Two days had passed since Feixiao and Ningguang's showdown carved tire marks and legends into Yougou's pavement. The high from that race had begun to fade, but the aftershocks were still being felt.
In a modest roadside breakfast diner just off the mountain pass, the smell of burnt coffee and frying eggs filled the air, mingling with the soft clatter of silverware and low murmur of early-morning chatter. Ceiling fans stirred the air lazily. Grease-stained menus flopped against the Formica as servers moved between booths.
At one corner table, far from the kitchen's noise, four racers sat in a silence that felt too still for such a public place.
Beidou leaned forward, her thick arms resting on the edge of the table. Her voice was low and skeptical. "Are you sure about this? Could be some other car trying to copy Collei's Eight-Six. Wouldn't be the first poser on Yougou."
Pela didn't flinch. Her tone was cool and clipped, the same as it was when delivering telemetry data. "No. I saw the plate. Same kanji. Same numbers. Same car."
She wasn't guessing—she was reporting. The others knew it.
And right on cue, a turbocharged whine pierced the ambient buzz of the diner.
Everyone at the table turned instinctively toward the window as a familiar silhouette glided into view. Blue Sileighty. Wide stance. Amber's machine. It pulled smoothly into a spot beside Seele's Devil Z and March's Supra, the exhaust burbling as it idled before cutting off with a decisive ka-thunk.
March smirked, not looking away from the window. "Look who just pulled up."
The bell above the diner's door jingled as it swung open, letting in a sharp shaft of sunlight and the silhouette of two figures framed against it. Collei and Amber stepped inside. They walked like racers fresh off a long night—upright but tired, voices low, eyes half-shadowed.
They joined the table quietly. Nods were exchanged. Nothing said yet—but tension hung in the air like humidity before a summer downpour.
Beidou was the first to break it, her tone unusually gentle. "How are you feeling, Collei?"
Collei exhaled slowly, the breath hitching halfway through. Her shoulders dropped as if just acknowledging the question cost her something. "A little better. Still... uneasy, though."
March reached across and gave her a pat on the shoulder, lips curled in that easy half-smile. "You'll pull through. We know you will."
Their food arrived a minute later—sizzling skillets, fried eggs sliding around toast, sausages popping from the heat. The familiar rhythm of clinking forks and idle bites returned to the table, helping disguise the undercurrent beneath.
But Pela wasn't letting the topic go.
She leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "So, Collei… two nights ago, I saw your Eight-Six tearing through Yougou. Uphill and downhill. Same thing again last night. And after the uphill, when I passed the summit... I saw your dad. Standing there. Looked like she was inspecting something under the hood."
Collei froze mid-bite. Fork hovered in the air, hand clenched tighter around it than necessary. "Wait… are you sure it was my dad? And the Eight-Six?"
She shook her head after a beat, almost like she was shaking the image out of her skull. "No... that can't be. If it were true, she would've told me. She always does."
But Pela's gaze didn't waver. "It wasn't just any panda Trueno. Same plate. Same wheels. Same idle sound. Same everything."
Beidou sighed and leaned back, crossing her arms with a low grunt. "Yeah, that's not something you forget. That car's burned into every driver's memory on this mountain." Her eyes narrowed. "Any idea where it is now?"
Collei's gaze dropped to her plate, lips thinning. "No. After the incident, we had it towed back to Yougou. My dad dropped me off at the street entrance and took the car back with her. I haven't seen it since."
March's brow arched. "Then what the hell are you driving around Yougou in every morning?"
Collei shrugged, lips twisting bitterly. "An old Toyota pickup. The suspension's shot. Brakes grind. Barely holds the road. It's… garbage."
Seele's voice cut in next, quieter than usual. Measured. "You don't think it's being scrapped, do you?"
Collei looked up sharply and shook her head. "No. Last I heard, the Eight-Six is getting a new engine. And my dad—she'd never scrap it. Not after everything she's put into that car."
Amber bumped her shoulder playfully, trying to break the storm clouds gathering. "Don't tell me she's just dropping another stock 4A-GE in it?"
