The afternoon sun slanted low as Collei rolled the Eight-Six up to the gas station—its first appearance here, ever. The sharp, high-pitched rasp of individual throttle bodies—those beautiful ITBs—announced her arrival long before anyone actually saw the car. The engine's tone was crisp and mechanical, each blip of the throttle sending a ripple of recognition through the air. Heads turned. Conversations stalled mid-sentence. The atmosphere shifted.
The car eased forward with that familiar throaty purr of a high-compression 4A-GE tuned to sing, not scream. It wasn't flashy, but it didn't need to be—every serious driver within earshot knew exactly what they were hearing.
Beidou was the first to break the silence. She leaned back against the rear quarter panel of her black R32, arms crossed and grinning like she'd just won a bet. "Well, what do you know?" she said, voice rough with amusement. "Collei finally brought the Eight-Six here. Took her long enough."
March spun around, her teal eyes wide as saucers, practically vibrating with excitement. "I know, right? I thought she was gonna keep pretending she didn't own a car or something!" She threw a mock punch into the air. "Looks like she finally got tired of hiking up the mountains every night!"
The two of them cracked up as Collei guided the Eight-Six into the narrow space behind Clorinde's razor-sharp, rally-bred Lancia 037. The AE86 gave one last burble through the exhaust before falling silent, its engine ticking softly as it cooled. The white-on-black panda paint gleamed faintly under the station's canopy lights, understated but unmistakably aggressive. The car didn't beg for attention—it earned it.
Right on cue, the doors to the convenience store opened with a dull chime. Lyney and Clorinde emerged, Lyney juggling a melon soda and two bags of shrimp chips. He spotted the Eight-Six immediately and gave an exaggerated whistle.
"Well, well," he said, flashing his usual theatrical smirk. "Collei's finally decided to make a dramatic entrance."
Clorinde narrowed her eyes slightly, brushing a few strands of her dark hair back behind one ear. "This is turning into a full-blown car meet," she said, surveying the lineup. "Beidou's R32. March's Supra. My Lancia. And now the AE86."
She tilted her head as she gave Collei's car a once-over. "You're stepping up your game," she added.
The driver herself emerged with quiet confidence, not rushing, not posing—just grounded and deliberate. The way she shut the door, the way she tossed her keys once and caught them without looking—it all said the same thing: I belong here.
"Hey, everyone," Collei said, flashing a relaxed smile.
Amber jogged up to her first, her voice half-playful, half-inquisitive. "Hey! I thought you said today was your day off?"
Collei tilted her head and gave a sly smirk. "It is. I just figured I'd come share something with all of you." Her gaze landed on Clorinde, sharp as a thrown knife but not unfriendly. "Especially you."
Clorinde met the look without flinching, arms folded. "Go on."
Collei's tone shifted—less casual now. "Alright. Here's the deal. Ningguang and I are putting together an exhibition run tonight. Araumi Pass. It's not a battle. No egos, no pressure. Just a showcase—her new team, and what we're about."
Clorinde's eyes narrowed with interest. That spark of curiosity—the kind that only lit up for things worth chasing—was unmistakable. "A casual run, huh?" she echoed. "No stakes?"
"No stakes," Collei confirmed. "But if you show up, I'll be driving like it matters."
Clorinde gave a slow nod. "Then count me in."
A ripple of anticipation moved through the group. Even Beidou, always loud, seemed to sober slightly at the gravity of the moment. March squealed and clapped her hands together. "A triple showcase? Oh, I have to film this!"
—
That night, Araumi Pass lit up like a damn circuit.
Spectators lined the shoulders, crouched behind guardrails and standing on embankments, their phones already out, the air thick with engine fumes and cold mountain wind. The sky above was black and cloudless, stars lost behind the glare of headlights and the burn of high-beam halogens cutting through the fog.
The engines revved at the summit.
First was Ningguang's white FC—its profile low, long, and immaculate, the custom bridge-ported 13B brapping like it was spitting out challenge after challenge. Behind her: the brutal, fire-breathing Lancia 037, its carbureted snarl echoing like a beast off leash. And last—almost humble in its presence but deadly in intent—Collei's Eight-Six, the quiet killer, humming with tension like a coiled spring.
The signal dropped.
They launched.
