Chapter 1

Eighteen Years Later

June 2019

The soft glow of streetlights bathed the city streets in a golden hue as Hisashi weaved her black Nissan S13 through the bustling traffic. The rhythm of the city hummed around her—a symphony of honking horns, muffled laughter, and the distant wail of a siren. The cool night breeze slipped through her slightly cracked window, carrying the heady scent of asphalt, exhaust fumes, and a faint trace of blooming jasmine from the nearby parks.

Ring Ring

The dashboard display lit up, the name "Uncle Mo" flashing brightly against the dim interior. Hisashi's sharp eyes flicked to the screen before returning to the road. Her left hand instinctively found the buttons on the steering wheel, pressing to answer the call.

"Aein!" Uncle Mo's warm voice filled the car, a familiar comfort that wrapped around her like a soft blanket.

"Yo," she replied casually, her tone belying the fatigue lingering from her long day. She made a smooth right turn, the engine purring beneath her like a loyal companion.

"Did you finish delivering?" he asked, his tone light but concerned.

"Yup," she replied, glancing sideways as she changed lanes. "They were... handsy."

Mo's hearty laugh echoed through the speakers. "Well, they did pay double for you to deliver it."

Her brows furrowed as she glared at the screen, fully aware he couldn't see her. "You're so considerate."

"The guys love the food," he teased, "and apparently your shirt."

"Uncle Mo!" she snapped, half-amused, half-annoyed.

"Relax, I'm kidding," he said, though she could practically hear the grin in his voice. "Anyway, there's another delivery at 1 a.m. No creepy hands this time. Think you're up for it?"

"I'm nearby already." Her reply was cut short by the sudden roar of an engine revving nearby. She craned her neck slightly, catching the telltale gleam of headlights in her side mirror.

"Great! I'll have it ready for you. Be safe, Hisashi."

The call ended with a soft click, and she muttered under her breath, "You owe me for the gropey part, Mo."

As she turned onto a quieter road, the city skyline loomed in the distance, its towering buildings glinting like sentinels under the starlit sky. The rhythm of the traffic ebbed and flowed, matching her own heartbeat as her mind wandered. Memories flooded back—her father's untimely death, the move to Chuhoku, her mother's remarriage, and the sanctuary she'd found in Kumoku's presence during summers.

She thought of Kumoku and his wife, Aimi, whose warmth had filled the void left by her father. Aimi's passing three years ago had left an ache that never truly healed, but Kumoku's strength and their shared dedication to the restaurant kept them going. In her car, customized with care by Kumoku as a graduation gift, Hisashi felt connected to her roots—a piece of her father's legacy and a testament to her uncle's craftsmanship.

Her introspection was shattered by the sudden roar of two engines behind her. Before she could react, a yellow Nissan 180SX sped past, grazing her side mirror with an aggressive recklessness that shattered the glass. Her heart skipped a beat, anger flaring like a match struck against stone.

"You fucking bastard!" she yelled, her voice cracking with rage as her grip on the steering wheel tightened. Her mind raced as fast as her pulse. The S13 wasn't just a car—it was her sanctuary, a labor of love from her uncle, and a symbol of her own freedom and resilience.

Kumoku's voice echoed in her memory: "If you ever feel like kicking someone's ass, do it for a reason—not for show." His wisdom tugged at her conscience, but the blatant disrespect ignited something primal within her.

"You want to race, punk?" she muttered under her breath, her dark eyes narrowing as the clock on the dashboard flashed 11:58 p.m. With a flick of her wrist, she revved the engine, the deep growl of her S13 cutting through the night. "Alright. Let's dance."

Shifting gears, Hisashi surged forward, her car hugging the curves of the road with precision. The headlights of her S13 cut through the darkness, gaining on the yellow 180SX and its companion. The city blurred around her, neon signs and streetlights streaking past as her focus sharpened.

NISSAN 180sx

The city's streets transformed into a racing arena as adrenaline-fueled cars zoomed past each other, their sleek bodies slicing through the air like sharp blades. The neon lights from billboards and storefronts blended into a mesmerizing display of colors, painting the surroundings with a surreal, dreamlike quality. It was as if the city itself had come alive, pulsating with the heartbeat of the racing community.

Engines roared like wild beasts, their thunderous symphony echoing through the concrete canyons, filling the night air with a symphony of power and speed. Each rev of the engines sent shivers down the spines of both participants and bystanders alike, igniting the thrill of the race in everyone present.

The racing scene crackled with energy, an electrifying atmosphere charged with anticipation and fierce competition. The city's familiar landmarks became fleeting glimpses, a blur of lights and shapes as the cars surged forward, leaving everything else in their wake. It was a high-speed dance, a battle of wills, and the stakes were high.