Collei didn't answer right away. She took a bite, but her eyes were distant, drifting toward the diner window. Watching the outside world go by, but not really seeing it.
"I don't know, Amber... I really don't."
Yougou – Midnight
The mountain was silent.
A stillness so deep it pressed against the skin—like the trees themselves were holding their breath.
Then, without warning, the calm shattered.
A feral, high-pitched scream of metal and air ripped through the pass—the shriek of a high-revving engine pushed to its upper limit. Headlights carved through the dark like blades. An AE86 flew out of the final sector, rear wheels sliding outward in a perfect arc as it clipped the inside of the last hairpin, tires wailing against the asphalt.
No corrections. No hesitation.
Just precision and brutality.
The Trueno surged down the last straight, engine snarling like a beast in heat. Then—throttle release. The engine note dropped from a banshee's cry to a composed purr as it coasted into the rest area. Brake lights flared. Tires crunched gravel.
Steam hissed from under the hood as the Eight-Six came to a stop, headlights still blazing.
Footsteps approached in the darkness—soft, deliberate.
Lyney and Lynette emerged from the tree line, lit faintly by the glow of the streetlamp overhead. The acrid scent of hot rubber and half-burned fuel hung heavy in the cool night air.
The driver's side window rolled down.
Behind the wheel sat Arlecchino, one gloved hand still resting on the shift knob, the other on the steering wheel. Her face was flushed with adrenaline, jaw set, eyes gleaming.
Lynette stepped closer, her voice carrying a spark of curiosity. "So, Arlecchino… what do you think?"
A crooked grin tugged at Arlecchino's mouth. She was still high from the run. "It's almost there. This engine… it's unreal. The old setup couldn't even compare. Just a few more tweaks and it'll be perfect."
Lyney folded his arms, skeptical. "Is it really that good?"
She turned to look at him, eyes gleaming in the darkness. "Let's just say—I've never driven anything like this before."
Lyney grinned. "Oh yeah? Why don't I ride with you next time? See how good it really is."
For a heartbeat, Arlecchino said nothing.
Then she chuckled—but not like before. This one was quieter. Darker.
"I don't know, Lyney… she's scary."
He blinked. "Scary? What do you mean?"
Wordlessly, Arlecchino pushed open the door and stepped out. She exhaled, then slowly rolled up the cuff of her pants.
The air caught in Lyney's throat.
A massive bruise spread along the length of her right shin, deep purple and black, swollen and ugly all the way down to the top of her boot.
"What the hell happened to you?!"
She hissed through her teeth as she gently touched the bruise. "Leaning too hard into the cornering Gs. Shin took a hit on the firewall brace during one of the third-gear transitions. Hurt like a bitch, but I couldn't ease off."
She exhaled, wiping her forehead with the back of her glove. "Always thought bucket seats were overkill for mountain passes. Now I know better."
She pulled the cuff back down and limped a step away, eyes settling on the idling Eight-Six. Its silhouette glowed in the moonlight, almost alive.
"I'm not getting back in until we install a proper seat. Otherwise I'm gonna break my leg trying to tame her."
Lynette and Lyney exchanged a long look. The tension in their shoulders hadn't eased.
Because this wasn't just a rebuild.
And that engine?
It wasn't just new.
It was a weapon.
A statement.
And Arlecchino wasn't test-driving it.
She was training it.
Three Days Later – An Unusually Chilly Morning at Arlecchino's Home
Collei shuffled out of her bedroom, sleeves pulled halfway over her hands, her shoulders hunched as she winced from the cold. The hardwood floor bit at her bare feet.
"Jesus Christ, it's cold!" she hissed, rubbing her arms as a visible puff of breath escaped her lips. "Even with my sweater on, I'm freezing my ass off. Can we turn the heater up or something?"
On the living room couch, Arlecchino sat motionless, legs crossed, a well-worn novel open in one hand. She didn't bother looking up.
"You standing there like a statue is what's making you cold," she said flatly, eyes tracking the lines of her book.
Collei groaned, tugging her sweater tighter. "You sound just like my old chemistry teacher, you know. Always telling me motion generates heat. I hated that guy."
