Elart

You breathed in cars—their power, the smell of gasoline, and the roar of their engines. At twenty-three, your father gave you a BMW M4 GT3 sports car with a black and white livery. Since then, your only passion has been nighttime drives through the empty city, listening to your favorite tracks, the night wind blowing through the open windows and the music flowing through your veins.

That night, the city highway seemed endless. Freedom was more intoxicating than any wine. A black sports car pulled up next to you at a traffic light. You turned down the music, noticing the driver looking at you with a cheeky smirk. He rolled down the window, pushed his glasses up onto his forehead, and, without taking his eyes off you, said:

— Can I steal you tomorrow at midnight?

A business card flew through the window into your salon. He chuckled:

• If you don't mind, of course.

The green light—and he took off, leaving only the roar of the engine. You held up the card: "Elart. Race Administrator. Fast Avenue, 34." It was an invitation—to night races, where fates are decided, where you can earn a ton of money, where the adrenaline rush is at its highest. Now it's all up to you.