Chapter Text
CHAPTER ONE
The city never truly slept.
Even in the early hours of the morning, when office lights had long since gone dark and apartment windows overlooked streets that appeared empty from above, there was always another world hidden beneath the surface. It lived in abandoned industrial estates, beneath elevated highways, inside forgotten shipping yards and warehouse districts where the only illumination came from flickering floodlights, neon underglow, and headlights reflecting across cracked asphalt.
Tonight, that hidden world had gathered in force.
The industrial district on the edge of the city had transformed into something resembling a festival, if festivals were built on adrenaline instead of music. Hundreds of people crowded between rows of modified cars that stretched across the abandoned loading yard like an open-air showroom for speed. Nissan GT-Rs sat beside wide-bodied BMW M4s. Mazda RX-7s rested alongside aging Mitsubishi Lancer Evolutions whose paintwork had long surrendered to years of racing. Every car carried its own personality. Some wore immaculate wraps with aggressive liveries and polished carbon fibre. Others bore dents, scratches, mismatched panels, and hastily repaired bodywork that told stories more honestly than fresh paint ever could.
The smell was unmistakable.
Burnt rubber lingered over the crowd like smoke after fireworks. Racing fuel mixed with hot engine oil, overheated brakes and cigarette smoke drifting lazily between groups of spectators. Portable generators hummed behind the food trucks parked near the entrance while enormous speakers balanced on flatbed trailers blasted heavy electronic music that pulsed through the concrete beneath everyone's feet.
Nobody seemed interested in the hour. Here, time was measured differently. The night had only just begun. Voices competed against revving engines as bets were placed almost faster than they could be counted. Thick bundles of cash disappeared from pockets and reappeared in someone else's hands within seconds. Every race carried pride, but pride alone wasn't enough to keep this scene alive.
Money mattered. Winning mattered more. People had travelled from every corner of the city to be here. Some came to race. Others came to gamble. Many simply came because stories spread quickly whenever one particular driver appeared on the roster.
Tonight, whispers carried through the crowd before anyone had even seen him. "He's here." A purple-haired guy called out. "I heard OP actually turned up," he continued. "No way," one of his friends said. "I'm telling you, I saw the McLaren." The friend scoffs, "Then somebody's losing money tonight." The conversations continued in fragments, passing from person to person until anticipation spread through the gathering like electricity before a storm.
Oscar Piastri. Most people didn't know his full name. They knew the initials. OP.
Simple. Efficient. Exactly like the driver himself. Unlike many racers who thrived on attention, Oscar never announced his arrival. There were no dramatic burnouts, no social media livestreams, no entourage walking ahead to clear a path through the crowd. He simply arrived, unloaded his car if necessary, checked his equipment and waited.
The attention found him anyway.
He stood beside his McLaren 570S with one hand resting lightly on the roof, his eyes slowly scanning the car from front splitter to rear diffuser. The orange paint had long since lost the flawless finish it had worn when it first left the factory. Under the harsh white floodlights, faint scratches traced their way across the doors, while tiny chips peppered the front bumper from years of gravel striking it at impossible speeds. The rear quarter panel was a slightly different shade, replaced after another driver had clipped him during a race almost two years earlier.
To everyone else, the imperfections looked ugly. To Oscar, they looked honest. Every mark had been earned. Every repair had been completed by his own hands. He wasn't wealthy enough to hand the car to a professional racing workshop every time something broke. Instead, countless nights had been spent lying beneath the chassis in cramped garages, knuckles scraped raw against stubborn bolts, replacing damaged suspension components, tuning the twin-turbo V8 until every sound it produced became familiar enough that he could recognise the slightest mechanical change before anyone else noticed it.
The McLaren wasn't simply transportation. It was a record of every risk he'd ever taken. Oscar crouched beside the front-left tyre, pressing two fingers firmly into the rubber. Heat still radiated through the compound from the warm-up laps he'd completed less than ten minutes earlier. Satisfied, he reached into a small toolkit resting nearby and connected a digital tyre pressure gauge. Thirty-two psi. Exactly where he wanted it. He moved methodically around the car, checking each wheel without appearing hurried. His movements carried the quiet confidence of someone who had repeated the same routine hundreds of times before. Every action had a purpose. Every adjustment had a reason.
Nearby, a group of younger drivers watched him from beside a modified Subaru WRX. One of them couldn't have been older than twenty. "So that's really him?" The oldest mechanic among them nodded without taking his eyes off the McLaren. "That's OP." "He doesn't look like much," the younger driver next to the mechanic said. The mechanic smiled faintly. "That's because you're looking at him." The younger driver frowned. "What does that mean?" His gaze shifted toward the orange McLaren. "It means you're judging the driver, while you should be judging the car."
The young racer looked again, this time paying closer attention. The bodywork wasn't immaculate. Neither were the wheels. The paint had faded slightly around the edges of the bonnet. There were tiny imperfections everywhere. "I don't get it." He said, puzzled. "You will." The mechanic folded his arms. "Every scratch on that McLaren has a story. Every modification was installed because OP needed it, not because it looked impressive on Instagram. Half the people here build cars to impress strangers." His eyes settled back on Oscar. "He built his to win." Silence followed.
