The Official Race (Luna's Pov)
1189 Words
They say silence is scary.
They’re wrong.
The scariest sound in the world is tires screaming on wet asphalt at 160 miles per hour.
That’s the sound of everything you are about to lose — and everything you secretly want to find.
That night under the bridge, the city was a heartbeat — neon veins pulsing, smoke hanging low, and bass shaking the puddles like thunder trapped in concrete. Every corner reeked of sweat, gasoline, and sin.
And me?
I was just another broke mechanic gambling her life for enough gas to make it through the week.
Zee’s voice cracked through the noise. “Third slot, Vega! You’re up against Kira Blaze and that Tokyo Boy psycho. Try not to crash. Or do. Either way, I’ll trend it.”
“Appreciate the confidence,” I shot back, gripping the steering wheel of my Mustang like it was the only thing still holding me together.
She grinned — that chaotic, silver-haired menace I called my best friend. “Go make the devil nervous.”
Engines howled around me, beasts waiting for blood.
Kira’s pink Skyline purred beside me — sleek, lethal, dripping arrogance.
Tokyo Boy revved his RX-7 on my right, flames spitting from his exhaust like he was declaring war.
I inhaled — oil, guy rain, adrenaline — the holy trinity of chaos.
My pulse synced with the Mustang’s growl.
“Lights in three,” Zee’s voice cracked through the headset.
Two.
One.
Green.
The world exploded.
We shot off the line, metal and madness colliding. My rear tires screamed, fishtailing for a heartbeat before they found grip. The G-force slammed me into the seat as streetlights blurred into comet trails.
I wasn’t racing. I was breaking out.
The first turn came sharp. Too sharp. The Mustang’s rear end swung wide — the rail flashed an inch from death. The crowd gasped, but I didn’t brake. I leaned in.
The car danced.
No — we danced.
A reckless, perfect drift that made my stomach drop and my heart scream.
Zee’s voice erupted through the loudspeaker, somewhere between awe and panic.
“Vega just kissed death and made it blush!”
I grinned. “Still breathing, bitch.”
Kira clipped my rear bumper mid-turn, sending sparks flying. Classic intimidation move.
“Back off, Barbie,” I muttered, and floored it.
Our cars collided again, metal grinding, exhausts shrieking. Her Skyline tried to box me in. But I knew this street like the veins on my hand.
I downshifted, jerked the e-brake, and slid through a narrow gap that shouldn’t have existed.
The crowd screamed. Cameras flashed. Smoke rose like ghosts.
And for a second — just one — I swear I saw my brother’s reflection in the rearview.
His voice, low and teasing: “Don’t drive scared, Luna. Drive like you already made it.”
So I did.
The next turn came. I didn’t flinch. I let go.
The Mustang spun sideways, slicing through the corner so close to the barrier I could’ve kissed it. Sparks sprayed. Time slowed.
When the tires caught again, the crowd lost it.
By the time I crossed the line, I was third. Didn’t matter. Because I was alive.
I slammed the brakes, chest heaving, every muscle trembling from adrenaline overdose.
Zee burst through the crowd like a firecracker. “You—YOU insane goddess!” she screamed, laughing and crying at once. “You just drifted the Grim Reaper’s front porch!”
“I thought I was dead,” I panted, grinning, still half shaking.
“You almost were! But also—kind of iconic.”
“Would’ve been a cool way to go.”
She slapped my arm. “Girl, therapy. Immediately.”
“I can’t afford therapy.”
“Then settle for tequila.”
We both laughed — the kind that hurts, the kind that says we made it.
But the laughter died fast.
Because the crowd went quiet.
Like someone hit mute on the universe.
I followed their gaze.
Up on the platform above the strip, a man stood — tailored black suit, crisp white shirt, no tie.
Too calm. Too clean.
Too dangerous.
Even from down here, his presence hit like static in the air. The kind that makes your spine straighten without knowing why.
Beside him, a younger guy in all-black whispered something, holding a tablet like a command center.
The man — Mr. Cross, Zee whispered — didn’t move at first. Just watched. Like a predator deciding whether to pounce.
“Who the hell is that?” I muttered.
Zee bit her lip. “Rumors say he owns half the Syndicate. Some say he is the Syndicate. Nobody really knows. He just… shows up.”
He turned slightly. His eyes found mine.
And suddenly the noise, the lights, the people — gone.
It was just him. And me.
It wasn’t attraction. It wasn’t fear.
It was recognition.
Like he’d been waiting for me.
His assistant leaned close, murmuring something. I caught only one line:
“Do we approach her, sir?”
Mr. Cross smiled — small, sharp, lethal.
“No,” he said softly.
“Let’s see if she survives the next one.”
Then he turned away.
And just like that, my blood ran cold.
Because that voice — deep, steady, calm — didn’t sound like a stranger.
It sounded like a ghost.
Leo.
No. That’s impossible. My brother’s dead. The crash, the fire— I saw it.
Zee snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Earth to Vega. You okay?”
I blinked, trying to breathe past the memory clawing at my throat. “Yeah. Just… tired.”
She frowned. “Girl, your hands are shaking.”
“Adrenaline,” I lied.
But deep down, something darker buzzed. That man’s stare wasn’t random. His voice wasn’t coincidence.
And when I glanced back up, he was gone.
The next second, my phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Nice drift, Vega. Shame about your brakes.
My stomach dropped.
I looked at Zee. “Where’s my car?”
She froze. “Why?”
Because the Mustang’s headlights just flickered — once, twice — like blinking eyes.
And then, with a violent hiss, the engine blew.
The explosion was small but sharp, smoke curling like a serpent. The crowd screamed, backing away.
Someone had tampered with it.
Someone who wanted to send a message.
I stared at the wreck, heart pounding.
And through the haze, I heard his voice again — low, smooth, deliberate — replaying in my head.
“Let’s see if she survives the next one.”
That night, I didn’t sleep. I didn’t even try.
I kept replaying the race, the drift, the explosion — and that smile.
Whoever Mr. Cross was, he wasn’t watching for fun.
He was watching me.
And if he wanted a show, he just got his opening act.
Because I wasn’t going to run.
Not from ghosts.
Not from him.
Next time?
I’d make him regret watching from the sidelines.
Because I wasn’t just driving anymore.
I was chasing the man who might’ve already buried my past — and planned my ending.
- Writer
