Kaito braked gently. He didn’t need the last corner. The score was already a landslide.
The judges (three old-timers with clipboards) raised a flag. Line perfect. Angle maximum. Points: 112. Drift Hunters
A pair of headlights cut through the dark like surgical lasers. Then another. And another. The Wolves arrived in a convoy—four cars, all muscle, all torque. Drayke stepped out, boots crunching on gravel. He saw the Silvia and laughed, a short, ugly sound. Kaito braked gently
Kaito didn’t answer. He was listening to the wind. Somewhere beyond the hangars, a high-revving engine growled—a deep, angry V8. The local crew, the Asphalt Wolves, had claimed this territory. Their leader, a stocky guy named Drayke with a fire-breathing Chevrolet Corvette, had sent a message: Rent the track or get out. The judges (three old-timers with clipboards) raised a flag
“What’s that?”
The flag dropped.