Finally, the youngest racer asked the question everyone eventually asked. "Has he ever lost?" The mechanic thought for a moment. "Not since I've known him." Another pause. "And that's been nearly three years." The young driver's eyes widened. "Seriously?" The mechanic simply nodded. "Nobody stays undefeated forever." The words were spoken quietly. Almost thoughtfully. "But if tonight's the night somebody finally beats him," He glanced toward the starting line. "they're going to have to earn it."
Oscar closed the bonnet carefully before wiping his hands on an old microfiber cloth. He didn't notice the people watching him. Or perhaps he did. It simply didn't matter. Crowds had never interested him. He preferred machines. Machines made sense. People rarely did.
Sliding into the driver's seat, he paused for a moment before reaching toward the steering wheel. His fingers wrapped naturally around the suede rim, finding the familiar worn patches where years of driving had polished the material smooth. The cockpit surrounded him like a second skin. Roll cage bars framed the windows. A digital dashboard glowed softly behind the steering wheel, displaying oil temperature, tyre pressures, boost pressure and fuel level.
Everything exactly where it belonged. He pressed the ignition. The engine came alive with a deep mechanical growl that reverberated through the chassis before settling into a smooth idle. Oscar closed his eyes briefly. He wasn't listening to how loud it was. He was listening to how healthy it sounded. Every engine developed a voice. Most drivers heard noise. Oscar heard information. The idle remained perfectly balanced. No uneven firing. No hesitation. No strange vibrations travelling through the seat. He gave the throttle a gentle blip. The revs climbed cleanly before dropping back into place.
Good, very good.
Outside, several spectators instinctively turned toward the sound of the McLaren. One man smiled. "There it is." Another laughed. "That's the best sounding car here." Someone else shook their head. "No." They pointed across the paddock. "That one is." The distant roar of another engine rolled across the industrial estate. It was louder. Sharper. More aggressive. Almost theatrical.
Heads turned together as a pristine white Toyota Supra A90 slowly emerged from between two rows of parked cars. Its paintwork looked flawless beneath the floodlights, polished to such a high standard that it reflected the surrounding lights almost like a mirror. Carbon fibre accents framed the front splitter and side skirts, while oversized bronze wheels filled the widened arches perfectly. Twin titanium exhaust tips crackled loudly every time the driver lightly touched the accelerator, announcing his arrival long before anyone could read the name plastered across the windscreen.
INFERNO.
Unlike Oscar, Inferno enjoyed making an entrance. He eased the Supra into the centre of the paddock before deliberately revving the engine high enough for flames to spit from the exhaust. The crowd erupted. Phones rose into the air. Someone whistled loudly. Another shouted his name. Inferno climbed from the driver's seat wearing a black leather jacket embroidered with red flames across the shoulders. A pair of expensive sunglasses remained perched on his face despite the floodlights making them completely unnecessary. Gold chains rested against his chest, catching the light every time he moved. He spread his arms theatrically. "What do you think?" Cheers answered immediately. A grin spread across his face.
This...
This was exactly what he lived for.
The applause lingered for several seconds after Inferno stepped away from his Supra, feeding off the attention as naturally as fire consumed oxygen. He turned slowly in a full circle, allowing the crowd to admire every inch of the car. Under the floodlights, the white paint almost glowed, interrupted only by the sharp black accents of exposed carbon fibre and the bronze wheels tucked neatly beneath widened arches. Everything about it screamed money. Nothing looked worn. Nothing looked used. It looked perfect. Almost too perfect.
People crowded around the Toyota immediately, cameras flashing from every angle. "That's insane." "Look at the fitment." "I heard the engine's pushing over a thousand horsepower." "No chance." "That's what I heard." "I bet it cost half a million."
Inferno smiled wider with every comment. He wasn't correcting anyone. Whether the rumours were true hardly mattered anymore. The stories surrounding the car had become just as valuable as the machine itself. His mechanic, a broad-shouldered man with grease permanently embedded beneath his fingernails, leaned into the driver's window one last time. "Remember," he said quietly, "she's quick, but don't force it into the corners. The rear still likes to step out under heavy throttle." Inferno barely listened. "I'm not worried." "You should be." His mechanic pressured. "I said I'm not." The mechanic sighed. "You've watched OP race before." Inferno finally looked at him. "So?"
"So don't underestimate him." Inferno laughed. "I don't underestimate anybody." His mechanic folded his arms. "That's exactly what worries me." Inferno gave him a dismissive pat on the shoulder before walking away. Across the paddock, he finally spotted the orange McLaren sitting quietly near the edge of the crowd.
Oscar hadn't moved. He was leaning lightly against the driver's door, arms folded, watching the activity around the starting line with the detached calm of someone waiting for a train rather than preparing for an illegal race worth tens of thousands of dollars. That annoyed Inferno almost immediately. Everyone else had looked at the Supra. Oscar hadn't.
He started walking. The crowd noticed almost instantly. Conversations quietened. People nudged one another. Inferno stopped only a few feet from the McLaren. Oscar didn't acknowledge him. He was looking toward the road ahead, mentally tracing the circuit long before he drove it.
"You know," Inferno began, his voice loud enough for everyone nearby to hear, "most people would've come over to have a closer look." Oscar remained silent. Inferno smiled. "The Supra." Still nothing. "I figured someone with your reputation might appreciate good engineering." Oscar finally turned his head. His expression remained completely neutral. "I do." Inferno spread his hands. "So?" Oscar looked briefly at the Toyota before returning his gaze to Inferno. "It'll be expensive to repair." The words landed quietly. No anger. No sarcasm. Just a statement.