Before Arlecchino could snap back, a low-pitched, deep-toned rumble cut through the quiet—smooth, tuned, unmistakable. A far cry from a stock engine. It reverberated through the floorboards and bounced off the windows like the bassline of an approaching storm.
Collei froze mid-step. "...What's that noise?"
Her brows furrowed. She crossed the room, peeked out the front window—and stopped cold. The breath in her lungs evaporated into nothing.
Her AE86 sat in the driveway under a thin veil of morning frost, glistening. Pristine. Restored. Its white body gleamed with a fresh polish, the black trim looked factory-new, and the gunmetal Watanabe wheels looked like they'd been scrubbed with a toothbrush. There wasn't a scratch, a dent, or a blemish anywhere. The pop-ups were retracted, its nose down like a crouched predator waiting for the green light.
"No way..." she whispered.
She flung open the front door, slippers forgotten on the porch as her bare feet hit the frozen concrete. "Is it fixed? Did you just clean it up, or is it actually running?"
Arlecchino followed behind, her boots crunching across the frosty gravel as she stepped up beside her. "Of course it's running," she said, voice cool and calm. "Better than before. You can start using it for deliveries again."
Collei drifted toward the car like it was a dream, fingertips brushing along the cold steel of the driver's side door. Her heart was hammering. Her pulse thudded in her ears.
Then Arlecchino's voice cut through the haze.
"Collei. I have to tell you something else."
She turned back, brow raised.
"What is it?"
Arlecchino folded her arms across her chest, her breath fogging the air between them. "I used some of your delivery money for the rebuild—engine install, tuning, and other upgrades. From now on… the Eight-Six is half yours, half mine."
Collei blinked, stunned. "You're serious?"
"I'm not going to make you pay me back," Arlecchino said, stepping closer. "You put your blood and time into this car. You're half of what made it special to begin with. So yeah—I'm serious."
Collei swallowed, her fingers tightening around the door handle. "I mean, I was the one who blew the engine... I thought maybe—"
"You already know what I think about that," Arlecchino said, cutting her off gently. She laid a firm hand on Collei's shoulder. "Engines blow. That's racing. That's life."
There was a long pause. Then Collei nodded slowly, the tension in her jaw softening.
She climbed into the car and immediately shifted in her seat. Something felt off. The bolstering was tighter, firmer. She wiggled her hips, adjusted her back, and frowned.
"This seat feels weird," she muttered. "You change something?"
Arlecchino leaned on the driver's side window, holding out a plastic cup with a sip of water. "Bucket seat. Helps with lateral Gs during hairpins. Less body roll, better control. You'll get used to it."
Collei took the cup, slid it into the holder. Her hands settled on the steering wheel—her steering wheel—and she turned it left, then right. The resistance was higher. Heavier.
"Huh. Steering's tighter."
Her left foot depressed the clutch. It gave more resistance than she remembered.
"Clutch too... stiffer."
"It's tuned for the new engine," Arlecchino said. "Take it for a spin. You'll understand."
Collei exhaled, slid the key in, and turned. The pop-up headlights clicked up in perfect unison. The engine cranked once, then fired—aggressive, tight, controlled. The idle was dead smooth at 1,000 RPM, like a practiced heartbeat.
She dropped it into first, eased off the clutch. The AE86 rolled out of the driveway with surgical precision, tires whispering against the frost-dampened pavement. The revs built cleanly. The throttle response was immediate.
But it wasn't just reborn.
It was something else.
Arlecchino stood in the cold, watching the taillights disappear into the treeline with narrowed eyes.
"When you first start moving in a car that's been reborn... that's the moment you realize it's not the same beast anymore."
Her lips twitched into a faint smirk.
And Collei was about to find out just how much had changed.
Autumn Mist & A Struggle on the Downhill
The mountain was cloaked in mist, tree trunks like pillars rising out of an ocean of fog. Fallen leaves plastered the pavement in streaks of amber and rust. Collei's breath fogged the cabin as she tightened her grip on the wheel, knuckles pale.
