“Oh, Miss Kiba, there’s another duo on the team, but they’re on their way. They’re the AI boffins… but don’t worry about any of that. We’ve got a W.E.R. qualifier to get you ready for,” the Chief said, completely deadpan, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell the size of a turbocharged freight train.

  AI assistants. Real ones. Not the cheap GPS voice that mispronounces street names, but the full-fat, race-bred AI copilots that only existed in the upper echelons of the sport. I’d heard about them, of course—everyone had. They were the ghostly second drivers, analyzing data in real time, predicting grip levels, calling out pace notes before you even knew you needed them. But I’d never actually seen one in action. The junior leagues? Strictly human-only. AI was banned because, well, most of us could barely afford proper tires, let alone a computer brain whispering sweet nothings about optimal braking points. Before I could process it, the crew had already kicked into gear. Takashi, vibrating like a human espresso machine, fired off stats about tire temps and traction like his life depended on it. Yuuto was muttering fuel ratios under his breath like a priest reciting a sacred chant. Koneko? She just sighed and started tapping away at a tablet, probably calculating how long it would take me to break something. And me? I was just trying to keep up.

  The pit was a storm of movement—mechanics barking orders, tires screeching, wrenches clanking like a mechanical orchestra tuning up for absolute chaos. And me? I was standing right in the middle of it, heart hammering, my first real race only moments away. No more junior leagues, no more duct-taped solutions or makeshift parts. This was World Endurance Rally, and I was about to dive headfirst into the madness.

  ***

  The Chief sighed, arms crossed, watching the rookie with the same expression one might reserve for a toddler about to push a big red button labeled Do Not Press. Akeno Kiba. Quick on paper, promising in the junior leagues, but this? This was the W.E.R.—where cars didn’t just go fast; they tried to murder you at every turn.

  “She doesn’t look completely useless,” he muttered.

  “She’s still standing here, isn’t she?” Koneko replied, tapping away at her tablet. “That’s not usually a good sign.”

  The Chief grunted. “Yeah, well, standing is fine. Crashing into a barrier is less fine.” He turned back to Kiba, who was still holding her helmet like it had personally offended her.

  “Alright, rookie,” he said, stepping up beside her. “This car—your car—isn’t some polite, well-mannered GT cruiser. It’s a lightweight, turbocharged banshee that will try to kill you the second you stop paying attention. You don’t fight it. You work with it.”

  Kiba nodded, jaw set, trying her best to look unshaken. The Chief wasn’t buying it.

  “I’ll be in your ear, playing co-driver. That means you listen to what I say, you follow my calls, and most importantly—” He leaned in slightly. “You don’t bin it into a hedge before we’ve even done a warm-up lap.”

  Takashi, practically vibrating with excitement, threw an arm around Kiba’s shoulder. “Oh, she’ll be fine! Probably! Unless she lifts mid-corner. Then she’s going into orbit.”

  Koneko didn’t even look up. “Five laps. I give her five before she spins it.”

  “Three,” Yuuto muttered.

  The Chief sighed again, the deep, weary sigh of a man who had done this far too many times. “I’ll be honest, Kiba, I don’t really care about speed right now. I care that you come back with the car still resembling a car.” He gestured toward the Pugora 250X, which sat there idling, making the kind of aggressive noises that suggested it had woken up in a very bad mood.

  Kiba swallowed.

  The Chief smirked. “Helmet on, rookie. Let’s see if you’re a driver… or just another pedestrian with a learner’s permit.”

  I could still feel his gaze weighing on me as Koneko spoke up.

  ***

  "Hey, Chief," Koneko called out, arms crossed, watching me like a deer in headlights. "Don’t you think the rookie needs a shakedown run? We can only tweak so much before we actually see what she can do."

  The Chief just sighed, a sound of someone who had been through this a hundred times. "Yeah, yeah. Get everything ready. It’s time for Miss Kiba to actually drive instead of standing around like a tourist."

  Without another word, a helmet came flying at me. I caught it—barely—just as Takashi, bouncing like he’d had too many energy drinks, yanked open the door of the Pugora 250X. "Get in! Time to see what ya’ got!"

  The Chief ignored him, stepping up beside me with that half-amused, half-skeptical look only someone with years of experience could pull off. "Listen, rookie. This car—your car—isn’t some polished, smooth-as-silk racing machine. It’s a lightweight, turbocharged beast that’ll bite back if you’re not paying attention. You don’t fight it. You work with it. And for now, I’ll be in your ear, acting as your co-driver. But remember—" he smirked, "don’t crash it."

  I slid into the driver’s seat, heart pounding like a drum. My fingers gripped the wheel, feeling the edges of the rim like I was about to take hold of something that could either deliver me to victory or send me crashing into oblivion. The turbo was a constant hum underneath, already making its presence known, impatient for action. Key in. Twist.

  The 250X roared to life, its turbocharged engine practically leaping to life, rattling the dashboard as if it were about to tear itself apart. I carefully eased it out of the pit, the tires biting into the ground as I navigated the chaos of the crowded pit area, avoiding mechanics who had very little understanding of personal space. Minutes later, I was at the start line of a gravel test track, watching another rally car—probably some seasoned pro—hurtle past in a perfect drift, sending plumes of dust flying. The Chief’s voice crackled in my ear, like a drill sergeant about to send me into battle.

  "Alright, rookie. Five seconds. Eyes up. Feel the car."

  Five. My fingers clutched the wheel.

  Four. My heart hammered.

  Three. Breath steady.

  Two.

  One.

  "Send it."

  I tore out of the pit lane in the Peugeot 205 GTI, the engine buzzing with all the fury of a tiny French tornado.

