Girls and prison

The race

Aya tightened her apron strings for the fifth time that morning.

The smell of hot bread, garlic, and brewed Turkish tea filled the cozy space of Café Melek, while the sun streamed through the dusty windows. The tables were full, the voices loud, and the plates never stopped coming.

Judy, leaning near the kitchen window, grinned.

“Still alive?”

Aya gave her a sharp look as she balanced a tray with three tea glasses and a plate of börek.

“Barely.”

Her hijab was slightly skewed from rushing back and forth, and her shoes squeaked across the floor as she hurried from one table to another.

Suddenly, the door jingled.

A couple walked in.

The man wore a sleek black coat, clearly expensive, and the woman beside him had her arms crossed so tightly they might have been glued in place. Tension clung to them like perfume.

Aya offered her best waitress smile.

“Welcome to Café Melek. Table for two?”

The woman said nothing. The man nodded once.

Aya led them to a table by the window.

They sat down in silence. She handed them menus.

“We’ll need a moment,” the man said, voice tight.

“Of course,” Aya replied, sensing the crackle in the air.

Ten minutes later, she returned — just in time to catch the woman raising her voice.

“You always do this! You think buying lunch makes everything disappear?”

“You think yelling in public helps?” the man hissed back.

Aya froze. Half the café turned to stare.

She hesitated… then stepped forward, steadying her breath.

“Um, can I get you something to drink first?” she asked gently. “Maybe something sweet? Our rose lemonade is kind of magical.”

The woman looked up, startled. The man blinked.

Aya continued, her voice soft but firm.

“Sometimes a little sugar helps. Or tea. Or silence.” She smiled warmly. “I can bring all three.”

The woman stared at her for a moment… then slowly exhaled.

“Tea. Fine.”

“Same,” the man muttered.

Aya walked away, and Judy whispered as she passed:

“You defused a bomb.”

“I just offered tea,” Aya said, breathless.

“Exactly.”

A few minutes later, Aya returned to their table with a delicate silver tray. She poured the tea the traditional way — slowly, carefully, as if the world had paused just for that moment.

“You two… look like you’ve known each other a long time,” she said gently. “Tea always tastes better with memories.”

The woman blinked. Then — a faint smile.

“We met in university,” she said quietly. “He used to draw terrible cartoons of our professor.”

The man chuckled.

“And she used to steal my pens.”

Their eyes met.

The tension cracked. Warmth began to seep in.

Aya stepped away, letting the silence settle… this time, a gentle one.

By the time they asked for the bill, the woman was laughing softly and the man reached for her hand across the table. Something had changed.

“Thank you,” the woman said as she paid.

“You’re good at this,” the man added.

Aya blushed slightly.

“I just serve tea.”

“You served peace,” the woman corrected, smiling.

When the couple left, Judy walked over and bumped her shoulder.

“You’re going to be a legend here by the end of the week.”

“Or I’ll spill hot soup on someone’s lap tomorrow,” Aya muttered.

They both laughed as the café doors opened for a new rush of customers.

And so Aya’s first day — chaotic, unpredictable, and beautiful — became something more.

After several hours

The clock had barely struck 10 PM when Judy tugged Aya down the street, a twinkle in her eye and a small bag in her hand.

“Where are we going?” Aya asked, breath fogging in the cool Istanbul night.

“You’ll see,” Judy replied. “Just trust me for once.”

Aya narrowed her eyes.

“Every time someone says ‘trust me,’ something illegal follows.”

Judy laughed — that wild, unapologetic laugh of hers — and pulled something from the bag.

A black fox mask with delicate silver designs curled around the eyes, sleek and elegant.

“For you,” Judy said.

Aya blinked.

“What is this?”

“Your identity protection,” Judy winked. Then she pulled out her own: a white fox mask, marked with thin black stripes that looked like war paint.

Aya turned the mask over in her hands, hesitant.

“Judy… what are we doing?”

Judy leaned in, lowered her voice.

“We’re going to the races.”

Aya’s eyes widened.

“What?! I thought you quit!”

“I did,” Judy said, slipping the mask on. “But tonight I just want to watch. Or… maybe win.”

Aya opened her mouth to protest, but Judy cut her off.

“You’ve had enough reality lately, Aya. Let me show you my world — just once.”

Something about the way she said it — like a promise and a dare in one — made Aya nod.

The sound came first — a distant roar, low and vibrating, growing louder as they walked through dark alleys and narrow paths.

They reached an open garage lot hidden beneath an abandoned overpass. Neon lights flashed against cement walls, and people stood in circles — laughing, shouting,

Engines purred like beasts ready to pounce.

