I stood in the middle of the pit area, hands on my hips, drinking in the beautiful chaos of a rally paddock. Engines screamed, air guns whined, and mechanics swarmed over half-assembled cars like caffeinated ants. The smell of petrol, burnt rubber, and sweat clung to the air, and for me, this wasn’t just noise and fumes—it was home. Except for one problem. My team’s truck was missing.

  I dodged past a guy lugging a suspension arm, nearly got flattened by a trolley full of tires, and was about to start swearing when I heard it—the deep, throaty rumble of a diesel engine rolling into the paddock like a conquering hero. I turned just in time to see it—our hauler, dust-streaked, battle-scarred, and fashionably late.

  The cab door swung open before the truck had fully stopped, and out hopped my crew chief, looking mildly irritated but mostly unfazed. “Cutting it close, aren’t we?” I called as I jogged over.

  He smirked. “Relax, rookie. We made it.” Then, without missing a beat, he turned and bellowed to the team. “Alright, let’s get set up! Move!”

  Like a well-oiled machine, the crew snapped into action. One of them marched over to the trailer and hit a button on the side. I expected a standard ramp to drop. Instead, the entire side of the hauler split open, unfolding with a mechanical whir into what could only be described as a transforming pit garage. Panels extended outward, platforms locked into place, and before my very eyes, a two-storey pit fortress materialized from what had been, moments ago, a simple trailer. And inside, hidden beneath tarpaulins, sat three cars.

  I don’t know how I missed it before. Every single team truck had unfolded into a fully functional pit garage, turning the paddock into a battlefield of scaffolding, floodlights, and the constant wail of high-performance engines. It was organized chaos—mechanics barking orders, tools clattering, tire smoke hanging in the air like some sort of high-octane incense. And I loved every second of it.

  But right now, all I could focus on were the tarpaulins.

  Three of them. Three cars, lined up like sleeping giants. One of them was mine.

  This was it. My first real step into the World Endurance Rally (W.R.E) leagues. No more club events, no more second-hand cars rebuilt with spare parts and blind optimism. This was professional. Brutal. The kind of racing where you either adapted fast or got left choking on the dust.

  I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves, but my mind was already running ahead of me. I could feel it—the weight of the wheel in my hands, the raw power waiting under my right foot. The violent snap of the car as it clawed for grip, the back end threatening to overtake the front if I so much as hesitated. The bark of the anti-lag system, the thunderous roar of the exhaust. The sheer, heart-pounding, everything-on-the-line rush of pushing a machine like this to its absolute limits.

  I clenched my fists, inhaling deeply. I had spent years dreaming of this moment. The roar of the crowd, the countdown, the brutal, unforgiving terrain flying past as I fought to keep the car in check. The feeling of being right on the edge—that perfect balance of control and chaos. This was the dream. My dream. Then—THWACK! A heavy hand slammed down on my back, nearly launching me face-first into a pile of fuel drums.

  Oi! Pay attention, rookie…” My crew chief’s voice rang out, as dry as the Sahara, cutting through my daydream like a hot knife through butter. “Before you get behind the wheel, I’ve got a question for ya.”

  I stared at him, still dazed. Was this really happening? I was here. The World Endurance Rally leagues. The pros. The top-tier cars. And I was about to pick one. But I couldn’t seem to focus.

  He didn’t wait for me to answer. Instead, he pointed at the cars like a dog pointing at a rabbit. “What car do you want? Got three for ya. Three cars our AI says will suit your style. You just gotta pick one.” He paused, the silence somehow getting louder. “Do you want… SPEED... CONTROL... or POWER?”

  Speed. Control. Power. It sounded simple enough, right? Like choosing a takeaway. But no. This wasn’t a burger; this was a loaded question with consequences that could ruin or make my life. I stood there, staring at the trio of cars, frozen. I had no idea what to pick. I mean, what kind of idiot chooses a car without knowing what they want from it?

  I looked up at my crew chief, who was still waiting. He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying my indecision.

  Finally, I sighed, threw my hands up in frustration, and said, "I don’t know… Let’s see what you got.

  I stood there, eyes wide, as the crew pulled off the tarpaulins, revealing three cars. Not exactly what I was expecting. Hell, I wasn't even sure what I was expecting—maybe something from the future, a gleaming machine with touchscreens, turbochargers that could launch it into orbit, and a seat that cradled you like a baby in a cashmere blanket. Instead, what I saw was a trio of machines that looked like they'd been through a war or two. They weren't sleek, carbon-fiber marvels with enough tech to make a spaceship jealous. No. These cars looked like they'd been through a few seasons of rally hell and had come out the other side still fighting. But, they were the pros. I was just the newbie. What the hell did I know?

  Then, like something out of a war film, my crew chief came up behind me, resting his hands on my shoulders. His tone was proud, like a father talking about his favorite child. “Well, Miss Kiba,” he began, “we’ve decided these three cars are the best fit for you. Don’t let the looks fool ya, or the fact that some of ‘em are relics by today’s WER standards. These cars have got…” He paused for dramatic effect. “…what you need.”

