Ace punched the throttle. The S-7 responded like a panther, its electric turbines whining a frequency that made his teeth ache. He took the first hairpin at 140, his neural-linked steering reading his thoughts before his hands could move. Perfect. Clinical. Ghost-like.
Ace saw it. So did Rose.
Rose laughed—a real, thunderous laugh. She reached down and pulled a bottle of cheap tequila from her shredded glovebox. Speed Racer
Ace’s only competition was the woman they called Riot Rose.
When he emerged, Rose was on his flank.
Behind them, the S-7 beeped a lonely, automated alert. Ace didn’t look back. Some ghosts, he realized, are meant to be laid to rest. And some roads are meant to be driven with your hands, not your head.
Mile fifty. The tunnel section. Ace activated the S-7’s active aero, the wings flattening, the underbody glowing blue as it suctioned to the tarmac. He shot into the dark like a bullet. For three miles, there was only the hum of the turbines and the flicker of his own heartbeat on the monitor. Ace punched the throttle
He killed the AI. He ripped the neural link from his temple. He grabbed the manual steering wheel, a decorative relic he’d never touched. And for the first time in ten years, he drove .
Her car, the Cherry Bomb , was a relic—a roaring, crimson muscle car from a century ago, held together by welding scars and sheer will. She had no sponsor, no telemetry, not even a working radio. Just a lead foot and a smile that Ace could see in his rearview as they lined up at the unmarked start. Perfect
Rose shot through the slot, crossing the dead zone under the silent radio tower. She’d won. But she slammed her own brakes and spun the car sideways, blocking the canyon.
Ace looked in his mirror. Rose was still coming, a wounded, beautiful disaster of fire and noise. She didn’t know she was about to win. She was just driving.