CHAPTER 8
Evren
Tokyo Drift - Teriyaki Boyz
The docks pulse with anticipation beneath a sea of crimson, violet, and electric-blue neon rippling across the dark river.
Hundreds of spectators crowd the shipping containers, cranes, rooftops, and catwalks, their cheers blending with pounding bass, revving engines, and the hiss of turbochargers venting pressure into the cool night air.
The drone flashes the countdown.
The second it hits one, I shift gears and launch forward at full speed.
My heart pounds, not with fear. Never.
With anticipation.
My Dodge Charger SRT Hellcat lurches ahead violently, tires screaming against the asphalt, the rear kicking out hard before snapping back into place.
I cut between two racers immediately—no space, no warning—forcing one of them to slam on the brakes just to avoid getting clipped.
My enhanced reflexes take over before my brain even catches up.
"Too fucking slow." I laugh, loud and sharp.
The docks rip open in front of me—tight lanes, uneven roads, corners that don't forgive mistakes.
I don't give a damn.
I drive like the road owes me space, like anything in my way is just another thing to fucking break through.
The first corner comes up, and I take it way too fast on purpose.
The car slides wide, almost smashing into the barrier, but I yank it back violently, snapping the rear into line before shooting forward.
No hesitation, no second thoughts.
This is how I breathe.
And tonight, I'm ready to crush every fucker who thinks they can beat me.
The weekly races aren't just entertainment. They are an escape, recruitment, and a chance to prove who deserves to be here.
Right now? I'm pissed off.
All week, the new recruits kept fucking up, damaging businesses, beating innocent people in the street for trespassing because they thought anyone wearing pink neon belonged to the Static Rebels.
And tonight, I'm not letting anyone weak—or some flashy asshole who drives like a damn ghost—take this one from me.
I need this, to draw the silence out, the anger.
One of the cars ahead tries to cut me off.
My eyes narrow.
Who the fuck does he think he is? Does this asshole even know who he's dealing with? He wants to play?
I'll show him. Nobody fucks with me.
I shift gears and slam my reinforced chassis straight into the back of his car.
I grin the second I see him lose control, even slightly.
I floor the gas pedal and ram him again, harder, at the perfect angle.
The car jerks violently sideways.
One last impact from my reinforced chassis sends the rear completely loose.
The front tires slam into an obstacle, sending the car rolling between two cargo containers.
I glance at the wreck for half a second as I blast past it. Not lethal, probably.
“Fuck yes!” I laugh, the sound tearing out of me, sharp and wild.
My eyes glow brighter with adrenaline, anticipation—whatever this feeling is.
I scan the road ahead, every car, every movement.
My pupils dart from one target to the next, catching every tiny shift.
The reflex enhancers wired into my body make every muscle tense beneath my skin, ready to react to the slightest mistake.
The first lap ends and only a few cars are still ahead of me.
During the second lap, I push even harder.
I'm probably doing a hundred miles an hour, but I don't even bother checking the dashboard.
Hearing that engine roar is too fucking addictive.
I blow past another car without even bothering to ram it. The driver isn't focused enough on the road. He'll probably kill himself before the race even ends.
I'm getting bored.
No one's actually giving me a challenge.
The Iron Hounds are falling behind.
Neon Raiden is still ahead—their cars are built for pure speed.
The Golden Kitsune are up there too, smart fuckers. Probably calculating trajectories and angles in real time like the obsessed nerds they are.
But the Static Rebels? I expected them to be more brutal. They’re ahead of me, but they’ve barely done shit today.
My eyes stay fixed on the road until I catch Jax on his damn bike, barking orders at his men in the car.
Oh. I spoke too soon.
One of the Static Rebels leans out of the passenger window and hurls a flaming barrel onto the road.
My grin returns.
Now this is getting interesting.
The barrel bounces violently across the asphalt, heading straight for me.
Instead of dodging, I yank the wheel and drive straight into it. Flames explode across my windshield in an instant.
My Charger catches fire.
I always coat parts of the car in flammable compounds for moments exactly like this. Gotta put on a show before a race.
Crimson Velocity isn’t afraid of fire.
We are the fucking fire.
I drift around another barrel, smoke curling from my tires.
I love races like this, when everything's messy and unpredictable.
I spot an amateur ahead and immediately cut in front of them, fishtailing hard enough to force the driver to slam on the brakes.
“Fucking amateurs,” I scoff. “Always predictable.”
I keep driving, analyzing every movement around me.
A Mercedes-AMG C63 up ahead.
It gives me the wrong energy—It’s not clean, nor confident.
It twitches in its lane, tiny corrections stacking on top of each other, hesitation bleeding into every movement.
A novice.
My grin spreads.
“Oh...” I floor the pedal again. “You're gonna break easy.”
The gap disappears in seconds.
I don't ease in behind it—I invade its space, my front bumper practically kissing theirs.
No warning. No buildup.
