~Katia~

Vegas heat hit me like a wave the second I stepped off the private jet. The runway shimmered under the late afternoon sun, and I squinted past my sunglasses, already half-listening to the ping of updates on my encrypted racing burner phone. Six hours before the race, and my heart was already trying to climb out of my chest. But I wasn’t nervous.

I was hungry.

The black Rolls Royce Ghost waiting for me outside the hangar wasn’t subtle, but nothing about this trip was supposed to be. My crew greeted me like I was a CEO arriving for a hostile takeover. I didn’t speak; they knew why I was here.

The underground race wasn’t some little street corner showdown. This was the elite of the elite, with closed invitations, encrypted access, and enough luxury vehicles to make a Formula 1 grid look like a used lot. They held it at a decommissioned airfield just outside the city. From the sky, it looked abandoned. From the ground? It was a neon-lit colosseum, pulsing with noise and heat and money.

My car was already there.

A midnight-blue Aston Martin Valkyrie AMR Pro, customized down to the bolts. The engine purred like a lion in a cage. I ran my hand along the hood, letting the vibration travel up my arm. This machine was built to win. Just like me.

I pulled on my suit in the back trailer, matte black, form-fitted, and made from materials that cost more than some people’s homes. The helmet was blacked out, with only a blood-red visor slit. I didn’t need people seeing my face. They didn’t deserve to.

By the time I stepped onto the tarmac, the place was alive.

Hundreds of people lined the barricades, some rich kids trying to live out their Fast & Furious fantasies, some seasoned racers who had bet money they couldn’t afford to lose. Cameras flashed, and beats thumped from speakers the size of trucks. Drones hovered above, catching every movement.

But everyone turned when someone arrived. I believe it must be the infamous Jules.

Silver McLaren Sabre. Chrome trim with black spoilers. The engine sound was so deep it made the air feel heavier. He stepped out like a ghost in steel. His helmet mirrored mine, faceless and unreadable. He didn’t look at me, not directly, but I felt his attention like static on my skin.

Everyone knew Jules, but no one knew who he was or what he looked like. He had never lost. Not once. Not in three years. His name was synonymous with fear on the track. Not just because he was fast. But because he made the others look like they were standing still.

Until now, I didn’t come to Vegas for a vacation. I came to end his streak.

The announcer’s voice echoed over the PA system.

“Ladies and gentlemen… this is the one you’ve been waiting for. The Queen of the Strip versus the Phantom King. Catwoman. Jules. One race, one winner.”

The crowd screamed. Cameras whipped between us.

I stepped into my car and strapped in, letting the silence of the cockpit swallow me whole. My hands slid over the wheel like I was touching something sacred. The world outside didn’t exist anymore. There was just the road, the engine, and the finish line.

The lights went red.

Then yellow.

Then, Green and I launched.

The G-force hit like a punch to the chest. My vision tunneled as I hit the first corner, tires screaming against the pavement. Jules was there, always there like a shadow glued to my rearview mirror. Every turn, he matched. Every burst of speed, he answered. But I had studied him.

I knew how he took his corners. Knew where he hesitated by a millisecond. And tonight, I wasn’t just racing; I was attacking.

We blazed through lap one in under a minute. Lap two blurred with flames from the sidelines, the smell of burned rubber, and the deafening chant of the crowd. My pulse synced with the growl of my engine.

By lap three, I took a chance.

He pulled left, I cut inside and clipped the corner, skimming the barricade by inches. My car shook. My teeth rattled. But I surged ahead.

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