For a heartbeat, nobody reacted. Then laughter rippled through the crowd. Inferno's smile stiffened. "You think you're funny?" Oscar shrugged. "I wasn't trying to be." More laughter. Someone behind them muttered, "He's cooking him." Inferno ignored the comment. "You know what your problem is?" Oscar didn't answer. "You think because you've won a few street races you're untouchable." Oscar's eyes settled calmly on him. "I've won more than a few." The answer came so matter-of-factly that it stung far more than any insult could have. Inferno took a slow step closer. "I've watched your races." Oscar waited. "You're clean." Another pause. "Too clean." Oscar's eyebrow lifted slightly. Inferno continued. "You don't drift unless you have to." "No." "You don't showboat." "No." "You don't race the crowd." "No." Inferno grinned. "I do."
Oscar looked at him for another second before speaking. "I noticed." "And?" "You spend too much time entertaining people." Inferno laughed. "People pay to be entertained." Oscar shook his head once. "They pay to watch someone win." Silence settled between them. Not uncomfortable. Heavy. The crowd had stopped pretending not to listen. Even the music seemed distant now. Inferno searched Oscar's face for some hint of arrogance. Some crack in the calm expression. He found nothing. It was like talking to a wall. No... A wall reacted when you hit it. Oscar simply absorbed everything. That irritated him more than open insults ever could.
"You know what?" Inferno said finally. "I'm going to enjoy this." Oscar tilted his head slightly. "Good." Inferno frowned. "Because when I beat you-"
"If."
"What?" Oscar's voice remained level. "You said 'when.'" A brief pause. "You meant 'if.'" The words weren't aggressive. They didn't need to be. Inferno clenched his jaw. Before he could answer, a whistle pierced the air.
"Lining up!" One of the race organisers stood near the makeshift starting line holding a loudspeaker. "Drivers to your cars!" Immediately the atmosphere changed. Casual conversations disappeared. Mechanics hurried toward their drivers. Spectators squeezed tighter against the steel barriers lining the road. Phone cameras rose into the air. Somebody started another round of betting before the organiser shouted for everyone to clear the road.
Oscar opened the McLaren's door without another word. Inferno watched him climb inside. "You're really not going to say anything?" Oscar adjusted the six-point harness across his shoulders. "What do you want me to say?" Inferno smirked. "I don't know." "Good luck?" Oscar clicked the final buckle into place. "You don't need luck." Inferno blinked. For the first time all evening, something resembling respect flickered across his face. "What do I need?" Oscar reached for the ignition switch. "Better braking." The McLaren roared into life.
The conversation was over. Inferno stood there for another moment before shaking his head and climbing back into the Supra. Inside the cockpit, the familiar silence returned. The outside world disappeared behind layers of glass, carbon fibre and the deep vibration of the engine beneath him. Oscar rested both hands on the steering wheel. His breathing slowed. Every race began the same way. The noise outside gradually faded until only the car remained. Oil temperature. Perfect. Tyre pressures. Right where they needed to be. Fuel level. Enough.
He glanced once into the mirrors, not because he expected to see anything important, but because routine mattered. Small habits built consistency, and consistency won races. Outside, marshals completed one final inspection of the course. The road ahead stretched into darkness before disappearing between old warehouses. Oscar had driven the circuit three times earlier that evening during reconnaissance laps, committing every braking marker, every change in camber and every patch of uneven asphalt to memory. He didn't need to think anymore. His hands would remember. His feet would remember. The car would remember.
As spectators packed themselves shoulder to shoulder behind the barriers, another figure quietly made his way toward the front of the crowd. Unlike everyone else, he wasn't carrying a phone. He wasn't shouting. He wasn't placing bets. His tailored charcoal suit looked absurdly expensive against the industrial backdrop, every crease perfectly pressed despite the dust swirling around the paddock. Black leather gloves covered his hands, and polished shoes stepped carefully across the cracked concrete without collecting so much as a speck of dirt. Dark sunglasses concealed his eyes despite the fact it was well after midnight. He stopped several metres behind the starting line. Nobody questioned why. People simply found themselves moving aside without consciously deciding to.
The man folded his hands behind his back. His attention settled entirely on the orange McLaren. Not the Supra. Not the crowd. Only Oscar. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. "So," he murmured quietly to himself, "let's see if the reports were accurate." He wasn't interested in who crossed the finish line first. He already had a strong suspicion about that. What interested him... Was how Oscar would do it. Because speed could be taught. Discipline rarely could. And discipline was exactly what Nexus Velocity was searching for.
---
The crowd changed the moment the flag girl stepped onto the road. It wasn't something anyone announced. There was no signal. No microphone cutting through the speakers. No instruction from the organisers. The atmosphere simply shifted. A few seconds earlier, the industrial district had been chaos. People were shouting over each other, placing last-second bets, arguing about horsepower figures and comparing modifications that most of them barely understood. Then she walked into the centre of the street, and somehow all of that noise moved into the background. She didn't demand attention. She didn't need to. The confidence in the way she carried herself did that naturally.
She wore a simple black jacket over a fitted racing uniform, practical rather than decorative. Her boots stepped firmly against the worn asphalt, each movement controlled and deliberate. Her hair was tied back tightly, keeping it secure against the wind that rushed between the surrounding warehouses. She wasn't dressed like someone trying to become part of the show. She looked like someone who understood the show better than everyone else. The organisers trusted her because she didn't get distracted. The drivers respected her because she didn't treat the starting line like a stage. And the crowd... The crowd simply liked watching someone who looked completely comfortable standing between two machines capable of launching themselves down a street faster than most people could process.
