𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐓 ˣ 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐃 | ᵃʳˡᵉᶜᶜʰⁱⁿᵒ, ᶠᵘʳⁱⁿᵃ

0: 𝘾𝙖𝙧𝙙

"..." - Dialogue
"Italics" - Dialogue but dramatic
"Bold" - Dialogue but more dramatic

Writing street racing stuff proved to be more difficult than writing f1 racing
———
Back in the 1980s when motorcar racing was striving for massive success and regarded as the "peak of motorsport", behind it was the underground world of street racing. Illegal, dangerous, hazardous, all that stuff. But one was certain, it earns good ass money.

Even in the present day, underground street racing is as popular as ever. Amidst the hours of midnight, competitions will be held for drivers out there who want to show off their flashy cars and others who simply want that mouth-watering prize money. It was the end of the season and presumably the last race that rookie drivers have to win in at least 5th place or higher to be able to compete in a new season in the upcoming month.

All the big-shot car brands are present in every race, the not-so-small audience would look at the lined-up cars in awe as they imagined it driving themselves. There was a Ferrari, Ford, Mercedes, Porsche, Bugatti, Aston fucking Martin, Acura, Jaguar, Bugatti, Supra, Lamborghini and... Yes, Tesla as well. Some were decorated in wacky designs like graffiti while others were flashy, as in, covered in neon lights that certainly brought attention to them.

That was what each car presented at the track and their drivers stood by their cars, smiling smugly to themselves at the attention thrown to them by the bystanders.

The spots for each racer were filled already except for the spot at the front. The leading driver that will be the wall if they ever want to win 1st place, was late.

That is until they hear the familiar sound of exhaust and engine coming up close. Quickly, the directed attention to the nameless drivers is immediately turned to that car.

A silver Porsche 918 Spyder pulls up to the front, the low rev of its engine sends shivers up each driver's spine. The car door opens, and the driver of the devilish car gets out with a cig in their mouth.

It was a woman who simply wore a fitted black turtleneck and pants cladded in black too. Her shoes were in the form of boots with heels and on her shoulders hung a white trench coat for the cold winds present at midnight hour.

***

"Good evening," I greeted the rest of the drivers who had been waiting for the race to start 40 minutes ago, "sorry I was late," I said with a small apologetic smile as I threw the cigarette on my lips away. That's enough tobacco to wake me up.

The cig fell to the ground and I crushed the lit end. I glanced at the referee who had an impatient look. I saw some missed calls from him when I woke up from my sleep, the impatience is understandable.

"We can start now, the rookies waited long enough." The referee says as he looks away from me, making me sigh.

I recall the reason for my lateness. "My clock's alarm was too quiet for me to wake up on," I say, subconsciously letting out a yawn against the back of my hand.

The referee didn't respond to my excuse and merely went to the side where a street pole resides. The bulb of it was cracked, you could only guess when it'll flicker lights on.

The referee blows his whistle, signaling the drivers to get inside their cars. And I do just that. "Racing in the middle of midnight is ridiculous," I mutter to myself.

With a soft sigh, I lean back against my seat. 'No use in complaining now...' I start the ignition of my car. 'This is my last race after all.'

Prrrt!

Hearing the start of the whistle's counting, I placed my hands on the wheel and looked at the road ahead. The girl who wore little to no clothing came up with the flag in their hand, I never knew what they were called but it certainly added charm at the start of each race. Seriously, I don't know what they're called. Flag girl maybe?