Brake lights flash in front of me.
Big mistake.
I laugh under my breath, edging even closer until I'm practically riding their rear bumper.
“Don't do that...” My voice comes out low and mocking. “Don't panic on me already.”
The car ahead swerves, trying to create some distance. I mirror it instantly, sticking to it.
Leaving no escape.
A man's voice cuts through the noise—muffled, but loud enough, angry and shaky.
“What the fuck are you doing?! Back the fuck off!”
I tilt my head slightly. Listening to him is entertaining.
Why would I stop? Breaking novices thinking they can compete here is way funnier.
“Nah.”
I snap the wheel left, surging alongside the car—close enough to be seen, too close, our mirrors nearly clipping.
The Mercedes is forced wide, its flank grinding against the barrier, sparks exploding into the dark.
The driver jerks his head toward me, shouting, furious.
I don't even look at him.
His voice is nothing more than background noise.
A dark chuckle escapes me as I start feinting, nudging my car toward his side before pulling away at the last second.
“Oh!” I fake a note of fear. “This is getting narrower. Better be careful!”
Something in my peripheral vision catches my attention.
Beside the copper-haired driver.
My eyes flick over and stop.
“Wait,” I whisper, more to myself than to him.
I lean farther over the steering wheel to get a better look. What I see makes my eyes narrow.
There is a woman.
She has long black hair, but she isn't moving.
Aw, did I scare her? What kind of sane woman gets into a street race anyway? This isn’t for women.
Especially with a novice like this guy behind the wheel.
My expression shifts instantly—something sharper, more intrigued.
“Well, fuck me.” I lean toward the window, raising my voice just enough to cut through the roar of engines and screeching tires. “You let him drive with you in the car?”
My grin turns mean.
“Bad choice.” I gesture lazily toward myself with a wink. “You really picked him? You could've chosen someone... like me.”
“GET THE HELL AWAY FROM US!” the man yells again, louder this time.
I cut him off by swerving directly in front of them, close enough to force an immediate reaction.
The other car jerks violently, tires screaming.
I burst out laughing.
“Relax, I got you, sweetheart." I tap the brakes, just enough. “Let me help you get rid of him. He is a danger for you.”
The car nearly slams into me before swerving away at the last second.
It's unstable now.
Perfect.
I accelerate again, then cut right, then left. No pattern. No rhythm.
Forcing constant corrections.
I'm not racing anymore—I'm playing.
“C'mon, keep up... don't lose it yet.”
The driver's voice cracks, panic bleeding through every word.
“ST-STOP FUCKING DOING THAT!”
I glance in the mirror and see it.
That exact moment when control slips, when adrenaline gives way to fear.
“Oh... there it is.”
I swerve in again, harder this time, crowding their front bumper and giving them no room to recover.
The driver overcorrects.
The car fishtails, tires screaming as the rear swings wide. It slams against the concrete barrier with a deafening scrape, sparks exploding along the bodywork as metal grinds against reinforced steel.
The impact throws the car sideways, but the driver somehow wrestles it back under control, leaving behind a crumpled quarter panel and a trail of shattered carbon fiber.
I let my car roll forward, engine still roaring, like nothing happened.
Then, slowly, I brake, step out without a hint of urgency nor concern.
They could be dead, what a waste. Especially the passenger, she was pretty.
My boots hit the pavement in slow, steady steps.
I should be racing, I should be winning.
Instead, I'm far more interested in the idiot who thought entering a street race—and bringing a passenger along—was a good idea.
I walk toward the wreck, hands hanging loosely at my sides.
As I reach the driver's side, I glance through the window, he's still moving.
I ignore him completely, circling the hood, I vault over the barrier and stop beside the passenger door.
I lean down to peer through the cracked window.
There she is.
My eyes drag over her body, slow and deliberate. I'm not even trying to hide it.
Is she alive? She hasn't moved.
I click my tongue.
If she's dead... She should've picked someone who actually knew how to drive.
A pained grunt escapes her.
She's alive.
My head tilts as I lean closer, slipping my upper body through the broken window.
I hold my own breath, listening for hers.
There it is, steady, not even labored.
“Well...” A beat. “You held up better than him.”
I tap the frame once, the metal creaking beneath the impact.
“You always let bitches risk your life like that, or was this a special occasion?”
I grab her chin and lift it, forcing her to look at me.
My gaze stays locked on hers, heavy and intrusive.
When she blinks and opens her eyes, my breath catches.
Different-colored eyes—One pale blue and one pale green.
Mods? Or natural?
It doesn't matter, not right now.
“Need a hand?” My voice drops into something almost like a purr.
I tilt my head slightly, black-and-red streaked hair falling across my forehead as the glow in my hazel eyes brightens.
She says nothing, probably trying to process what happened to her.
“You should've been in my car instead.” My smirk spreads slowly. “Not with this novice fucker. Are you an idiot?”