She stopped between the McLaren and the Supra. The engines idled on either side of her. Two completely different personalities. The Supra sounded angry. Aggressive. Restless. The kind of car that wanted everyone nearby to know exactly what it was capable of. The McLaren was different. Its engine note was lower. Calmer. Almost patient. Like it didn't need to prove anything.
The flag girl glanced toward the Toyota first.Inferno sat behind the wheel with one hand resting casually on the shifter, his confidence visible even through the tinted glass. He lifted his chin slightly when she looked at him, giving her the same kind of smile he had given everyone else that night. A performance. She looked away.
Then she turned toward the McLaren. Oscar Piastri sat perfectly still inside the cockpit. No nervous movements. No unnecessary adjustments. His hands rested lightly on the steering wheel, his eyes focused beyond the starting line rather than on the people surrounding him. The flag girl studied him for a moment longer than she had intended. There was something unusual about him. Most drivers tried to hide nerves by acting confident. Oscar didn't act confident. He simply was. She had seen hundreds of racers come through these streets. She had watched people lose control before the race even began because they became too focused on the audience, the money, the reputation waiting at the finish line. Oscar looked like none of those things existed. Only the road did. For a brief moment, their eyes met.
And then, unexpectedly, she smiled. Not a big smile. Not something dramatic. Just a small expression of amusement, like she had discovered something interesting. Then she lifted her hand toward him. The crowd noticed immediately. A wave of reactions moved through the spectators. "Did she just-?" "Wait." The flag girl leaned slightly toward Oscar's window. Then, with a playful confidence completely opposite to his serious expression, she blew a small kiss in his direction. The crowd erupted. Laughter. Cheers. Whistles. Phones immediately zoomed in. Everyone wanted to see how OP would react.
But Oscar Piastri had built an entire reputation around not reacting. His expression didn't change. Not even slightly. No smile. No laugh. No embarrassed glance away. Nothing. The only movement was his right hand adjusting slightly on the steering wheel. That was it. The flag girl stared for half a second. Then she laughed quietly to herself. "Interesting," she murmured. Oscar couldn't hear her through the closed window. Or maybe he could
It was impossible to tell.
She stepped back. The engines rose. The atmosphere snapped tight. The entire crowd leaned forward. This was the moment everyone had been waiting for. The race that had been talked about before either driver even arrived. The undefeated underground king against the man who believed he could take the crown. The flag girl raised the starting flag. The speakers lowered. The music faded. For one brief second... Everything became silent.
Then- "Three." The Supra's engine climbed aggressively. The McLaren answered smoothly. "Two." People held their breath. "One." The flag dropped. The world exploded.
The Supra launched first. Inferno had expected that. He had built the entire start around it. The Toyota's rear tyres fought for grip, spinning just enough to create smoke before biting into the asphalt. The car jumped forward violently, the front end lifting slightly as all the power transferred toward the rear wheels. The crowd screamed. From the outside, it looked perfect. Exactly what Inferno wanted. A statement. A message. He wasn't here to follow. He was here to dominate.
Inside the McLaren, Oscar experienced something completely different. No panic. No frustration. No attempt to force the car forward. He knew the Supra would win the first few seconds. That wasn't the race. The race came after. His foot stayed controlled. The McLaren found traction instantly. The difference was subtle. Most people wouldn't notice it. But Oscar did. The Supra was faster at the launch. The McLaren was cleaner. And clean mattered.
The two cars shot down the first straight, headlights cutting through the darkness as the industrial district blurred around them. Inferno glanced in his mirror. The McLaren was still there. Closer than he expected. His smile faded slightly. "Come on..." He pushed harder. The Supra surged. The speed climbed rapidly. Second gear. Third. Fourth. The engine screamed. The crowd behind them became a distant roar. Ahead waited the first corner. A long sweeping right-hander. A corner designed to punish impatience. Oscar knew exactly what Inferno would do. He would brake late. Too late. Because Inferno had spent the entire evening proving one thing. He wanted people to believe he was fearless. Fearless drivers were impressive. Until they confused fearlessness with control.
The braking zone arrived. Inferno hit the brakes. Hard. The Supra's nose dipped. The tyres screamed. He carried enormous speed into the corner. For half a second... It looked brilliant. The crowd watching from the barriers reacted instantly. Then Oscar braked. Later. Much later. The difference was only a fraction of a second. But at this level, fractions decided everything. The McLaren remained composed as the weight transferred forward. Oscar didn't fight the car. He let the suspension settle naturally, allowing the tyres to maintain maximum contact with the road. The Supra entered aggressively. The McLaren entered precisely. Inferno turned first. Oscar waited. Just a little longer. Then turned. The McLaren rotated smoothly into the corner. No drama. No smoke. No wasted movement. The car followed exactly the path Oscar wanted.
Inferno looked across. For the first time that night... He realised the McLaren wasn't chasing him. It was waiting for him to make a mistake. And he already had.
Inferno felt it before he saw it. That was the worst part. There was no dramatic crash. No obvious mistake. No moment where the Supra suddenly lost control or spun sideways across the road. Those mistakes were easy to understand. Easy to accept. This was different. This was the kind of mistake that only became obvious after it had already cost you. A fraction too much speed. A fraction too much confidence. A fraction too much belief that the car beneath you could cover for every decision you made.
