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SAGE
'WHY don't you just do street racing since you love to swerve into oncoming traffic?' i questioned nobara innocently while sipping on the mixed alcoholic drink she made for me.
i hate alcohol, but for what i have planned tonight makes it much easier to swallow the harsh numbing of my throat. what is my plan you ask? wait, first let me explain my reasoning behind sneaking out.
since you wanna be so nosy, i've been secretly going to these races for the past 3 years of my high school life. before i met my ex, i happened to meet one of the fastest and best street racers. his name is eren jaeger, but in street racing his name was jae.
long story short, we hit it off but then he got involved in some crazy street shit, i met sukuna and we just stopped talking to each other since, hence why i need a little liquid courage to get me going.
'how about you just get out because we're literally here in 15 minutes instead of 25 because of my cherry.'
cherry, her bright red sports car. the koenigsegg jenko, a hypercar that blended raw power with breathtaking artistry. a blazing crimson streak against the asphalt, commanded attention. its sculpted carbon fiber body, a masterpiece of aerodynamic engineering, flowed seamlessly from the low-slung nose to the dramatic rear spoiler. with the press of a button, the iconic scissor doors poised like predatory wings.
waiting for nobara to finish rolling up the joint for later, i take a moment to scan my surroundings before climbing out of the car. the whole place feels like it's buzzing with electricity, even though it's barely hanging together. the parking garage, once a forgotten eyesore, is now alive with energy.
i can hear the low rumble of engines warming up, that deep, throaty growl that sends chills down your spine. the air's thick with the smell of gasoline and burnt rubber, and every now and then, a sharp screech of tires fills the space, echoing off the cracked concrete walls like it's screaming for more.
down below, the makeshift starting line is drawn in chalk—nothing fancy, but it works. the asphalt's scarred, but you can still see the ghost of what it used to be: smooth, clean pavement where cars used to park. now, it's a warzone of rubber marks, tire streaks, and the occasional oil stain, all proof of the madness that goes down here every night.
the higher floors are packed with people, hanging over the edge of the railing, looking down at the strip below like it's the main event. some are shouting, some are just leaning against the walls, their eyes locked on the action.
it's a mix of old-school muscle cars, beat-up imports, and a few souped-up street racers that look like they could rip the whole place apart. the headlights slice through the dim light, casting sharp shadows that feel almost alive.