Something wasn't right.
The AE86's cockpit should have felt like an extension of her body. It always had. Every bump, every slide, every shift—it used to speak to her.
Now it felt like it was speaking another language.
Coming into the next hairpin, she braked hard—threshold pressure—blipped the throttle, heel-toe downshift into second. Her right hand flicked the wheel mid-turn, her left foot feathering the clutch to initiate rotation.
The rear snapped out—
But then snapped back.
She gasped, correcting as the tail fought against the slide, the car attempting to straighten under her mid-drift.
"What the fuck—?" she barked, sawing the wheel left and right to keep the slide alive. The AE86 stuttered through the exit with a jerky lurch, fighting her inputs the whole way.
Hairpin after hairpin, it was the same. She tried trail braking. She tried throttle oversteer. She tried Scandinavian flicks.
Nothing felt right.
The car wanted to grip. Wanted to clamp down. It had power—but it wasn't delivering it the way she was used to. Instead of flowing like water, it bucked like a pissed-off bull.
She gritted her teeth as the rear broke loose again—but too late, too shallow. She nearly clipped the inside gutter, muscles straining to keep the car from snapping into a spin.
By the bottom of the course, her face was flushed, her breathing shallow.
She wasn't in sync with the car anymore.
Gas Station Gathering
The late afternoon sun hung low as Collei rolled into the small gas station near the base of the mountain. She shut off the engine, pulled the parking brake with a click, and exhaled like she'd just survived a war.
Amber, Seele, Beidou, March, and Pela were already waiting. Collei waved them over and popped the fuel cap.
Beidou turned, eyes wide. "No way. It's fixed already!?"
March leaned over the rear spoiler, peering through the back glass. "Damn, it looks clean! Like nothing ever happened."
Beidou smirked. "Tell me, Collei—what's it like? Is the power insane?"
Seele and Pela both stepped closer, watching her reaction carefully.
Across the lot, inside the station office, Lyney sipped from a black coffee cup and paused mid-gulp. He noticed the group gathering around the Eight-Six and raised an eyebrow.
"That car's back already?" he muttered to himself. "Didn't think she'd bring it out this soon."
He stood to get a better look—just in time to hear Collei's response.
"I don't know how to tell you this…" she said, her voice tense. "But it feels like the engine has less power."
Lyney's mug slipped an inch in his grip before he caught it. His chair scraped violently against the linoleum as he stood up.
"The hell…?"
He was out the door in seconds, footsteps quick and sharp.
"Collei!" he barked, drawing the group's attention. "You said it has less power?"
Collei folded her arms, frustrated. "Yeah. It's not what I expected. It tries to correct itself when I slide. It fights me. The power curve feels off. It's not punchy—it's awkward."
Lyney stopped short, stunned. "That doesn't make sense. Your dad told me she installed a premium engine. Best in class."
"I don't buy it," Collei shot back. "If this is top-tier, then I must be doing something wrong."
Silence fell.
Eyes slowly turned to Lyney, expecting answers. But he had none.
Seele tilted her head. "Did she tell you what engine it is?"
Lyney opened his mouth—then closed it. "…No. All I was told was that it's 'premium.' Nothing else."
And in the back of their minds, a quiet tension bloomed. Because if this was just the beginning…
What the hell had Arlecchino actually put under the hood?
The Next Morning – Another Struggle on the Pass
Collei finishes her usual tofu delivery runs, the steam from the containers still clinging faintly to her hoodie. But her mind isn't on the route, or even the early morning haze blanketing Mount Yougou—it's locked, obsessed, with one thing: figuring out the Eight-Six.
Not just driving it—understanding it. Taming it.
Once the deliveries are done, she doesn't even hesitate. She heads straight back toward the downhill.
This time, she's not repeating yesterday's mistakes. Her approach changes—throttle application comes gentler now, more measured on corner entry. She's using the weight transfer like she was taught, letting the car roll softly into the turn before flicking the wheel. The braking's tighter. The steering input's smoother.
But still…
The car refuses to behave.