The Toyota Supra was still moving quickly through the corner, still planted, still aggressive. To everyone watching from the barriers, it probably looked perfect. Inferno was still ahead. The crowd could still see his taillights. But Oscar Piastri could see everything. The slight delay before the Supra settled. The tiny correction in the steering. The brief hesitation before Inferno could get back onto the throttle. Small things. Almost invisible. Almost meaningless. Except they weren't. Racing was built from moments nobody else noticed.
Oscar felt the McLaren respond beneath him as he reached the corner exit. The car had carried less entry speed, but it had done so efficiently. The tyres were still loaded correctly. The suspension was balanced. The rear remained stable. The moment the road opened, Oscar applied throttle. Not aggressively. Not desperately. Precisely. The twin-turbo V8 responded immediately. The McLaren surged forward. For a second, the two cars were perfectly aligned. Same speed. Same direction. Side by side. The orange McLaren moved into Inferno's peripheral vision. His eyes widened slightly. Impossible.
He had executed the start exactly how he wanted. He had controlled the first corner. He should have been pulling away. Instead, Oscar was beside him. The two engines screamed together, creating two completely different sounds. The Supra was loud and angry, its exhaust note echoing between the warehouses. The McLaren sounded cleaner, sharper, every gear change deliberate. Inferno tightened his grip around the steering wheel. "No." The word left his mouth quietly. Not because he was afraid. Because he refused to believe it.
He pushed the throttle harder. The Supra responded. The rear tyres searched for grip as the car accelerated toward the next section. But Oscar had already learned something important. Inferno drove like he was trying to defeat the person beside him. Oscar drove like he was trying to defeat the road itself. That difference mattered.
The second section arrived quickly. A sequence of tighter corners that twisted between abandoned factories and old warehouse buildings. The kind of section where horsepower became less important. The kind of section where reputation disappeared. Only skill remained. Oscar entered first. Not because he had overtaken yet. Because he had positioned himself perfectly. Inferno moved defensively. He knew what was coming. The Supra took the inside line, forcing Oscar toward the outside. A smart move. A professional move.
The crowd watching from the barriers reacted immediately. "He's blocking!" "Can OP get around?" "There's no space!" Oscar didn't panic. He never did. His eyes moved across the road ahead. The outside line wasn't worse. Everyone assumed it was. That was the mistake. The inside line was shorter, but it was tighter. The driver had to slow more aggressively and rotate the car earlier. The outside line allowed a smoother arc. More speed. More momentum. Most drivers would see a disadvantage. Oscar saw an opportunity.
He adjusted his braking. A little earlier. A little smoother. The McLaren moved differently than anyone expected. Instead of diving inside, Oscar allowed the Supra to take the corner. For a moment, people thought he had backed out. Then the exit arrived. And everyone understood. The Supra was forced to slow slightly as Inferno completed the tighter turn. The McLaren carried speed through the wider arc. The two cars came together at the exit. But this time... Oscar had momentum. The McLaren pulled alongside. Inferno looked over. His expression changed. Again. That was impossible. The same driver. The same car. The same mistake. Oscar wasn't faster because the McLaren had more power. He was faster because he wasted less.
The Toyota's front bumper fell behind. Then the driver's door. Then the rear quarter panel. The crowd exploded. "HE'S THERE!" "OP'S PASSING HIM!" Inside the Supra, Inferno's jaw tightened. He refused to let it happen. Not here. Not against him. He pushed harder into the next corner. Too hard. The rear of the Supra stepped slightly outward as he entered. A small slide. A beautiful-looking slide. The kind that made crowds cheer. But Oscar saw the truth. It wasn't controlled. It was recovered. There was a difference. Inferno caught it quickly, correcting the steering and getting the car straight again. But the moment had already disappeared. Oscar was ahead. Only by half a car length. But ahead.
And once Oscar Piastri was ahead... He was almost impossible to catch. The final part of the circuit opened into a long straight. The city lights appeared in the distance beyond the industrial district, stretching across the horizon like a second sky. Oscar shifted through the gears. Fourth. Fifth. Sixth. The McLaren continued accelerating. Behind him, Inferno chased desperately. For the first time that night, the Supra wasn't hunting. It was surviving.
Inferno looked at the gap. Five metres. Ten. Fifteen. It wasn't huge. But Oscar wasn't making mistakes. That was the problem. If Oscar had been aggressive, Inferno could have predicted him. If Oscar had been emotional, Inferno could have pressured him. But Oscar was calm. Completely calm. Like he was driving alone.
The finish line appeared ahead. The crowd was already roaring. People stood on barriers. Phones filled the air. The underground circuit had its answer. Oscar didn't need to look behind him. He already knew. The McLaren crossed the line first.
For several seconds after the finish, nobody moved. It was almost as if the crowd needed time to understand what had happened. Then everything erupted. The sound was enormous. People screamed. Cars revved their engines. Someone fired a flare into the night sky, painting the smoke above the warehouses red. "OP!" "HE DID IT!"
