago.
The reason I kept surviving.
Halfway through, the pink-haired girl tried to box me out. Rookie mistake.
I faked a spin, cut inside, and flew past her. She cursed so loud I could hear it over the engine.
Final stretch. My vision tunneled. Everything else disappeared — the crowd, the rain, the fear. Just me, the wheel, and the finish line bleeding neon ahead.
I crossed second.
Not first.
But second felt like resurrection.
I slammed the brakes, engine smoking, lungs burning. Zee was already sprinting toward me.
“You insane genius!” she yelled. “You actually pulled that off!”
I ripped off my gloves, laughing through the adrenaline. “Not bad for a dead car and a broke mechanic, huh?”
“Not bad at all.” She leaned closer, grin fading. “But you better watch your back. Rogue was watching.”
My smile froze. “What?”
She nodded toward the far side of the track — the shadows beyond the floodlights.
A figure stood there. Lean, motionless. Helmet dark as midnight.
The air seemed to fold around him — like even the city was careful not to touch him.
Rogue.
Even from here, I could feel it — that cold curiosity. That predator calm.
He tilted his head slightly — like he was memorizing me.
And for one heartbeat, I swear the world went silent.
No engines. No rain. No crowd.
Just me and him.
The man who didn’t lose.
The ghost who ruled the Syndicate.
Then he was gone.
Zee whistled low. “Girl. You just got the devil’s attention.”
“Good,” I said, voice steady even as my pulse went wild. “Let him see me coming.”
Because maybe he was the storm.
But I’d been lightning once.
And lightning always strikes back.
I drove home under flickering streetlights, the Mustang humming low.
For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t running from Leo’s shadow.
I was chasing my own.
And maybe — just maybe — someone dangerous was chasing me back.
- Writer