  I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. The cars in front of me were all very different, each one making its own bold statement. I tried to clear my head, to focus, but it felt like I was staring down three fire-breathing dragons and being told to choose which one would keep me alive.

  “Well, Miss Kiba,” the chief continued, never missing a beat, “the first car is the Lorian Stratus GT. Now, this is a WER car of yesteryear. It's a bit of a relic, but don’t be fooled. It's got power to spare. You want something that can smash through any straightaway, leave the competition choking on your dust? This is your beast.”

  I took it in. Power. That was something I had always craved. A car that would tear up the road with the kind of ferocity that made you feel like a god behind the wheel. But then I thought about the next one.

  “Secondly, we have the Mitsumoto Phoenix VI. Now this machine is built for control. It’s a dancer, Miss Kiba. A car that will let you waltz through the tightest corners without breaking a sweat. This one is precision all the way. You ever dream of threading through a series of sharp bends, making the car feel like an extension of yourself? This is the one that’ll do it.”

  A dancer. That sounded bloody tempting. The idea of being able to carve through corners with pinpoint accuracy, feeling the car respond to every twitch of the wheel, was a tantalizing thought. But would I get bored with it? Would I feel like I was playing it too safe?

  “Finally,” the chief said, his voice dropping a little, “we have the Pugora 205X. The fastest car of the three. This little monster is lightweight, built for speed, and it’s the kind of car that will shoot you to top speed faster than a bullet leaving the barrel of a gun. It’s light, quick, and ruthless. It might not be as flashy as the others, but when that pedal hits the metal, you’ll know what it means to hold onto the reins of something truly fast.”

  Fast. That was a word I understood. My mind raced with images of blazing down the straightaways, the wind howling in my ears, the engine screaming as it hurled me forward. I could almost feel it—the sensation of sheer speed, the world blurring around me as the car ate up the tarmac.

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  The crew chief stood there, arms crossed, eyes trained on me. “So there you have it, Miss Kiba. We, and the AI, reckon these cars are the best fit for ya.” He paused again, making sure I was feeling the weight of the moment. “So, Miss Kiba… What’s it gonna be?”

  I stared at the three cars. Power, control, speed—each one pulling me in a different direction.

  I swallowed hard. I had to choose. But the question seemed impossible. What was I supposed to pick? The idea of hurtling through corners at breakneck speed with perfect control was incredibly appealing. But then, the idea of unleashing pure, unadulterated power… or tearing through the air like a missile was equally tempting.

  My mouth went dry. The decision felt like it was going to change everything. The first real decision of my career. The one that could either make or break me.

  I stood there, staring at the three cars. Each one, a passport to who-knows-what—victory, ruin, or, in the case of a catastrophic failure, possibly a trip to the nearest hospital. The first one looked like it could tear through the earth’s crust if you pressed the accelerator hard enough. The second was a precision instrument, built for dancing through corners as if it were a waltz with the tarmac. But then, there was the Pugora 250X.

  Now, don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t the most visually stunning of the bunch. In fact, it looked a bit like someone had fed a rally car a diet of raw speed and lightness, then told it to stop caring about anything else. No frills. No pretensions. Just a lightweight, nimble, teeth-gritting, hair-raising monster that looked like it was ready to bite the second I got behind the wheel.

  I couldn’t explain it. I just knew. It wasn’t the power or the fancy technology that hooked me, it was the pure, unadulterated idea of speed and agility. The 250X wasn’t just a car. It was a weapon. A compact, fast-moving weapon. Everything in my gut told me this was the one.

  I felt my lips curl into a grin, the kind of grin you get just before you’re about to do something stupid. Something that could either be brilliant or disastrous. The kind of grin that comes when you know you're about to make a choice that’ll either make you a hero or a wreck. And right there, standing before this car, I knew: this was it.

  I lifted my finger and pointed. The 250X. The lightweight beast. The quickest to top speed, the one that would rocket me to the front—if I could handle it, of course.

  The crew chief didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The moment my finger pointed at the Pugora 250X, his lips twitched into a knowing smile. It was as if he’d been expecting it all along, like this was the inevitable outcome, a choice written in the stars.

  “Thought you’d pick that one,” he said, the pride evident in his tone. The crew, too, exchanged glances and smiles, as if they'd been in on some secret joke I hadn't fully understood yet.

  The tension lifted slightly, but now it was replaced with something else—a sense of anticipation, excitement, and, quite frankly, a little bit of terror. The 250X was light. It was fast. It was dangerous. And I was about to find out if I could hold onto it or if it was going to send me straight into a ditch.

  "Alright then, Miss Kiba," the chief said with a nod. "Let’s see if you can tame this beast."

  I stood there, staring at the three cars, each one a passport to who-knows-what—victory, ruin, or, in the case of a catastrophic failure, possibly a trip to the nearest hospital. The first one looked like it could tear through the earth’s crust if you pressed the accelerator hard enough. The second was a precision instrument, built for dancing through corners as if it were a waltz with the tarmac. But then, there was the Pugora 250X. Now, don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t the most visually stunning of the bunch. In fact, it looked a bit like someone had fed a rally car a diet of raw speed and lightness, then told it to stop caring about anything else. No frills. No pretensions. Just a lightweight, nimble, teeth-gritting, hair-raising monster that looked like it was ready to bite the second I got behind the wheel.