The McLaren continued rolling beyond the finish line before Oscar finally eased off the throttle. The engine settled. The world slowed. Inside the cockpit, everything became quiet again. That was always the strangest part. A few seconds earlier, the entire world had been screaming. Now there was only the ticking of hot metal cooling beneath him. Oscar rested his hands on the wheel. No celebration. No shouting. No fist raised into the air. Just a quiet moment. A reminder that the race was over. The door opened. Noise rushed back in. The crowd hit him instantly. People surrounded the car before he had even fully stepped out. Hands reached toward him. Phones recorded. Drivers who had been competing earlier approached him with smiles and disbelief.
"That first corner was ridiculous." "How did you carry that much speed?" Oscar gave small nods. Short answers. Nothing dramatic. Exactly as everyone expected.
Then he saw him. The man in the suit. The same man who had been standing behind the crowd before the race. The same man who hadn't cheered. Hadn't filmed. Hadn't reacted. He stood apart from everyone else. Watching. Waiting. Oscar noticed something immediately. The man wasn't impressed by the victory. He expected it. That was unusual. The man stepped closer. "Job well done, kid." His voice was calm. Controlled. Oscar looked at him. "Thanks." A small response. The man smiled faintly. "So you do speak." Oscar said nothing. The man's smile widened slightly. "Interesting." He reached into his jacket and removed a small black card. Not a business card like most people carried. This looked different. Heavy. Metallic edges. Gold lettering. He held it between two fingers. "I've been looking for drivers like you." Oscar accepted it.
The card felt expensive. Unnecessarily expensive. "Who are you?" The man removed his sunglasses. For the first time, Oscar saw his eyes. Sharp. Focused. The kind of eyes that missed very little. "You can call me LH." Oscar looked down at the card. The words stood out clearly.
"NEXUS VELOCITY"
LH continued. "I'm assembling a team." Oscar looked back at him. "A racing team?" "Something bigger." A pause. "The best drivers from around the world." Oscar studied him. "And why me?" LH looked toward the McLaren. "Because everyone else here is trying to prove they are fast." He looked back at Oscar. "You already know you are." The statement hung between them. LH stepped backward. "You'll know when you're ready." Oscar looked at the card again. "And if I'm not?" LH smiled. "Then someone else will take the seat." He turned away. "Opportunity doesn't wait."
Then he disappeared into the crowd. Oscar remained standing there. Holding the card. Black and gold. Heavy. A strange feeling. Like something had already started. Even though he didn't know what it was.
The crowd eventually began to disappear. Not all at once. Nothing in the underground racing world ever ended cleanly. There was no official closing ceremony, no final announcement telling everyone the night was over. The energy simply faded piece by piece. One engine started, then another. A group of spectators left laughing and replaying videos from the race on their phones. Mechanics packed tools into cases. Drivers exchanged handshakes, excuses, promises of rematches and arguments about exactly where the race had been won or lost. Everyone had their own explanation. Some said the McLaren had better balance. Some said Inferno had pushed too hard. Some insisted Oscar had simply been on another level.
Oscar listened to none of it. He had already moved on. The race was finished. The result was recorded. Everything after that was noise. He stood beside the McLaren as the last few people drifted away, watching the orange paint reflect the fading floodlights. The car looked different now than it had before the race. Not physically. Nothing had changed. But every victory added something. A memory. A moment. Another chapter written into the machine. Oscar ran his hand across the roof before opening the driver's door. The interior was still warm. The smell of leather, fuel, and hot metal filled the cockpit. Familiar. Comforting. He sat down for a moment without starting the engine. The silence inside the car was almost strange after everything that had happened. The crowd. The engines. The shouting. All of it felt distant now.
His eyes moved toward the passenger seat. The card was there. Black. Gold. Clean. Out of place. He picked it up again. "NEXUS VELOCITY." The name didn't mean anything to him. Not yet. But the man who had given it to him did. LH. Oscar had met hundreds of people through racing. Drivers. Mechanics. Sponsors. Organisers. Most of them wanted something. Attention. Money. Recognition. LH had wanted something too. That much was obvious. But what?
Oscar turned the card over. Nothing. No address. No logo. No additional information. Just a phone number. Simple. Intentional. He placed it back on the passenger seat and started the engine. The McLaren came alive immediately. The sound echoed through the emptying streets as Oscar slowly drove away from the industrial district.
The city looked completely different after midnight. During the day, everything moved too quickly. Traffic. People. Noise. Everyone rushing toward something. At this hour, the streets belonged to a different version of the city. Streetlights reflected across empty roads. Storefronts sat dark and silent. The occasional taxi passed through intersections where hundreds of cars would normally fight for space.
Oscar drove without music. He never listened to anything while driving. The engine was enough. The McLaren moved smoothly through the city, no longer a racing machine but simply a car carrying him home. Yet his mind wasn't on the road. It kept returning to the same things. The race. LH. The card. The word "team." Oscar had always raced alone. Not because he disliked people. Because racing alone was simple. A team created expectations. Responsibilities. Complications. He had spent years avoiding exactly those things.
The underground circuit had one advantage. Nobody cared where you came from. Nobody cared about politics. Nobody cared about reputation outside the track. The road decided everything. But Nexus Velocity sounded different. Bigger. More organised. More serious. That was either a very good thing... Or a very dangerous one.
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His apartment was exactly as he had left it. Small. Quiet. Practical. The kind of place chosen because it served a purpose rather than because it impressed anyone. The walls were plain. The furniture was basic. The kitchen counter contained little more than a coffee machine, a few plates and tools that probably belonged somewhere else but had never been moved. There were no trophies displayed. No photographs covering the walls. No evidence that someone who had built a reputation as one of the fastest underground drivers in the city lived there.
