Victoria had become a fixture at Apex Performance over the past three weeks, her pearl white Lexus IS300 appearing in the lot almost as regularly as Chase's Eclipse. At first, the other mechanics had given Chase knowing looks and elbow nudges, assuming she was just another trophy girlfriend from the east side slumming it with street racers. But Victoria had quickly proven she was different—she'd show up in coveralls, asking detailed questions about suspension geometry and turbo lag, taking notes in a leather-bound journal that probably cost more than most people's car payments.
"So the anti-roll bar diameter affects the roll stiffness, which changes the lateral load transfer distribution," Victoria said, crouched next to Chase as he worked on a customer's Integra. "But if you go too stiff, you sacrifice mechanical grip because the inside wheel lifts."
"Exactly," Chase said, genuinely impressed. She'd been asking smart questions from the beginning, but lately she'd been synthesizing the information, connecting concepts, thinking like an engineer rather than just memorizing facts.
"And that's why you run a stiffer front bar on your Eclipse for understeer correction, but not so stiff that you lose front grip in slow corners."
"You've been doing homework."
Victoria smiled. "I don't do anything halfway. You should know that by now."
The relationship between them had settled into something neither could quite define. They weren't dating—Chase had made that clear after the drag race, and Victoria hadn't pushed—but they weren't exactly just friends either. They texted most days, usually about cars but sometimes about nothing in particular. They'd gotten dinner twice, ostensibly to discuss racing lines, but the conversations had drifted into movies and music and childhood stories. Nick was losing his mind trying to figure out what they were, and Chase found a certain satisfaction in keeping everyone—including himself—guessing.
"Hey, Chase!" Nick appeared from the break room, wearing the black apron and name tag from Java Junction, the coffee shop two blocks over. "I'm heading to work. Need anything?"
"You're working again tonight?" Chase checked his watch. Four PM on a Tuesday. "Didn't you just do the morning shift?"
"Sarah called in sick. Manager asked if I could cover." Nick didn't sound upset about it, which was new. Before Victoria had connected him with her friend who managed Java Junction three weeks ago, Nick had complained about every job he'd had. But barista work seemed to suit him—he'd always been weirdly good at making coffee, treating it like a hobby, experimenting with different roasts and brew methods in their apartment kitchen.
"You're actually enjoying this," Victoria observed.
"It's better than the warehouse," Nick admitted. "Plus the manager says if I keep this up, she'll train me on the espresso machine. That's the real art, you know—dialing in the grind, controlling the extraction time, getting the crema just right."
Chase shared a look with Victoria. "He's gone full coffee nerd."
"I prefer 'coffee enthusiast,'" Nick said with dignity. "Anyway, I'm out. See you tonight?" He directed the question at Chase. "Races at the industrial district. Samantha said there's someone new showing up."
"I'll be there," Chase confirmed.
After Nick left, Victoria wandered over to where the Eclipse sat, partially disassembled, engine bay exposed. Chase had been upgrading it over the past two weeks—new fuel injectors, a larger fuel pump, an AEM engine management system that he'd gotten at cost through Apex's vendor connections. The 20G turbo was staying, but with better fuel delivery and tuning, he'd be pushing close to 350 horsepower.
"When will she be ready?" Victoria asked, running a hand along the Turquoise Green Pearl fender with the familiarity of someone who'd helped tear it down.
"Friday, maybe Saturday. Depends on if I can get the tune dialed in." Chase wiped his hands on a rag. "Why?"
"There's a sprint race Saturday night. Warehouse district to the docks, about four miles. Samantha told me some serious names are showing up." Victoria's expression turned mischievous. "And I may have told a few people that the guy with the Turquoise Eclipse is going to be there."
"You're managing my racing schedule now?"
"Someone has to. You're terrible at self-promotion." Victoria pulled out her Motorola Razr, showed him a text thread. "See? Marcus asked if you're racing. Derek wants a rematch. Even that guy with the Evolution asked about you."
Chase looked at the messages, feeling a complicated mixture of pride and anxiety. A month ago he'd been just another mechanic, anonymous, safe. Now people were specifically asking about him, specifically wanting to race him. The Eclipse in the parking lot had become an advertisement for Apex Performance—his boss had noticed the increased foot traffic, customers coming in asking about "the shop that built that Turquoise Eclipse." Last Friday, he'd gotten a hundred-dollar bonus with a note: Keep racing. Good for business.
"I'll be ready," Chase said. "As long as the Eclipse cooperates."
