chapter 2

They were barely halfway through the night. Marco, mid-laugh, didn't even notice the newcomer until he stepped up—leather jacket, overconfident grin, and sunglasses even though the sun had already dipped. The kind of guy who looked like he listened to the sound of his own voice on repeat.

"Heyyy," he drawled, his voice cutting through the buzz like a bad remix. "Look who it is. Adriano Vale in the flesh."

Vale's expression didn't shift, but Marco noticed... the subtle change—the way his fingers flexed once, the cool drop in his eyes.

...his crew trailing him like shadows desperate for spotlight with nothing better to do. His eyes swept the crowd, but landed on Eva, locked there like she was the only one worth seeing.

"Babe," he said, twice. Too loud, too smug. "You hanging around this quiet type? Come on, you need someone who actually lives a little."

Eva didn't even blink. Her posture didn't change—but her hand slid subtly behind her, resting lightly on Adriano's arm. Claiming, but calm.

Marco was already half a step forward when Vale's voice cut through the air, cold and sharp.

"You done?"

The guy blinked, not expecting that lack of reaction. "Huh?"

Adriano turned slightly, studied him with that effortless kind of disdain—the kind that didn't shout or scowl, just quietly decided you didn't matter.

"You called my name like you knew me," Adriano said, voice smooth. "But I don't recall wasting my time on clowns."

Marco wheezed a laugh he tried to mask as a cough.

The guy grinned, trying to hide his offense behind bravado. "Okay, okay. Let's settle this like real men. Race me. Unless you're scared of losing in front of your—" He flicked his chin at Eva. "—'friend.'"

Eva raised an eyebrow, giving Vale a look. "Is he serious?"

Marco stepped forward, his voice low and dangerous. "You sure you want to keep talking?"

Then he added, grinning with mischief, "Why don't you show him, Vale?" He was clearly excited—he'd have loved to race himself.

Vale stayed calm. He took a moment, considering it, then turned to the guy.

"Alright. Let's race."

There was a pause—the guy's smug grin widened, thinking it was too easy.

"You're sure?" he asked, almost like he was giving Vale a way out.

Vale didn't answer. He just gave him a glance and walked toward the car.

The car wasn't Marco's or Vale's—Marco's dad would never let him near a race. But one of their friends had a beat-up black sports car he was willing to lend. It wasn't the fastest on the track, but it had enough edge to compete. Vale didn't seem to mind. He climbed in, adjusted the seat, and silently checked the controls.

"Just don't push it too hard," Marco said under his breath, walking over to inspect the engine briefly. There was something off about the car—Marco wasn't sure if it would last the race. But Vale was already focused on the track, not paying attention to the little things.

The challenge was on. The crowd gathered, murmurs of excitement building. The rival car revved its engine, but Vale didn't react. He simply focused on the feel of the car beneath him, the rush of adrenaline keeping his movements steady.

When the race began, it wasn't a sprint to the finish. It was a battle of control. Vale didn't rush; he wasn't about to throw away the race on a whim. The rival car surged ahead, but Vale kept his cool, closing the distance without panic. Every turn, every corner—Vale didn't lose his focus. He was steady.

The track looped through the old industrial outskirts—two full kilometers of sharp curves, broken pavement, and long, dangerous straights. The crowd had spread out along the sidelines—some shouting bets, others clutching film cameras, eager to capture whatever chaos was about to unfold.

At one point, the cars scattered apart during a wild stretch—one veering wide at the bend, the other cutting in dangerously close. Vale used the curve to gain ground, but as he came out of it, his car gave a sharp jolt. Something was off.

The back wheels skidded.

For a split second, it felt like the whole car was about to spin out. The tires screamed against the asphalt. Vale gritted his teeth, yanking the wheel just enough to stabilize it, but it was too late to pull it back clean.

The car hit a dip.

There was a sickening thud—metal scraping—and the car stuttered, jerking hard to the side. For a heartbeat, the world spun.

Gasps echoed from the crowd. The car jerked to a stop near the fence, dust clouding around it.

Marco cursed under his breath. "Shit—Vale!"

Inside the car, Vale's forehead was bleeding—just a graze from when his head clipped the side. His hands were tight on the wheel. He tasted copper and adrenaline.

But he didn't hesitate.

Without a word, he restarted the engine—she groaned, stuttered, then roared back to life. Something in Vale's eyes shifted. He wasn't just calm now. He was cold. Focused. Like a predator scenting weakness.

The car peeled back onto the track.

He didn't waste time.

He hunted the road like it owed him something.

The other driver, already celebrating too early, didn't even notice Vale creeping up behind him. But the crowd did. The scream of Vale's engine rose again like a war cry, and the cheers turned frantic.

Then—he was there. Right behind him.

The rival glanced in his mirror—and froze.

Vale's headlights stayed glued to his bumper for a breathless second—then he pulled up alongside, silent and surgical.

They shot through the next bend, tires burning against the road. The gap narrowed, the rival trying to block him, weaving across the lane.

But Vale wasn't rattled.

He was silent thunder.

Then, just as they hit a stretch of open road, Vale pulled up beside him. For a single breath, their windows lined up. The world slowed.

Their eyes locked.

The rival's smirk faltered.

Vale tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming—not calm now, but sharp. Dangerous. And then—he smirked.

It wasn't friendly.

It was a warning. A taste of something colder than fury.

And before the rival could react—Vale swerved, clipping the side of the rival's car just enough to throw him off balance. The rival's tires screeched as he fought for control, his car skidding off-course slightly, losing precious seconds.

The crowd exploded.

Vale didn't look back.

The smirk vanished like smoke.

His eyes were dead calm again, focused only on the finish line. That one flicker of something darker—gone like it had never existed.

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