Oscar had never understood the point. A trophy represented something that had already happened. He was always more interested in what came next. He placed his keys into the small bowl near the door and removed his jacket. The apartment was silent. The silence felt heavier than the noise outside. He walked toward the kitchen, opened the fridge, stared inside for several seconds, then closed it again. Not hungry. Not tired. Not exactly awake either. His body was exhausted. His mind wasn't. Eventually he sat at the small table near the window. The card sat in front of him. Under the apartment's dim overhead light, the gold lettering reflected faintly against the surface.
NEXUS VELOCITY. He leaned back in the chair. For most people, receiving an offer like this would have been exciting. A dream. A chance. For Oscar, it was something else. A question. He didn't like questions without answers. And right now, there were too many. Who was LH? Who were the other drivers? Why him? Why now? He looked at the phone number. The sensible choice was obvious. Ignore it. Continue racing. Continue improving. Continue building his own path. That was the path he understood. The other path was unknown.
And Oscar Piatri had never been someone who jumped into unknown situations blindly. But there was something about the card. Something about the way LH had spoken. Not like someone trying to convince him. Like someone offering him a door. Whether he opened it or not was irrelevant. The door existed.
Hours passed. The card remained on the table. The city outside slowly changed from darkness into early morning grey. Oscar barely noticed. Eventually, his hand moved. He picked up the phone. Stared at the number. His thumb hovered over the screen. For several seconds, he did nothing. Then he pressed call. The ringing sounded louder than it should have. Once. Twice. Three times.
Oscar expected a voicemail. Instead, someone answered. "Nexus Velocity." The voice was calm. Professional. Not surprised. Oscar immediately noticed that. They had been expecting the call.
"I want to know what this is." A brief pause. Not confusion. Assessment. "You already know what it is." Oscar looked at the card. "An invitation isn't an answer." The person on the other end remained silent for a moment. Then: "Fair enough." Paper shifted faintly in the background. "The short version?" Oscar waited. "You impressed the right person." "That's not specific." A quiet breath. "Good. Specific people ask better questions." Oscar leaned forward slightly. "Who am I speaking to?" "Someone handling recruitment." "Name?" Another pause. Then: "Isack."
The name was delivered simply. No explanation. No introduction. Just the name. Oscar waited. Isack continued. "LH doesn't approach drivers often." "Why?" "Because most drivers are fast." A pause. "Fast isn't rare." Oscar glanced toward the card. "What is rare?" The answer came immediately. "Control." The apartment became quiet again. Isack continued. "You won tonight because you were faster. But that's not why you were selected." Oscar said nothing. "You stayed calm when your opponent tried to provoke you. You didn't chase him when he was ahead. You waited. You studied." A pause. "That is what Nexus Velocity looks for."
Oscar tapped the card lightly against the table. "What happens if I accept?" "Then you come to Monaco." Oscar stopped. "Monaco?" "Yes." "When?" "Tomorrow." A silence followed. Not because Oscar was shocked. Because he was calculating. Isack continued. "Your flight will be arranged." "Commercial?" "No." Another pause. "Private." Oscar looked around the small apartment. The idea felt almost absurd. A private aircraft. Monaco. A global racing team. It sounded like something that happened to other people. Not him.
"And the other drivers?" "You'll meet them there." "How many?" "Seven selected positions." Oscar frowned slightly. "Seven?" "Eight drivers total." The meaning became clear. Oscar wasn't being invited to join something. He was being invited to compete for something. Isack's voice remained steady. "You won't be the only talented driver in the room." Oscar looked down at the card again. Good. That was actually the first thing about Nexus Velocity that interested him. A challenge. Finally. Something unknown.
"When does the flight leave?" "Three in the morning." Oscar checked the clock. It was already approaching morning. "That soon?" "Yes." "Why?" "Because people who hesitate usually find reasons not to go." Oscar almost smiled. Almost. "You sound like LH." "That's because he taught me." Another pause. Then Isack added: "I can connect you with him if you want." Oscar looked at the card. The decision had already been made before he admitted it. "Put him through."
The line went quiet. Not disconnected. Not dropped. Just quiet. Oscar sat perfectly still, phone pressed against his ear, waiting. The strange thing was that the silence didn't feel empty. It felt deliberate. Like whoever was on the other end understood that silence could be used as effectively as words. A few seconds passed. Then the sound changed. A faint click. A different connection. The background noise disappeared completely. Isack was gone. And then another voice came through.
"OP."
Oscar immediately recognised it. LH. The same calm voice from the industrial district. The same controlled tone that had carried through hundreds of people shouting, engines screaming and music shaking the ground. Except now it was different. Closer. More direct. "You move quickly," LH said. Oscar looked down at the black-and-gold card sitting on the table. "You expected me to call." A faint pause. Not hesitation. Amusement. "I expected you to think about calling." Oscar leaned back slightly. "And?" "And I expected you to spend longer deciding." The corner of Oscar's mouth moved slightly. Not quite a smile. More like recognition.
LH continued. "Most drivers hear an offer like this and immediately say yes." "Why?" "Because they hear the money." A pause. "They hear the aircraft. The facilities. The reputation." Oscar looked toward the window. The first light of morning was beginning to appear above the buildings. "And I don't?" "No." The answer came immediately. "You heard the challenge." The apartment fell silent again. Oscar didn't deny it. Because LH was right. The money was interesting. The opportunity was interesting. But that wasn't what had kept him awake. It was the unknown. The idea that somewhere out there were drivers good enough that even someone like LH believed they were worth gathering together. Oscar had spent years searching for better competition. Now competition had found him.