"And if it doesn't?" Victoria gestured toward her IS300. "You can borrow mine. I've got it dialed in nice for circuits now, thanks to some very good instruction."
The offer hung between them, weighted with unspoken implications. Letting someone drive your car in a street race was trust, the kind of trust that went beyond friendship and into something deeper. Chase met her eyes, saw the challenge there, the same challenge that had been present since their first meeting.
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Chase said.
Friday night, the Eclipse still wasn't ready. The new engine management system was throwing a fault code Chase couldn't quite diagnose, something about the cam angle sensor that shouldn't have mattered but apparently did. He'd spent four hours after work tracing wiring, checking grounds, reflashing the ECU. Nothing worked.
"Just use Victoria's car," Nick said for the third time, leaning against the garage door frame. "She already said you could."
"I want to race my own car."
"Your own car is being a pain in the ass. Her car is sitting right there, fully functional, and she specifically offered." Nick checked his phone. "Plus we need to leave in twenty minutes if we want to get good parking."
Chase stared at the Eclipse, at the exposed wiring harness and the laptop still plugged into the ECU. He was close to figuring it out, he could feel it, but close wasn't the same as done. And Nick was right—they needed to leave soon.
His phone buzzed. Victoria: Offer still stands. Keys are in the usual spot. Win or lose, just bring her back in one piece. - V
"She's not even here and she's reading my mind," Chase muttered.
"That's because she knows you," Nick said. "Also because I texted her ten minutes ago saying you were being stubborn."
"Traitor."
"Pragmatist." Nick grabbed the keys to Victoria's IS300 from the hook where she'd left them earlier. "Come on. Let's go show people what you can do in someone else's car."
The drive to the industrial district felt strange. The IS300 was different than the Eclipse—more refined, better interior, smoother power delivery. The sequential transmission Victoria had installed meant no clutch, just paddle shifters that snapped through gears with mechanical precision. It was a better car in most objective measures, but it wasn't his car, and that mattered more than Chase wanted to admit.
The lot was packed when they arrived—easily seventy or eighty cars, the biggest turnout Chase had seen since returning to the scene. The warehouse district races were always popular, but this felt different, more electric, like something significant was about to happen.
Samantha found them immediately. "You brought the Lexus. Smart—your Eclipse would've been at a disadvantage tonight."
"Why?" Chase climbed out, scanning the crowd.
"Because of him." Samantha nodded toward a black Honda Civic Type R, the real Japanese import, not the US-market Si. It sat on Work wheels, aggressive aero, a hood that was clearly carbon fiber. The driver stood next to it, mid-twenties, athletic build, wearing a racing suit from what looked like a professional series. "Ryan Cooper. Just moved to Olympic City from the west coast. He's been tearing up the circuit races out there—heard he's got backing from some sponsors, thinking about going pro."
"In a Civic?"
"Don't let the displacement fool you. That's a K20A with individual throttle bodies, running probably 280 to the wheels. More importantly, the guy can drive. He's won four races since showing up two weeks ago."
Chase watched Ryan for a moment. There was a confidence in the way he moved, the way he checked over his car, that spoke of serious experience. This wasn't some weekend warrior with more money than skill. This was competition.
"You think I can take him?" Chase asked.
Samantha smiled. "That's why you're here, isn't it? To find out."
Nick appeared with bottles of water, slightly out of breath. "Dude, I just heard—apparently Ryan called you out specifically. Asked the organizers to put you two in the same heat."
"Why would he do that?"
"Because you're the other name everyone's talking about," Samantha said. "Two new drivers, both undefeated in their last four races, both making waves. People want to see you two go head to head."
"I'm not undefeated," Chase pointed out. "I've taken second twice."
"In your first five races back after three years off. That's basically undefeated." Samantha's expression turned serious. "Listen, Chase. You're good. Really good. But Ryan's been racing continuously, training, developing his skills while you were wrenching. This is going to be your toughest competition yet."
"Good," Chase heard himself say, surprising himself with how much he meant it. "I didn't come back just to race people I can easily beat."
Victoria arrived twenty minutes later, taking an Uber from some east-side event she'd been attending. She'd traded her usual casual style for a black dress and heels, looking wildly out of place among the hoodies and racing jackets. Several heads turned as she walked over to Chase.
"How's she handling?" Victoria asked, nodding toward her IS300.
"Like a dream. The sequential transmission is perfect for this circuit."
"I know. That's why I offered." Victoria's smile was knowing. "Win this race, and I'll let you drive it whenever you want. Lose, and you owe me a full day helping me install the new coilovers I ordered."