She enters a fast right-hander—late apex, third gear. The revs scream past seven grand, tires already near the edge. She kicks the clutch briefly, throws the weight over, and yanks the handbrake.
The Eight-Six snaps sideways.
But the angle's wrong. The rear end doesn't hold—she over-rotates. Fishtails.
Hard.
The tires shriek. The back steps out too violently, forcing her to countersteer like mad just to keep it from looping. The whole chassis rocks under her.
She manages to catch it. Barely.
But it's not a drift. It's a mess.
She exhales sharply, heart pounding, hands tight on the wheel.
The car is fighting her.
Ningguang & Keqing – Watching from the Summit
At the final downhill hairpin—where the trees thin just enough to give a sweeping view of the road—Ningguang and Keqing stand near the guardrail, framed by the amber wash of early sunlight.
The wind howls over the mountain pass, slicing through the canopy and tugging at their jackets. Keqing shivers, arms crossed tight.
"When will she show up?" she snaps, breath misting in the cold air. "I'm freezing my ass off here!"
Ningguang, unmoved, keeps her gaze fixed on the ribbon of asphalt below. Calm. Poised. She doesn't even flinch.
"Patience, Keqing. She'll show…"
And right on cue—like summoned by Ningguang's voice—the sound comes.
A raw, metallic snarl tears through the morning silence. The scream of individual throttle bodies at full tilt, echoing off rock walls and forest canopy alike. Mechanical, visceral, unmistakable.
The Eight-Six.
It bursts into view two corners down—white paint flashing in the sun, headlights still on, bouncing slightly as it carves toward the apex.
But something's off.
The car swings wide, then tucks in violently. The rear end skitters under braking. Her line is twitchy. Correction after correction. It's not fluid—it's forced.
"She's struggling," Keqing says under her breath.
Ningguang narrows her eyes, tone quiet but certain. "Looks like Collei isn't accustomed to its new beating heart…"
Back Home – A Frustrated Collei
Back at Arlecchino's home, the warm scent of miso and freshly grilled fish fills the small kitchen. Sunlight filters through the window blinds, cutting the room into golden stripes.
The Eight-Six rolls quietly into its usual parking spot. The idle is steady—too steady. Not like before. Then, with a crisp click, the engine shuts off.
The door opens.
Collei steps out, shoulders slumped, eyes half-lidded, sweat soaking the collar of her shirt despite the morning chill. Her legs feel like lead.
She kicks off her shoes at the genkan, trudging inside without a word.
"Hey, Father," she mumbles.
Arlecchino, leaning against the counter in a loose hoodie, coffee mug in hand, quirks an eyebrow. She gives her kid a wink, as if she already knows the answer.
"Hey there, kid. Anything new?"
Collei sighs, deep and ragged. She rubs the back of her neck, fingers digging into the tension beneath her skin.
"No. It's getting really frustrating. I tried changing up my driving style. Different lines, softer throttle, earlier rotation. Nothing's working."
She slumps into the kitchen chair like the weight of the car's problems are dragging her down. Breakfast sits untouched in front of her. She pokes at it with her chopsticks, appetite dulled.
Arlecchino watches her. That smirk never fades—but there's something more behind it. Pride. A flicker of it, tucked behind her eyes.
"That's the spirit, kid," she thinks. "Rather than blaming the setup, you're adapting yourself to the machine."
Out loud, she says nothing. Just sips her coffee and watches.
Collei doesn't realize it yet—but she's already started to decode the new language her car is speaking.
And soon, she'd be fluent.
Araumi – Under the Streetlights
The warm amber wash of sodium lamps drapes across Araumi's quiet racing hub, pooling in golden puddles along the cracked pavement. The lot is half-full—S-chassis, RX-7s, Supras and Evos all huddled under the lights like wolves waiting for the hunt.
Keqing leans against the nose of her FD, her violet hair catching the light. Her arms are crossed, fingers rhythmically tapping the side of the hood as she stares at the exposed engine bay.
Something's bothering her.
"Something's off," she mutters, almost like she's talking to the car.
