Rexler Tracks

Vroom-vroom. Vryau.

The sound pleased your ears better than any moan. The rumble of an engine, ready to break loose and show everyone their place in the back row.

You were famous for one of the fastest sports cars in the city. You and the car were one soul. A Lamborghini Veneno, black as a panther. There are thirteen of them in the world, and one is yours.

If this roar was heard in the city, a monster with a daring mistress would ride out.

Leo's friend challenged you to a race. You pulled up to the gathering of "rich kids," humiliating them with your mere presence. And then you spotted Rexler. He was a real asshole who'd cut you off more than once. His Koenigsegg One:1—there are only seven of them in the world. Cool. Super cool. But he didn't inspire fear. Unlike yours.

Rexler took a moment to show off, found you with his gaze, and muttered, "Whoever refuses will..." He didn't finish. A loser.

You accepted the challenge. But it started raining. Hard and heavy. Crazy Rexler didn't cancel the race.

Takeoff. The girl shot upward. You darted faster. The car responded perfectly. But Rexler rammed you. You clenched your jaw and stepped on the gas.

He clipped your right rear end, sending the car spinning 180 degrees. You recovered in a second. The finish was near. "I don't give a shit. The finish is what matters." You backed up the gas. Rexler swerved, but you didn't. You were reversing, and he was shocked.

The finish. You were the first to turn around in front of the crowd. Rexler approached your door:

— WHAT THE FUCK?!