They surfaced into a storm.Not rain—wind.The kind that ripped billboards off buildings and tossed them like paper.
The city had changed while they were below. Skyscrapers glistened with a strange oil-slick sheen, streets warped upward in impossible angles, and every surface reflected the night like black ice.
No traction. Anywhere.
Omega's tires spun wildly the moment they left the tunnel ramp. Marcel fought the wheel, balancing throttle and steering like a knife on a tightrope. Adrian tapped the dash nervously. "This isn't just slick pavement. It's—"
"Engineered," Marcel finished.
They weren't alone.
From the shadows of the glass-coated streets, cars emerged—low, sharp silhouettes, each with blue underglow that cut through the windblown debris. They moved in perfect synchronization, like predators surrounding prey.
One voice crackled over the comms, deep and calm.
"Welcome to The Glasmire. The road belongs to us."
It was The Gripless, an urban myth Marcel had heard once, whispered in pit lanes between races. Drivers who abandoned traction entirely, mastering the art of perpetual slide. On dry roads, they'd be mediocre. Here, they were gods.
The first attack came from the left. A sleek, gull-wing coupe shot past, then slammed into a sideways drift, blocking the path. Marcel had no brakes to save him—braking meant spinning into oblivion.
He dropped two gears, using the engine's roar to slow them. Omega's rear swung out, catching the insane angle at just the right moment to slide around the blockade. The world became a blur of light and motion, the horizon tilting with every move.
"Three more on our tail," Adrian warned.
The streets rose into a vertical incline, a hill that shouldn't exist in the middle of a city. The Gripless didn't slow. They accelerated, using their slide momentum to slingshot up the glassy slope. Marcel followed, each second a gamble between control and chaos.
Halfway up, the wind hit harder, and Omega's rear wheels began to lose contact entirely. For a moment, they were more skating than driving. The lead Gripless driver twisted their machine into a full 360 spin mid-climb, mocking Marcel while still gaining speed.
That was the breaking point.
Marcel jammed the nitrous. The sudden surge hurled Omega forward, the G-force pressing them into their seats like a sledgehammer. They rocketed past two Gripless, cutting so close the side mirrors almost touched.
The hill crested—and dropped into freefall.
Omega launched off the edge, the city sprawled upside-down beneath them. Glass panels jutted from buildings like ramps, and every road below shimmered with that same impossible slickness. Marcel angled Omega into a rooftop landing, the suspension screaming but holding.
The Gripless followed, raining down around them like falling stars, each drift more impossible than the last.
Then came the voice again.
"You're good. But in The Glasmire, the road isn't your enemy—it's your judge."
Ahead, a bridge stretched between two towers, twisting in midair like a ribbon. No supports. No safety rails. Only glass, wind, and the black abyss below.
Marcel smirked. "Then let's pass judgment."
They hit the bridge, Omega's slide perfectly matching the insane curvature. The Gripless tried to box him in, but Marcel timed his drifts with the wind itself, letting gusts shove him into impossible angles.
At the final twist, the lead Gripless overcommitted, spinning out into the abyss. Marcel didn't look back.
When they reached the end of the bridge, Adrian's voice was low. "They'll be back."
Marcel kept his eyes ahead. "Good. I'll be ready."