In seconds, the three of them dove into the opening right-hander with flawless timing. Their brake lights flashed in unison—brief red flares in the dark—before each car snapped sideways into a drift so tight, so synchronized, it looked rehearsed.
March leaned out over the rail, practically screaming over the thunder of engines. "Look at them! That's Ningguang's FC in the lead—but Clorinde and Collei are right behind her!"
Feixiao, crouched beside her with arms folded and a cigarette dangling from his lips, muttered, "A triple tandem drift on Araumi's first sector... Shit, that's art."
The three-car train blasted through the course, no hesitation, no room for error. The Lancia's tail-end skimmed the inside curb, its wide rear tires finding impossible grip as Clorinde pushed it to the edge. Collei's AE86 stayed glued to her rear bumper, perfectly placed—left-foot braking into the apex, feathering throttle, feeling the weight shift with every inch of road.
Inside the FC, Ningguang's gloved hands moved like a pianist's, smooth and deliberate. She threw glances into the mirror, catching the flash of Collei's headlights, the glint of the Lancia's front lip just behind.
"I can feel both of you," she said under her breath, eyes narrowed. "You're not just driving. You're dancing."
Collei, sweat beginning to bead along her forehead, focused entirely on the flow of the road. She didn't need to think anymore—her movements were second nature. Clutch, heel-toe downshift, countersteer. The tachometer hovered in the sweet spot as the high-revving engine sang at redline. The AE86 moved like an extension of her body—light, balanced, untouchable.
Ahead, the FC dove into another high-speed chicane. The trio didn't flinch. They moved as one.
Spectators along the course could barely keep up, only catching glimpses—taillights vanishing behind blind corners, engines roaring up through second and third gear, the unmistakable smell of hot rubber and high-octane fuel trailing behind.
This wasn't about placement. This wasn't about proving anything.
This was statement.
For Collei, tonight wasn't some throwaway exhibition.
It was a message to everyone watching. To everyone who'd ever doubted her.
I've changed. I belong here. And I'm not going anywhere.
The trio approached the next left-hand hairpin, engines snarling in harmonic fury as they charged into the braking zone. Ningguang, still commanding the lead, stabbed the brake pedal with precision—hard and fast—her body rocking forward in her harness. Her right hand flicked the shifter from fourth to third, then down into second with surgical smoothness. Heel-toe blips kept the revs perfectly matched, the rotary engine howling in cooperation.
She yanked the wheel left in a sharp, deliberate motion. The rear of the FC snapped loose instantly, the rear tires lighting up with a shriek as the car rotated into a controlled slide. Her throttle work was crisp, steering inputs razor-sharp. No corrections needed—just one fluid, beautiful arc.
Right behind her, Collei and Clorinde mirrored the maneuver like ghosts in formation. Collei's AE86 dove into the braking zone, her left foot dancing across the clutch and brake, while her right foot feathered the throttle with near-instinctive rhythm. The 4A-GE's ITBs wailed as she executed her downshifts—precise, clean. As her rear tires broke loose, the tail of the Eight-Six swung wide in unison with the FC.
To her left, Clorinde's Lancia barked down through its dog-leg gearbox, its supercharged engine snarling like a beast unleashed. She braked late, almost recklessly, initiating the drift with the raw confidence of a rally veteran. Her countersteer came fast and aggressive—an old rally habit—and the 037 slid in wide but perfectly aligned with the others.
Together, the three cars carved the corner like synchronized fighters in formation, tires howling in chorus. A wall of tire smoke curled from the asphalt behind them, glowing under the spotlights as the crowd roared. As they exited the turn, formation intact, Collei and Clorinde tucked in tighter, now flanking Ningguang's FC with barely a meter of space on either side.
Inside the lead car, Ningguang's eyes gleamed. Her gloved hands tightened slightly on the wheel, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
"This is what I wanted to see! Show me what you've got!"
Up ahead, the road twisted into another hairpin—this one a faster right-hander with an open late apex. As they approached, the revs climbed again. The trio didn't lift. They attacked.
All three cars dove into the turn, their rear ends breaking traction simultaneously as they entered a full-speed drift. The synchronized motion was nearly surreal. The sound—metallic snarls, the ripping note of three different engines at redline, tires grinding against tarmac—was thunderous.
From the crowd, Eula clenched both fists and threw them into the air, her voice nearly drowned out by the noise. "Look at them go! That's so freaking awesome!"