  I couldn’t explain it. I just knew. It wasn’t the power or the fancy technology that hooked me, it was the pure, unadulterated idea of speed and agility. The 250X wasn’t just a car. It was a weapon. A compact, fast-moving weapon. Everything in my gut told me this was the one.

  I felt my lips curl into a grin, the kind of grin you get just before you’re about to do something stupid. Something that could either be brilliant or disastrous. The kind of grin that comes when you know you're about to make a choice that’ll either make you a hero or a wreck. And right there, standing before this car, I knew: this was it. I lifted my finger and pointed. The 250X. The lightweight beast. The quickest to top speed, the one that would rocket me to the front—if I could handle it, of course.

  The crew chief didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The moment my finger pointed at the Pugora 250X, his lips twitched into a knowing smile. It was as if he’d been expecting it all along, like this was the inevitable outcome, a choice written in the stars.

  “Thought you’d pick that one,” he said, the pride evident in his tone. The crew, too, exchanged glances and smiles, as if they'd been in on some secret joke I hadn't fully understood yet. It was almost like they'd seen something in me that I hadn’t even seen myself.The tension lifted slightly, but now it was replaced with something else—a sense of anticipation, excitement, and, quite frankly, a little bit of terror. The 250X was light. It was fast. It was dangerous. And I was about to find out if I could hold onto it or if it was going to send me straight into a ditch. I couldn’t wait. This was the moment. The moment that would define everything.

  "Alright then, Miss Kiba," the chief said with a nod. "Let’s see if you can tame this beast." I grinned back, adrenaline already starting to surge.

  I couldn’t believe this was happening. There I was, standing in front of the car—my car—the one that was supposed to change everything, and my crew chief, looking as calm as a Sunday stroll, starts tugging me away from it. “Come on, Miss Kiba, we’ve got to meet the rest of the crew,” he says, like it’s some kind of formality, like I’m supposed to just accept this as the next step in my glamorous rally career. But no! This was my car! My precious, precious machine! The one I was about to wrestle through the most unforgiving terrain imaginable, and he wants me to shake hands and smile like I’m in some sort of corporate handshake event. In the minor leagues, when I was racing back in those mom-and-pop teams, things were simpler. We didn’t have to pause for pleasantries.

  The team consisted of half a dozen people, all family, all friends, all trying to get the car running with duct tape and a prayer. But now—here? This was a real team. They all seemed so... proper. Like they were straight out of a military operation, and I was the rookie trying not to screw it all up. I plastered on my best “I’ve got this” smile, but inside I was bursting with impatience. “Alright, alright,” I said, trying to rein it in. “Let’s get this over with.” But the truth? I just wanted to get behind the wheel.

  So, there I was, standing awkwardly, surrounded by this elite pit crew that could probably rebuild a car with their eyes closed. First up, I was introduced to the engineer—Koneko. Koneko was a serious one. Not the type to make small talk or exchange pleasantries. She was the kind of woman who looked at the car and immediately knew what was wrong with it just by the way it sounded. I wasn’t sure if that was impressive or borderline witchcraft. She just gave me a nod when I said my name, as if she were mentally checking my carbon footprint and how it affected the aerodynamics of my driving style. "Koneko," she said, "I’ll be the one to make sure you don't blow up the engine on your first lap." That was oddly reassuring.

  Then came Takashi. Oh boy. Takashi was wired—I mean, seriously wired. He practically bounced up to me, his eyes wide as if he’d just chugged an entire pot of coffee. "Takashi!" he said, a little too enthusiastically. "Tires! Tires are life! Grip is everything! I can tell you how much rubber will survive a 100-mph turn in my sleep! Just say the word and I’ll swap out every tire you’ve got faster than you can blink!" He grinned like he had just discovered the meaning of life and it was made of rubber. I swear, I could hear him vibrating with energy. "No tire too small, no change too quick, no spin too wild!"

  And then, finally, there was Yuuto. Yuuto was the opposite of Takashi. Calm, measured, and... very, very serious about fuel. He looked at me with a nod, as if I were the latest item in a complex equation. "Yuuto," he said simply, with that deadpan expression that only people who work with fuel can have. "I’m the one who makes sure you don’t run out of juice when you need it most. I’ll keep you topped up, and I’ll make sure you’re not drinking more than you should, especially when the race gets tight. No explosions, no dry runs. Just the right amount to get you to the finish line in one piece."

  It was like watching two different species interact. Takashi was all frantic energy, buzzing with excitement about everything, while Yuuto was the calm, quiet storm that made sure everything stayed running smoothly.In any case, it was a lot to take in, but one thing was clear: I was surrounded by people who knew exactly what they were doing. If I could keep the car in one piece, they’d make sure I didn’t crash or well blow myself up!