As the Lexus IS of Dfurious's Team struggled to keep up with the swift maneuvers of the yellow Nissan 180sx, frustration fueled his taunts, "You think you can beat me, shithead?" he weaved through the traffic with precision, showcasing his skill and experience on the streets.

"Fucking noobs getting cars they can't drive," he taunted, his voice laced with confidence as he shifted gears, revving the engine and opening up the gap between them. The thrill of the race pushed his limits, and he could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins, heightening my senses. His left hand hastily pushed the strands of brown hair falling on his eyes, tugging it to the back of his ear.

Up ahead was the northern exit to Fujima's mountain, a notorious drifting spot that challenged even the most skilled racers. A smirk played on his lips as he prepared for the upcoming drift. The exit curve was perfect for initiating a drift, and he relished the opportunity to showcase his mastery of the art.

"Let's see how much you can keep up," he teased, the excitement clear in his laughter as he approached the curve with precision. The moment was electrifying, and he embraced the thrill of the drift, skillfully maneuvering through the bend with finesse and control.

As he completed the drift, the satisfaction was clear in his expression. "Let me kick your ass again," he called out, my words filled with playful challenge, adrenaline coursing through his veins. The race was far from over, and the night was young, promising more exhilarating moments to come.

In this high-stakes world of underground racing, every turn, every drift, and every acceleration held the potential for triumph or defeat. The asphalt stage was set, and with the city as the backdrop, they would continue to push our limits, seeking that fleeting moment of victory that made it all worthwhile. The asphalt beneath their wheels bore witness to their battles, each tire screech a mark of determination, leaving behind scars that told the tale of a fierce, never-ending competition on the streets.

LEXUS IS

"Freaking douchebag," he muttered under his breath, his frustration bubbling over as he trailed the infamous top amateur of the DriftOne Team. The yellow 180SX, driven by Tawa, always seemed to choose racing spots where he held the upper hand—routes he knew like the back of his hand, designed to leave his opponents struggling to keep up.

Navigating the unfamiliar terrain, he gripped the wheel tightly, his eyes darting between the winding road ahead and the taillights of the 180SX in the distance. Each turn felt like a gamble, the sharp curves and sudden ascents demanding every ounce of focus he could muster.

Then, out of nowhere, something on his left caught his eye. His breath hitched as a sleek, black Nissan S13 glided effortlessly into his peripheral vision. The car seemed to defy gravity, its every move precise and fluid, as if it were carving poetry into the asphalt. The way it closed the gap with such grace left him momentarily stunned.

"This guy is good," he muttered, a mix of admiration and disbelief tinging his voice. The driver's skill was undeniable, the kind that sent a shiver of awe down his spine. He didn't recognize the S13, nor did it bear the markings of any team he knew.

His attention snapped back to the yellow 180SX as it surged ahead, taking a commanding lead as the road began to climb into the mountains. But just as quickly as the black S13 had appeared, it vanished from sight, swallowed by the darkness.

"What the—?" he began, his voice trailing off in confusion.

The roar of an engine to his left sent his heart racing. The black S13 reemerged, sliding with surgical precision between his car and the 180SX, its headlights cutting through the night like blades. It wasn't just a challenge; it was a statement. The driver had planned this moment, waiting for the perfect opportunity to disrupt Tawa's dominance and turn the race into something unforgettable.

As the S13 darted forward, his eyes were drawn to a detail on its rear glass—a simple sticker at the top spelling out SHIN. No flashy team logo, no affiliations. Just the name. The Burakkupansā.

Whispers about the mysterious Black Panther had rippled through the racing community, stories of a shadowy racer who defied convention with raw talent and unmatched precision. Now, here it was—no longer just a rumor but a living, breathing legend in the making. The tinted windows shielded the driver's identity, only adding to the enigma.

The black S13 seemed to move like a phantom, its taillights tracing fiery streaks against the darkness. Every drift, every feint, every perfectly timed acceleration told a story of mastery and control. It wasn't just racing—it was art on wheels, performed on the unforgiving canvas of the mountain roads.

His pulse quickened as he tried to keep pace, torn between marveling at the S13's performance and watching his rearview mirror, where the yellow 180SX was starting to lose ground. It was as if the Burakkupansā had rewritten the rules of engagement, shifting the race's focus entirely.

This night, he knew, would etch itself into the annals of street racing lore. The mountain pass, the tension in the air, the enigmatic black Nissan S13—all of it felt like the birth of something extraordinary.

The Black Panther had arrived, leaving everyone in its wake with one undeniable truth: a new legend had claimed the streets, and no one would ever forget the night they witnessed its ascent.