They continued barreling through the pass, carving through a tight S-section that spat them into another rapid sequence of descending hairpins. Brake lights flared red-hot. Tires smoked. Headlights flickered in and out of view. Onlookers gasped and screamed, hands over mouths as the cars sliced through every corner just centimeters apart.
Then came a faster, sharper left-hander—one of the most dangerous on Araumi Pass.
The trio didn't back off.
Silverwolf, leaning over the barrier, eyes wide behind her tinted glasses, pointed and barked, "Look at Ningguang's FC! She's hitting that corner like it's her goddamn backyard!"
Yelan stood beside her, arms folded, barely able to keep her composure. "But look at the Lancia and the Eight-Six! They're not just chasing—they're matching her. Every move, every gear. They're driving like they were born to do this."
Their awe morphed into silent tension as the cars cut dangerously close, inches from each other's fenders.
Silverwolf scowled and took a deliberate step back. "Hey! Mind stepping back a bit? If someone passes by, they might think we're actually friends!"
Yelan shot her a glare that could kill. "How about you step back?"
The two held their glares for a long, silent second before spinning in opposite directions, stomping away from each other in mutual irritation.
Inside the Lancia, Clorinde's grin was wide and wild. Her pulse pounded in her ears, adrenaline slamming through her system like a drug. "I've never had this much fun driving! This—this is fucking awesome!" she shouted over the roar of her own engine, sweat flying off her brow.
At the summit, the vibe was more serene—but the tension hung in the air like static. Ganyu leaned against the steel guardrail, watching the trail of headlights and smoke carving through the night far below. She glanced at Keqing, uncertain. "So… are they actually racing, or is this something else entirely?"
Albedo, ever composed, adjusted his glasses and spoke without looking up. "If this were a true race, Ningguang shouldn't be leading. Not on her home course. Her advantage would be too strong—it wouldn't prove anything."
Keqing folded her arms and smiled knowingly. "You're both missing the point. This isn't about who finishes first. Ningguang is building something tonight—her expedition team. It's not a race. It's a message."
Back on the road, Collei kept her eyes locked on Ningguang's taillights, watching every move, every input. Her foot hovered with sensitivity over the throttle, balancing power and grip as the rear of her Eight-Six wagged slightly through the corner exit. The smell of burning rubber and clutch hung in the air. Her heart raced, but her hands were steady. She was in the zone.
"She's gotten so much better since we raced at Yougou," Collei muttered to herself, her grin widening as the ITBs screamed. "This is incredible…"
In the lead, Ningguang glanced into her rearview mirror. For just a heartbeat, her breath caught.
Collei was close—dangerously close. Clorinde too, sticking like glue.
Ningguang's voice was low and breathless, as if speaking to the night itself. "This… this is spectacular. Collei's improved so much… She's not just keeping up—she's pushing me."
The next corner approached. All three cars dropped into another perfect drift, their rear bumpers sliding out in one synchronized motion. The rhythm between them now felt natural, effortless.
Then came the straightaway—the longest section on Araumi. A brief reprieve. A proving ground.
Throttle wide open. Engines screaming.
Collei's AE86 surged up to Ningguang's right, the 4A-GE straining at the top of fourth gear, its induction note raw and metallic. On the left, Clorinde's Lancia bellowed forward, its supercharger whining, flames briefly licking from the exhaust on upshift.
All three cars leveled out—perfectly side by side.
The crowd let out a collective gasp. It was like watching titans run shoulder to shoulder through the gates of Olympus.
Inside her FC, Ningguang's chest tightened—not from fear, but from pure, overwhelming euphoria. She could feel her pulse through the wheel, her breath catching in her throat as she looked left, then right. Her team. Her rivals. Her equals.
"This… feels incredible," she whispered, the words trembling. "I thought my technique was as refined as it could be. But this… racing with them… It's unlocking something else. Something deeper."
All the expectations, the strategy, the political bullshit—gone. This was the essence.
She took in the night air, her smile calm and fierce at once.
"All I have to do now… is follow them. Drive with them."
The three machines thundered into the darkness as one, headlights tearing through the night, their engines blending into a single, roaring note of passion and purpose.
And for Ningguang, Collei, and Clorinde—this wasn't just an exhibition. It was transcendence. An unspoken declaration that this bond, this trust at 140 kilometers an hour, was the truest thing they had ever known.