"That's not exactly a punishment. I was going to help anyway."
"I know. But it's more fun with stakes." Victoria glanced at Ryan's Civic, then back at Chase. "He's good. I've seen his times from the west coast circuits. But you're better in technical sections. Use that."
"Planning to."
"Heat four, line up!" someone called.
Chase's heat included Ryan, the 240SX that had beaten him weeks ago, and a modified Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution VIII. All serious builds, all skilled drivers. This was going to be interesting.
The warehouse district sprint was brutal—four miles of industrial roads, tight corners mixed with medium-length straights, and sections where the pavement was barely holding together. Chase had run this course twice before, knew most of the lines, but Ryan had run it three times and held the current fastest time.
They lined up at the start, the IS300's inline-six rumbling smoothly next to the Civic's high-strung four-cylinder scream. Ryan glanced over, nodded once—acknowledgment, respect, challenge. Chase nodded back.
The starter raised his flashlight. Chase's hands found their positions on the wheel, paddle shifters ready. The sequential transmission meant he could keep both hands on the wheel during shifts, a huge advantage in the technical sections.
The light dropped.
Chase launched perfectly, the IS300's power delivery smooth and linear. Ryan got a better start—lighter car, better power-to-weight—but Chase stayed close. The first turn was coming, a tight right-hander that led into a decreasing radius left.
Ryan braked late, turned in aggressively. Fast entry but compromised exit. Chase braked earlier, took a wider line, got on the throttle sooner. They exited side-by-side.
The next section was a series of medium-speed esses through shipping containers. This was where Chase could shine—the IS300's chassis balance was perfect, and the paddle shifters let him rev-match on downshifts without losing hand position. He flowed through the corners, finding rhythm, building momentum.
Ryan matched him corner for corner. The Civic was lighter, more nimble, and Ryan's inputs were surgical—precise steering, perfect throttle control, minimal wasted motion. This was someone who'd spent serious time developing their craft.
They approached the halfway point still side-by-side, neither giving an inch. The 240SX and Evolution had fallen back, unable to maintain the pace. It was just Chase and Ryan now, IS300 and Civic, silver and black.
The bumpy section—Chase's advantage. The IS300's slightly softer suspension soaked up the rough pavement better than the Civic's race-spec setup. Chase pulled half a car length ahead.
Ryan responded immediately, using a shorter line through the next corner to close the gap. They went under the overpass together, their exhaust notes echoing off concrete, a symphony of high-performance engineering.
Final mile. The course opened up slightly here, longer straights between corners. The IS300 had more power, but the Civic was lighter. They were evenly matched, and Chase knew it would come down to who made fewer mistakes.
Turn fourteen—a long sweeping right that led onto the dock access road. Chase knew this turn, had walked it earlier in the week with Victoria, found the hidden grip on the outside where oil stains suggested everyone else was taking the inside. He committed to the outside line, trusted Victoria's IS300 to stick.
It stuck.
Chase exited turn fourteen with a full car-length lead, and Ryan had no answer. The final straight to the docks was only a quarter mile, not enough distance for the Civic to close the gap on power alone.
Chase crossed the finish line first, Ryan less than a second behind.
The crowd was going insane when Chase climbed out of the IS300. Nick appeared immediately, shouting something Chase couldn't hear over the noise. Victoria was there too, still in her dress and heels, looking absurdly pleased with herself.
Ryan walked over, hand extended. "Hell of a drive. That line through fourteen—I've never seen anyone take it that wide."
"Learned it this week," Chase admitted, shaking his hand. "You almost had me in the esses."
"Almost only counts in horseshoes." Ryan grinned. "You're as good as everyone said. We should do this again sometime—when you're in your own car."
"Deal."
They were surrounded by people now—Marcus congratulating them both, Derek asking about Chase's setup, Samantha looking satisfied like she'd orchestrated the whole thing. The energy was different than previous races, more intense, more significant. Chase realized that tonight had been a statement—not just that he could win, but that he belonged at this level.
"Chase."
The voice cut through the noise, quiet but commanding. The crowd parted slightly, and Chase found himself looking at someone he recognized only from reputation and old photos—Eddie, the leader of The Eastsiders, the most prominent racer in Olympic City.
Eddie was older than most of the crowd, maybe early thirties, wearing a leather jacket with The Eastsiders logo embroidered on the back. Behind him sat his legendary car—a dark orange Nissan Skyline GT-R V-Spec R34, the one that had been Olympic City's benchmark for years. Chase had seen photos, heard stories, but seeing it in person was different. The car was immaculate, aggressive, purposeful—a machine built by someone who understood racing at the highest level.