Then Aya saw it.

Judy’s car.

A flat, midnight-black Porsche 911 Turbo S, polished like obsidian under the lights. Its body reflected the flashing reds and blues of the makeshift raceway.

“It’s beautiful,” Aya whispered.Judy said I borrowed it

“She’s my other half,” Judy replied proudly, running a hand over the hood.

“You name your car?”

“Her name’s Karma.”

Aya adjusted her mask, pulse quickening.

“I can’t believe I’m here.”

“Believe it,” Judy said, opening the passenger door. “You’re my shadow fox tonight.”

Aya slid inside. The seat hugged her like it was built for speed.

The engine hummed to life, and the Porsche rolled forward like a predator through the crowd.

People started cheering when they saw the white and black fox masks through the windshield.

“judy are back!” someone shouted.

“Judy’s racing again?!”

Judy revved the engine once, and it sang — low and dangerous.

Aya looked over, her voice barely audible under the noise.

“Are you scared?”

“Every time,” Judy said. “That’s the fun.”

They didn’t race that night — not yet. Judy was watching the scene, calculating the risks. But Aya… Aya saw a version of her friend she had never imagined.

Focused. Calm. Electric.

And as the cars tore down the asphalt one after another, sparks flying, tires screaming — Aya’s heart beat like a second engine.

She wasn’t just watching anymore.

She was part of it.

....

The fourth race of the night was about to begin.

Engines thundered .

The smell of burning rubber and oil hung in the air like perfume for the mad. Lights flickered across helmets and metal — red, green, white, blinking like stars before a storm.

Judy stood beside Karma, her Porsche glinting like a predator under the shadows. She adjusted her fox mask and turned to Aya.

“Last one,” she said. “You’re okay?”

Aya nodded tightly, her heart beating faster than the engines.

“I’m fine,” she lied. “Just… overwhelmed.”

The sound of the countdown, the roar of the crowd, the vibration under her feet — it all felt like the world was moving too fast and she was standing still.

Then the announcer’s voice rang through the lot:

“Final race of the night, ladies and gentlemen! And look who decided to join—our dark horse, the Silver Flame.”

Cheers erupted.

“Number 9 — Zain Arslan.”

Aya turned so sharply it hurt her neck.

There he was — stepping out of a sleek silver McLaren, his own helmet under his arm. His jacket hugged his frame, black with silver accents, eyes scanning the track like he already owned it.

Aya’s heart dropped to her stomach.

“Judy,” she whispered. “That’s Zain.”

“What?”

“From the compound. From Demir’s world. He’s mafia. He must be here to represent them!”

Judy’s body stiffened. She followed Aya’s line of sight. Her eyes narrowed under the white mask.

“...Tch. Of course he races. Figures.”

Aya grabbed Judy’s sleeve.

“We need to leave. Now. If he sees us—”

“No,” Judy cut her off, calm and cold as steel. “We finish this.”

“Judy, I’m serious!”

“And I am telling you,” Judy turned fully to her, “if we run, we look guilty. If we stay, — clever and quiet.”

The announcer’s voice returned.

“Drivers to your vehicles!”

The crowd screamed.

Zain was now stepping into his car — just across from Judy’s. They were racing each other.

Aya felt her lungs tighten.

The engines started.

The rumble was earth-shattering.

Judy climbed into the driver’s seat, her hands steady on the wheel. She glanced at Aya in the passenger seat.

“Buckle up. This one’s for pride.”

Aya clipped the belt. Her palms were sweating.

The moment the lights went red… yellow… green—

BOOM.

They shot forward.

The Porsche screamed, shooting down the street like a bullet. Wind tore past them, howling through the open windows. The world turned to streaks of neon and flame.

Beside them, the McLaren surged.

Aya glanced — Zain was in focus for only a second before Judy shifted gears and pulled forward again. They were weaving between barrels, tail-lights slicing through the dark like fire trails.

Judy’s focus was terrifying.

Aya couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

She’d never felt speed like this. Like flying without wings.

She closed her eyes, muttering quietly,

“Please, let us win. Please don’t let him see us.”

The finish line neared. The crowd blurred. Zain was a breath behind them — his headlights in their mirror like hungry eyes.

And then — in a final scream of tires and fury —

Judy crossed the line first.

The crowd exploded.

Aya opened her eyes — barely believing what just happened.

“You did it,” she whispered.

“We did it,” Judy said, slowing the car, breathless. “Now we vanish before that silver boy gets curious.”

As they turned off the main road and disappeared into the shadows…

Zain stepped out of his car.

His brows furrowed behind his helmet as he looked toward the disappearing taillights.