Chapter 24

Hisashi leaned back against the sidewalk curb, her arms crossed over her chest, her patience hanging by a thread.

"Why don't you want me to race?" Her voice carried a sharper edge than before, the frustration no longer masked behind pleasantries.

Hen Akoto sat beside her, one elbow propped on his knee, his other hand idly scrolling through his phone. Their cars were parked nearby at Fuhi Station, the area still quiet before the others arrived. The hum of a distant engine was the only sound breaking the stillness, making her question feel heavier in the air.

Hen paused mid-scroll, fingers hovering over the screen before he sighed and finally looked up. "It's not that I don't want you to," he answered, measured and careful, his voice betraying none of the conflict she knew was brewing inside him. "I'm looking for the right time for you to showcase your abilities."

Hisashi narrowed her eyes. "Are you scared something will happen to me?" she pressed, searching his face for a crack in his composure.

Hen immediately shook his head, but the faint hesitance in his voice gave him away. "Of course not."

Hisashi scoffed, standing abruptly and brushing the dust off her leggings. "Then put me out there."

Hen ran a hand through his hair, exhaling in frustration. "I can't just drop you in, Hisashi. These aren't casual races. Every match is calculated, every opponent knows exactly who they're up against. If I throw you in too soon, they'll eat you alive. They don't care how good you are. They care how much they can break you."

The word "new" clung to the air, stinging her pride. Hisashi turned her back to him, walking over to her car and leaning against the hood, arms folded. She gazed into the distance, clearly annoyed, pointedly avoiding looking at him.

Hen's gaze followed despite himself. The way her black leggings hugged her toned frame, the casual confidence in her stance—it made it impossible to look away. The soft glow of the station lamps traced the elegant lines of her silhouette, casting a warm glow over her features. Then, as if sensing his stare, Hisashi turned slightly, her sharp eyes locking onto his.

Hen quickly averted his gaze, embarrassment creeping into his expression. He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. Hisashi smirked faintly, her irritation giving way to amusement. "What's your plan now, Takawara?" she asked, sarcasm dripping from her tone.

Hen pushed himself up from the curb, forcing himself to sound unaffected. "Let's go for a ride," he said. "I'll explain everything properly."

Hisashi raised an eyebrow but slid into the passenger seat without protest. "This better be good."

The drive started in silence, the road stretching before them, illuminated only by the occasional streetlamp. Hen explained the intricacies of the drifting community, its unspoken rules, the way reputations were built and destroyed in a single night. Though Hisashi had her fair share of experience on the track, she listened carefully. The deeper layers of politics within the racing world weren't something that could be learned by skill alone.

Hen's posture relaxed as he drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the center console. Hisashi noticed how naturally he moved behind the wheel, every shift, every adjustment seamless. She had known he was good, but watching him now, she realized just how much racing was part of his very being.

She let her arm rest on the console, and the barest brush of skin against skin sent an unspoken charge between them. It was fleeting but impossible to ignore. Hen froze for half a heartbeat before pulling his arm back slightly, his cheeks tinged with something close to nervousness. Hisashi bit back a smirk, sensing he had felt it too. Neither of them spoke about it, but the air between them had changed.

When they returned to Fuhi Station, the atmosphere had shifted drastically. What was once a quiet meeting spot was now a storm of chaos. Cars were parked haphazardly, voices clashed in heated arguments, and the underlying tension was unmistakable.

Hen parked, instantly on alert. Hisashi stepped out behind him, her eyes scanning the scene. And then, she saw it.

Her car.

Spray-painted in neon letters across the door: "Not Built for the Streets."

Her tires? Slashed.

A mocking display of disrespect. A direct challenge.

Hen's jaw clenched, fury radiating off him. "What the hell is this?" His voice cut through the commotion, razor-sharp.

A few smirks spread across the faces of the rival team members. No words, just cocky amusement at their handiwork.

"Nice ride," a voice drawled.

Tawa. One of DriftOne's more vocal instigators. He crossed his arms, his gaze flicking from Hen to Hisashi, who remained motionless by the car.

"Shame about the paint job," he added smugly.

Laughter rippled through the group. Then, as if to silence them, an engine purred to life—a low, deliberate growl that demanded attention.

The low, deliberate growl of an engine rolled through the station, smooth and controlled, like a hunter stalking its prey.