"What exactly is Nexus Velocity?" LH didn't answer immediately. Oscar noticed that. The first real hesitation. Not because LH didn't know. Because he was choosing how much to reveal. "At its simplest?" "Yes." "A racing organisation." Oscar waited. "That's the simple version." "And the complicated version?" Another pause. "The complicated version is that racing has become too predictable." Oscar frowned slightly. "Predictable?" "Money buys the best cars. Sponsors buy the best engineers. Teams build systems designed to remove uncertainty." LH's voice remained calm. "There's nothing wrong with that." A brief pause. "But sometimes the most talented drivers disappear because they don't have access to those systems." Oscar looked at the McLaren parked outside his apartment window. A machine built from persistence rather than resources. "So you find them." "Exactly." "Why?" "Because raw talent is rare." LH stopped briefly. "But potential is everywhere."
Oscar considered that. "What happens in Monaco?" "You meet the others." "The other seven drivers." "Yes." "What then?" LH's answer was simple. "Then you prove yourself." Oscar's eyes narrowed slightly. "I already proved myself." "Against street racers." The words weren't insulting. That made them worse. LH wasn't trying to disrespect him. He was stating a fact. "The underground circuit teaches valuable things. Adaptation. Risk management. Pressure." A pause. "But it is still limited." Oscar looked down. "You think I'm limited?" "No." The answer was immediate. "I think your environment is." That sentence stayed with him. Because there was truth in it. Oscar had always known the underground scene had limits. The cars were fast. The drivers were skilled. But eventually every road ended. Every challenge repeated. Every opponent became familiar. Maybe that was why LH interested him. Not because of what he offered. Because of what he represented. Something beyond the roads Oscar already knew.
"What are the other drivers like?" LH gave a quiet laugh. "Curious." "That's not an answer." "No." A small pause. "But it's the truth." Oscar waited. "They are different." "Different how?" "Different backgrounds. Different driving styles. Different reasons for being there." "Are they better than me?" LH didn't hesitate. "Some might be." The honesty caught Oscar's attention. Most people would have avoided answering. LH didn't. "Some might not." Another pause. "But all of them have something you don't." Oscar looked toward the card. "What?" "Something to prove." The words sat between them. Oscar had never thought of himself that way. He wasn't trying to prove anything. He simply liked driving. He liked improving. He liked the feeling of finding another fraction of performance hidden somewhere inside himself or the machine. But maybe that was exactly why LH noticed him. Because he wasn't chasing approval.
"Three a.m." Oscar glanced at the clock. The time was approaching quickly. "Private aircraft." "Yes." "Where?" "You'll receive the location." "No airport records." "No." "Why?" Another pause. "Because Nexus Velocity operates differently." That answer created more questions than it solved. Oscar noticed. LH knew he noticed. But neither commented. Finally Oscar spoke. "If I go..." A pause. "What happens if I don't like it?" LH answered quietly. "Then you leave." That surprised him. "That's it?" "That's it." "No consequences?" "No." Oscar looked toward the street below. Cars were beginning to move again. The city was waking up. "Then why do you sound so confident I'll stay?" Another pause. Then LH said: "Because drivers like you don't leave when things become difficult." Oscar said nothing.
LH continued. "You leave when things become boring." That was the first thing he said that felt personal. Because it was true. Oscar hated repetition. He hated standing still. He hated reaching a level where improvement became impossible. Nexus Velocity was unknown. But unknown meant opportunity. "I'll be there." The words left his mouth before he had fully considered them. A small silence followed. Then: "Good." No excitement. No celebration. Just confirmation. Like LH had expected nothing else. "You'll receive the details shortly."
Oscar stood from the table. "When?" "Within minutes." A pause. "OP." Oscar stopped. "Yes?" "When you arrive in Monaco..." LH's voice lowered slightly. "Forget what you know." Oscar frowned. "Why?" "Because what made you successful here..." Another pause. "...may not be enough there." The call ended.
For several minutes, Oscar remained standing in the middle of his apartment. The phone screen went dark. The room was quiet. But everything felt different. Nothing physically changed. The same walls surrounded him. The same furniture. The same McLaren sat outside. Yet somehow, the apartment felt smaller. Not because he disliked it. Because for the first time in years... It felt like he had outgrown it. Oscar walked to the bedroom and opened the small wardrobe. There wasn't much inside. A few shirts. A jacket. Racing clothes. Nothing complicated. He had never been someone who collected things. Things didn't matter. Experiences did. He packed slowly. Methodically. No panic. No excitement. Just preparation.
A few hours later, his phone received a message. A location. A flight confirmation. A time. 03:00. Private departure. Monaco. Oscar stared at the screen. Then he looked back toward the table. The black-and-gold card was still there. A simple piece of metal and paper. A decision disguised as an invitation. He picked it up one final time. Then placed it inside his jacket pocket. Outside, the city continued moving. People started their mornings. Cars filled the streets. The world carried on without knowing anything had changed. But Oscar Piastri knew. Because somewhere above the clouds, a new road was waiting. And this time... There would be no familiar corners. No predictable opponents. No easy answers. Only the best drivers in the world. And whatever Nexus Velocity truly was.
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