From her left, Ganyu lounges against her Honda S2000, hands tucked into her hoodie pocket, blue hair falling around her shoulders. She raises an eyebrow.
"Go on, Keqing. What do you mean?"
Keqing doesn't look up. Her voice sharpens.
"The intake note—it's different now. Sharper. Higher pitch. Sounds like… ITBs. And the exhaust—it's smooth. Too smooth. It doesn't rasp like it used to. The guy who tuned it wasn't some amateur hack."
Before Ganyu can reply, a low rumble enters the lot.
A clean, pearlescent white AE86 Levin coasts in, its headlights slicing through the haze. The exhaust burbles with a smooth, confident rhythm—no rasp, no sputter. Just restrained power.
It glides into the spot next to Keqing's RX-7.
The driver steps out slowly, adjusting the brim of her cap.
"Hey there," she says with a gentle smile. "Hope you don't mind me parking here?"
Keqing glances at her. Cool, polite. "Not at all. Go ahead."
The girl steps forward, offering her hand.
"I'm Kamisato Ayaka. From Kannazuka Prefecture."
Keqing shakes it with a nod of approval. "Keqing. This is Ganyu."
Ayaka nods to Ganyu with a soft wave. Then her gaze returns to Keqing. "Just checking out the scene in Narukami. Wanted to see it for myself."
Keqing's eyes flick to the Levin.
"Your car's nicely built. What's under the hood?"
Ayaka grins, like she's been waiting for that question.
"Turbocharged."
Keqing blinks. "A turbo Eight-Six? That's rare."
Ayaka chuckles. "Didn't want to go full NA. The turbo gives it some kick without sacrificing the balance."
Keqing smirks. "Lightweight chassis and a boost curve? That's dangerous."
Ayaka just smiles, settling into the rhythm of racers who speak the same language.
The Next Morning – A Chance Encounter at the Gas Station
The sun breaks over the horizon, painting Narukami in hues of gold and crimson.
Ayaka's Levin cruises along the expressway, its turbo spooling quietly beneath the hood. She checks the dashboard.
Fuel gauge: low.
"Tch. Gotta fill up."
She spots a station up ahead, neon sign still flickering from the night shift. She pulls in, tires crunching softly on the gravel.
She doesn't know it yet—but this is the station. Collei's station.
She rolls to a stop at the pump. Before she even opens the door, a voice meets her.
"Welcome! How can I help you today?"
Ayaka turns—and sees her.
Collei.
Same green eyes. Same deadpan calm.
"Full tank of high-octane, please."
Collei nods wordlessly, grabs the pump and starts fueling.
They sit in silence for a few seconds. Just the hum of the fuel dispenser, the scent of gasoline, the morning wind.
Then—
"You must be the driver of Yougou's Eight-Six. Collei, right?"
Collei nods, gaze steady. "That's right."
Ayaka's lips curl into a grin. "Sweet. I wanted to ask you something—if you're free."
Collei tilts her head. "Go on."
"Let's meet up at my home course. Nazuchi. Eight-Six versus Eight-Six."
Collei considers it. Looks over her shoulder—March and Beidou are deep in a customer's car. The others are nowhere in sight.
She turns back.
"Saturday night?"
Ayaka's grin widens. "Ten PM."
Collei finishes the pump, slots it back into the stand with a metallic click. "Perfect."
Ayaka pays, slides into her Levin, and pulls out with a gentle throttle.
Collei watches her go.
An Eavesdropped Conversation
As Collei walks toward the garage, voices catch her ear—quiet, but urgent.
Lyney.
"Sis, tell me—what are the engine specs? Arlecchino won't tell me anything, and I'm starting to get suspicious."
She freezes.
Through the static of the garage speaker, Lynette's voice answers.
"I don't know for sure. All I heard is that it's a high-revving unit."
Collei's eyes narrow.
That… hadn't been mentioned before.
She turns on her heel, pulling out her phone as her mind starts spinning.
She dials.
One ring.
"Hey, Collei!" Seele's voice is bright, chipper as always.
Collei keeps her voice low.
"Hey, Seele. Can we meet tonight? At Yougou summit. I need to ask you something about my Eight-Six's engine."