A red Supra eased into view, prowling forward with an unsettling grace. The sleek, pristine exterior gleamed under the station lights, its calculated movements exuding the kind of confidence that came from knowing no one would dare stand in its way.

Hen already knew who it was before the driver even stepped out.

His stomach tightened, his jaw clenching instinctively.

Then the door opened, and he emerged.

The man moved with an air of effortless dominance, the kind that demanded attention without needing to ask for it. His tailored black shirt clung to his broad frame, his dark blue designer jacket catching just enough light to contrast starkly against the grit of the station. He didn't belong here, yet he commanded the space like it was his own personal stage.

Cold, calculating blue eyes locked onto Hen first.

It was a challenge.

Hen didn't look away, his muscles tensing as adrenaline surged through him. He was ready—prepared—to meet whatever game this bastard wanted to play.

But then—

The man's gaze shifted.

To her.

And that was when Hen felt it—the shift.

He turned to look at Hisashi, already expecting her to meet the stare with the same defiant fire she always carried. To see that quiet fury in her eyes, that sharp edge that made her impossible to intimidate.

Instead—

She wasn't moving.

Not a single muscle. Not even a breath.

Her face had gone ashen, drained of color like the life had been sucked straight out of her. Her hands twitched at her sides, but it wasn't in anticipation—it was the kind of reaction he'd seen in fighters before they lost control of their nerves.

Hen's stomach dropped.

This wasn't anger.

This wasn't shock.

This was fear.

Not just the kind that made you flinch. Not even the kind that sent your heart racing.

This was paralyzing.

Hisashi—the woman who had thrown herself into the heat of competition, who had stared down street racers, and anyone who dared to question her place in the scene—was standing there like she was staring at a ghost.

No.

Like she was staring at a nightmare she thought she had escaped.

Hen's pulse hammered against his ribs, but it wasn't from the tension in the air anymore. It was from rage.

What the hell?

And Why did Hisashi look like she was about to shatter just from seeing him?

Her breath hitched, sharp and jagged, as her gaze locked onto her car.

Not Built for the Streets.

The neon spray-painted words stretched across the doors, crude and mocking, burning into her vision. It wasn't just vandalism—it was a declaration, a taunt that seeped into her veins like poison. The tires lay ruined, slashed with precision, their deflation making the car sag lifelessly. Deep key marks scarred the once-pristine black paint, raw and jagged like open wounds.

A violation. A message.

Her fingers curled against the door handle, nails digging into her palm. Heat rushed up her throat, bubbling into something volatile, something furious. She wasn't just angry—she was livid. Whoever did this wanted her to feel it, wanted her to stand here, gutted, humiliated.

She shoved the door open, ready to storm out—ready to fight—but then—

A sound.

Low, deliberate, predatory.

The deep growl of an engine rolled through the dimly lit station, reverberating in her chest. It was smooth, controlled—calculated.

Her pulse stuttered.

The red Supra prowled into view, its glossy exterior gleaming under the harsh station lights, a beast wrapped in elegance. It moved with an unsettling ease, as if it owned the ground it touched, as if it belonged here more than she did.

Something coiled in her stomach. A slow, creeping unease slithered up her spine, cold against the simmering heat of her rage.

The door swung open.

And then—he stepped out.

Her breath locked in her throat, her body going rigid.

He moved with that same effortless confidence, that knowing presence that made the air around him shift. His tailored black shirt clung to the sharp lines of his frame, the dark blue sheen of his designer jacket standing in stark contrast to the rough, oil-streaked world of the racers around him. He didn't belong here—but somehow, he commanded the space as if it were his own.

Then those piercing blue eyes landed on Hen first—cold, sharp, calculating.

Then they landed on her.

She froze.

It wasn't just the stillness of shock—it was the kind that crept into her bones and locked her in place, like a rabbit staring down a wolf. The kind that made the air too thick to breathe, like she had been dragged underwater, her lungs burning for oxygen that wouldn't come.

Her hands twitched at her sides, fingers curling and uncurling, desperate to ground herself. But nothing—nothing—could stop the ice flooding her veins, numbing her from the inside out.

It wasn't shock.

It wasn't anger.

It was fear.

A deep, visceral, soul-clenching fear that she hadn't felt in years but recognized immediately—because she had lived it once before.

Her eyes weren't just staring at Hen's rival.

She was staring at Miroku Romulus.

Her ex-boyfriend.

See you in Second Stage