"That was good racing," Eddie said, his tone neutral but appraising. "Both of you." He looked between Chase and Ryan. "Technical, clean, fast. The kind of racing that actually means something."
"Thanks," Chase managed, surprised by how much Eddie's approval mattered. This was street racing royalty acknowledging him.
Eddie studied Chase for a long moment. "I've been watching you. Four races in your Eclipse, two wins. Tonight in a borrowed car against serious competition—another win. You've got talent, instincts, and more importantly, you've got discipline. That's rare."
He turned to Ryan. "You too. I've heard about the west coast races. Four wins here in two weeks. Impressive." Eddie looked between them again. "Olympic City needs drivers like you two. People who race because they love it, not just because they want to be famous or get sponsored."
"We just want to get faster," Ryan said.
"Good answer." Eddie pulled out his phone. "I'm organizing something next month. Bigger stakes, better drivers, serious competition. If you two keep racing like this, you'll get an invitation." He paused. "Until then, keep pushing each other. That race tonight? That's what street racing should be—two drivers at the limit, making each other better."
Eddie nodded once, then walked back to his Skyline. The crowd watched as the dark orange R34 fired up and drove away, the RB26 engine note echoing off the warehouse walls.
Chase stood there, processing what had just happened. Eddie had noticed him. Eddie, the benchmark, the legend, the guy everyone measured themselves against. Had noticed him and Ryan both, acknowledged their skills, suggested they might race against him in the future.
"Holy shit," Nick breathed. "Dude. Eddie just—you just—holy shit."
Victoria squeezed Chase's shoulder. "Told you that you were good."
Ryan was grinning. "Guess we're doing this for real now. You want to get faster?"
"Always," Chase said.
"Then let's keep racing. Next week, the week after, however long it takes. We push each other until we're good enough to race Eddie." Ryan extended his hand again. "Deal?"
Chase shook it. "Deal."
As the crowd dispersed and the races continued, Chase found himself looking at Victoria's IS300, at the Turquoise Eclipse waiting back at Apex Performance, at the warehouse district lights reflecting off wet pavement. A month ago he'd been content in the garage, hidden away, safe. Now Eddie knew his name. Ryan wanted to race him regularly. People were asking about him, watching for him, expecting him to show up and perform.
The garage was still important—Chase loved building cars, loved the precision work, the engineering challenges. But this, the racing, the competition, the constant pursuit of being just a little bit faster—this was what he'd been missing. This was what he'd given up three years ago when Marco crashed.
Maybe it was time to stop hiding.
Maybe it was time to actually see how good he could become.
Nick appeared with his usual terrible timing. "So, are you and Victoria finally going to—"
"No," Chase and Victoria said simultaneously.
Nick threw up his hands. "You two are killing me. Seriously. Everyone can see—"
"Nick," Chase interrupted. "Go get coffee. You're better when you're caffeinated."
"I'm always caffeinated. I work at a coffee shop."
"Then go get more coffee."
Nick wandered off, muttering about stubborn racers and obvious chemistry. Victoria laughed, the sound cutting through the industrial district noise.
"He's not wrong, you know," she said quietly.
"About us?"
"About everyone seeing it." Victoria looked at him, expression unreadable in the sodium vapor lights. "But I like what we are right now. Undefined. Complicated. Honest."
"Me too," Chase admitted.
"Good." Victoria pulled out her keys, handed them to Chase. "Then take my car home. Yours won't be ready until tomorrow anyway. I'll catch a ride with Samantha."
"You sure?"
"Chase, I just watched you beat the west coast's rising star in my car. I trust you." She smiled. "Besides, you owe me a full day installing coilovers. I didn't forget the bet."
"You won that bet. I won the race."
"Details." Victoria was already walking away. "See you tomorrow at Apex. Nine AM. Bring breakfast."
Chase watched her go, then looked at Ryan, who was talking with Marcus and some of the other drivers. Tomorrow the Eclipse would be ready. Tomorrow he'd have his own car back, upgraded, faster, more capable. Tomorrow he'd start preparing for whatever Eddie had planned, whatever invitation might come.
But tonight, driving Victoria's IS300 home through Olympic City's empty streets, Chase let himself just exist in the moment—the satisfaction of a clean race well-driven, the knowledge that he belonged at this level, the anticipation of everything still ahead.
The Turquoise Eclipse would be ready soon.
And when it was, Olympic City was going to see exactly what Chase Bennington could do.