There's a pause. A faint hiss of the line.
"…Sure thing. I'll make arrangements."
Call ends.
Collei slides the phone into her pocket and heads back to the garage.
But her thoughts are storming.
What the hell did dad put under the hood of my car?
That Night in Yougou – A Mystery Unfolds
At the summit of Yougou Pass, the cool night air wound its way between the trees like a whisper. Streetlights cast soft pools of amber onto the cracked asphalt, their glow cutting through the darkness like hazy halos. The mountains were still, cloaked in shadows and the distant drone of cicadas. Somewhere deeper in the woods, an owl cried once, then silence.
Collei stood leaning against the white hood of her Eight-Six, arms crossed over her chest. Her green eyes were fixed on the horizon, unfocused, the tension in her shoulders betrayed by the faint rise and fall of her breath.
"I overheard Lyney saying that the engine under my hood is a high-revving unit."
The words slipped out quiet, uncertain—half spoken to herself, half to Seele.
Seele, standing nearby with her arms folded, shifted her weight and tapped a single finger against her chin in thought. Her violet eyes narrowed behind wind-tousled bangs, calculating.
"There's only one way to confirm it," she said. "Let's go for a downhill run. Drive like you normally do. I'll watch how the engine responds."
Collei hesitated, chewing on the inside of her lip. The mountain had always felt like home—its corners like muscle memory—but something about tonight felt different. Warier. Restless.
Still, she gave a slow nod. "Alright. Let's do it."
No more words were exchanged. They moved with practiced efficiency, slipping into the snug, worn Recaro buckets. The nylon belts clicked tight. Collei twisted the key, and the engine cranked—then fired.
A low, aggressive idle filled the cabin, slightly rough, pulsating through the frame. The whole car vibrated with a latent tension, like something leashed just barely.
She tapped the throttle once—whap-whap—and the engine barked back with a rasping snarl, the tach needle snapping up to the redline and falling just as fast. Seele raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Collei rolled her wrists, gripped the Nardi steering wheel, and dropped the shifter into first.
The Downhill Run – Something Feels Off
The tires chirped as she eased out of the parking lot. Headlights sliced into the night, tracing long arcs through the fog-draped switchbacks. The descent began gentle, but the road quickly tightened—hairpins stitched together by short straights and off-camber kinks.
At first, everything felt familiar. The chassis loaded predictably, the weight transfer smooth under light trail-braking. But Seele was watching—intently.
She leaned forward, eyes darting from Collei's feet to her hand on the shifter, then up to the tachometer, watching how the needle danced.
Something wasn't adding up.
Collei's heel-toe rev-matching was spot-on, but Seele saw it—how the car bogged ever so slightly coming out of second-gear corners. The throttle lagged, only to surge unpredictably once the revs climbed. There was no linear torque curve—just a lull, then a punch.
Back in town, far removed from the winding road and engine noise, a diner sat on the edge of the village.
The neon "OPEN" sign above the door buzzed faintly, flickering. Inside, Arlecchino sat across from Lynette in a dim corner booth, arms crossed and one boot kicked up on the seat beside her. A cardboard box sat on the table between them—half-open, filled with uninstalled Defi gauges, a new tachometer, and braided oil lines.
Lynette stirred her tea lazily, the spoon clinking against the ceramic.
"Those parts you ordered when we installed the engine…" she said without looking up. "When do you plan on installing them?"
Arlecchino smirked, expression unreadable in the half-light.
"When Collei figures it out. When she realizes the stock tachometer's useless."
Lynette raised an eyebrow. "So you're making her learn it?"
Arlecchino snapped her fingers once. "Exactly. You don't tell a racer where their car's limit is. You let them feel it. Let them screw it up a few times. That's how it sticks."
Lynette sighed. "You really get off on this whole mentor-through-pain thing, huh?"
Arlecchino chuckled, low and dry. "The ones who survive it become monsters on the mountain."
The Engine's True Nature Revealed
Back on the pass, Collei was pushing harder now.
