A Flicker in the Shadows

The engine hummed beneath him, a steady, controlled growl as he guided the Mitsubishi Starion through the twisting mountain road. The night was quiet, the air crisp, but Souta Hayashi's mind wasn't here. It was somewhere else. Somewhere far from the illuminated dashboard and the smell of burning rubber.

He drifted into a memory, the familiar ache creeping into his chest.

Hirano High School had always been a blur of passing faces. He sat at the edge of classrooms, where the windows were cold, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on his desk. Nobody sat next to him. Nobody called his name in the hallways.

He watched from the background as students huddled in groups, laughing, sharing jokes he was never part of. It wasn't that he wanted attention—he just wanted someone to acknowledge his existence.

Lunchtime was the worst. The cafeteria was filled with the sound of conversation, the scraping of chopsticks against bento boxes, but Souta sat alone. Always alone. He would bring his food to the rooftop, where the wind drowned out the noise below, where he could stare at the distant roads and dream about something more.

There was only one place where he felt alive—behind the wheel.

After school, while others wasted their time at karaoke bars or arcades, Souta would take his Starion and disappear into the roads of Hyogo. The moment he pulled onto the empty streets, the world shifted. The loneliness didn't matter here. The car listened to him in a way that no one else ever had.

The way the tires screeched against the pavement, the precise movement of his hands shifting gears, the way his foot balanced between throttle and brake—it was like a language only he understood.

But there was no one to witness it. No one to recognize the skill he had sharpened in solitude.

Until tonight.

The road ahead curved sharply, but Souta didn't hesitate. His hands moved instinctively, downshifting from fourth to third, the engine responding with a crisp growl. The weight of the car shifted as he feathered the throttle, the rear sliding effortlessly into the perfect angle. The guardrail blurred past, only inches from his door.

Then, in the distance—headlights.

His pulse quickened. The oncoming car wasn't just fast. It was precise. Controlled. A drifter.

The sleek silhouette of a Mazda RX-7 FC3S shot into view, its black body accented with streaks of purple. Its driver was an enigma, a faceless figure clad in black and purple racing gear. The car moved like a phantom, smooth yet aggressive, its rear tires carving through the turn with unsettling ease.

For the first time, Souta wasn't alone on the road.

The RX-7 accelerated, closing the distance between them. Souta reacted instinctively, pressing harder on the throttle. His Starion surged forward, the gap between them shrinking, but the FC3S matched him with terrifying precision.

Then, without warning, the RX-7 slid behind him—chasing.

A challenge.

Souta's grip tightened. His foot hovered over the clutch, ready to push his Starion to its limit.

This was it. The moment he had been waiting for.

The night was no longer silent. It was alive with the roar of engines, the sound of tires clawing against the pavement, and the unspoken battle between two unseen drivers.

For the first time in his life, Souta felt like someone finally saw him.