She came into a decreasing-radius left-hander in fourth gear. Left foot braking, she blipped the throttle, dumped the clutch, and the car pitched sideways into a controlled slide. The rear tires protested with a brief howl.
But then—something went wrong.
Mid-slide, the car hesitated. The power dipped, and the rear end began to rotate faster than she expected. The back swung out wide—too wide.
"Shit—!"
Collei yanked the wheel into the skid, countersteering fast, then feathered the throttle with surgical taps. The rear tires caught—barely. The car snapped back in line with a jolt, skating on the edge.
Seele's eyes were locked on the tach.
Five-thousand… six… seven… eight-thousand RPM.
And then—snap—the engine changed.
The note sharpened. The torque hit like a slap across the face. The car lunged forward, sudden and violent, the rear tires scrabbling for grip.
Collei's breath hitched. "Whoa—!"
She slammed the shifter into third—clack!—the revs dropped back into the dead zone. The engine bogged. The sudden power was gone. A hollow spot in the delivery. Again.
Seele narrowed her eyes, muttering.
"No low-end. No mid-range either. But when it climbs… it's like a switch flips."
She tapped her finger on the door panel, the puzzle clicking together in her head.
"Is this a defective tune… or is it intentional?"
Collei's knuckles were white on the wheel now. She could feel the inconsistency throwing off her rhythm—like trying to dance on a floor that shifted beneath her feet.
Seele leaned forward.
"I've seen enough. Turn around. Let's go back."
Collei exhaled through her nose and nodded, fighting the urge to stay out longer. She coasted through the next corner, pulled a tight U-turn, and began climbing back toward the summit.
The Revelation
Back at the top, the Eight-Six idled rough and lumpy, its fan humming quietly beneath the hood. Collei shifted into neutral and killed the ignition. Silence took the mountain once more.
She turned to Seele, still gripping the wheel.
"Alright. Verdict?"
Seele didn't answer right away. She raised her hand and pointed at the tach.
"It's your tachometer."
Collei blinked. "What?"
"It only reads up to 8000 RPMs. But your engine doesn't stop at 8000. That sudden burst of power you felt? That was just the beginning. I'd bet money this engine revs past ten. Maybe all the way to twelve or even thirteen."
Collei stared, stunned. Her pulse kicked up again.
Seele unbuckled her harness and slid out. "Come on. Let's pop the hood."
The metal creaked slightly as Collei opened the latches and raised the fiberglass lid. Moonlight and a single streetlamp cast long shadows across the engine bay.
The motor sat gleaming beneath it all—metallic, raw, menacing.
Seele's tone shifted, now more like a mechanic or a racer than a rival.
"Your original engine was the blue-top 4A-GE. Solid block. But this—" she gestured with a nod, "—this is a 20-valve Silvertop. Individual throttle bodies. Higher compression. And no VVTi."
Collei swallowed. "So… not stock."
Seele shook her head. "Not even close. No variable valve timing means one thing—it's been stripped for racing. Tuned to breathe high, rev high, scream high. But you've been shifting at 8000 because that's where the stock tach ends."
She turned toward her. "You're fighting blind, Collei. You don't even know when your powerband starts. That's why your drifts feel off—it only comes alive in a narrow window, way above where you're used to shifting."
Collei clenched her fists at her sides, trembling just slightly.
"All this time… I've been trying to tame a car that wasn't giving me the truth."
Seele smirked. "Your 'dad' probably installed a limiter and left the stock cluster in place—so you wouldn't blow it up before learning how to handle it. You've been driving with a muzzle on."
She pointed at the gauge cluster. "You need a new tach—one that reads up to 13,000. And proper sensors. Oil temp, oil pressure, water temp. This kind of engine won't give you a second chance if it overheats."
Collei knelt beside the front bumper, laying a hand on the fender. Her voice came soft.
"You've been holding out on me this whole time, haven't you…"
The engine didn't answer, but in the stillness of the night, something in its gleam seemed to shine a little brighter—like it was finally acknowledging her.
For the first time in a long while, Collei felt it not just in her hands, but in her chest.
That thrill.
Excitement.