  The Chief’s voice came through the speakers: “Right 4, fast!” A quick flick of the wheel, and the car darted into the turn, the tires gripping the road with all the finesse of a ballerina on roller skates. But then came the left—3, medium tight, I had to hold back the urge to throw it too hard. The 205 twitched, the rear tires squealing as I nailed the throttle, the car begging to break loose. “Akeno, easy, you’re pushing it!” the Chief warned. I wasn’t pushing—I was teetering on the edge of madness.

  “Hairpin left, 2, heavy braking, slow!” I threw myself forward into the seat as the car screamed at me to slow down. The tires howled in protest, the rear end shifting as the car bucked and slid. It was all I could do to wrestle it under control. “Keep it tidy, Akeno!” the Chief barked, his voice sharp. I gritted my teeth as I got back on the throttle, barely holding the car steady.

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  ***

  Back in the pit, Takashi’s fingers flew over the controls, eyes glued to the telemetry readout as Akeno tackled the hairpin. He could almost feel the tires fighting for grip as she pushed the car. The right rear tire pressure was dropping—a few pounds already. Not good. She was really pushing it.

  “Come on, stay together,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the equipment around him. His pulse was quickening, his thoughts racing even though he wasn’t the one behind the wheel. This wasn’t just a test lap anymore—it was a desperate gamble.

  Akeno’s eagerness was one thing, but he couldn’t afford for her to make an early mistake, not on his watch. The data streamed in: fuel stable, suspension holding up—but only just. The tires were wearing fast, and Akeno’s line was getting sharper, more aggressive. If she kept driving like this, he’d have to pull her in early. He couldn’t risk pushing the car to its limits without proper data to back it up.

  “Stay steady,” he muttered again, his hand moving over the controls, adjusting the differential. Just a small tweak. Nothing drastic. Not yet. But if she didn’t back off soon, they’d be in trouble.

  The hum of the car in the earpiece grew louder. He could almost hear the strain in Akeno’s voice through the comms, a hint of panic beneath the surface. A sharp buzz from his earpiece broke his focus. The Chief’s voice crackled through, curt and demanding: “Takashi, how’s the telemetry?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Everything’s green... for now,” he answered, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew it wasn’t the full picture. Akeno’s aggressive style might be exciting, but it was dangerous. He had to keep her grounded, keep the car from tearing itself apart.

  ***

  “Right 5, long, don’t cut!” The 205 darted through the corner, light as a feather, but still feeling like a live wire, buzzing with energy. The tires screamed as I powered through, holding onto the wheel as if it might escape my grip. “You’re really pushing this car,” the Chief said, a dry note in his voice. Yeah, I was, but if the Peugeot could survive me, I’d make it through this without eating gravel.

  Alright, here we go. The 205 GTI is purring like a lion on Red Bull, and I’m steering it with all the confidence of a puppy on roller skates. The Chief’s voice crackles in my ear, smooth and authoritative—“Right 4, fast. Hold it steady.” Steady? Steady is for people who enjoy a quiet cup of tea. I want a thrill. The tires are screeching in agony as I fling the car into the corner, but I’m getting it! The rear end twitches, just a little, like a dog wagging its tail. It’s nothing. Nothing.

  Then—bam. I stomp on the throttle too soon. Rookie mistake. The back of the car yawns, the tires begging for mercy, and suddenly I’m this close to eating gravel. My foot’s still on the pedal, though, and my grip on the wheel’s firmer than a toddler holding a cookie jar—there’s no backing down now. The rear tires fight, the back of the car sliding toward the grass like a drunk uncle at a wedding, and for a split second, I think this is it—this is where I go from rookie to roadkill.

  But no. A small correction. A tiny flick of the wheel, and suddenly the 205 is obedient again, like a dog that remembers its training. Alright, I think, keeping my cool, heart hammering in my chest. “You’re not getting me today, are you?” I mutter to the car, still battling its need to kill me. The tires scream as I power out of it, and for a moment, I’m invincible. Nothing can stop me. Except—

  “Sharp left, sharp braking, tight,” comes the Chief’s voice again. “Great,” I think. “Just what I need: more drama.” The 205’s front end dives as I slam on the brakes, right foot in a panic-fueled tango with the pedal. The car yawns left, and my hands are suddenly playing a very aggressive game of "Don't Let It Kill You." But I’m tight—too tight—almost kissing the inside wall. The car’s squealing like a pig at slaughter, but somehow, I’m in control. Barely.

  ***

  Back in the pit, Koneko’s fingers were still a blur across the tablet, eyes locked onto the telemetry. "Think she’s going to do it?" Takashi asked, his voice laced with excitement and a hint of panic.

  Koneko didn’t even blink. “It’s just a question of when, not if.” She adjusted something on her screen, her tone as flat as ever. “Tires are under pressure. If she doesn’t calm down, we’ll have to pull her in early. This isn’t a video game. One wrong move, and she’ll have a date with that wall.”

  Takashi’s eyes widened. “You think she’ll make it out?”

  Koneko didn’t bother looking up. “If she doesn’t, I’ll be the one dealing with the repairs.” She paused, turning her focus back to the screen. “And believe me, I’d rather be dealing with anything else.”

  ***

  “Medium right, wide exit,” the Chief calls. I don’t have time to think about what just happened. I ease back into it, smooth this time—steady. The 205 bites into the corner like a hungry wolf, and as the back end kicks out ever so slightly, I think, this is it. This is what it feels like to be a proper driver. I feel like a god, but the reality is, I’m one twitch away from sending us both to the hospital. I punch the throttle, the car singing its sweet, turbocharged song as I rocket through the bend. This is the moment. I’ve survived the near-death experience of an unplanned off-road adventure.

  But that first mistake—it wasn’t a little slip-up. It was me taking on the car like a bull in a china shop, and I got away with it. Just. The car’s not forgiving, and I know if I push too hard, too soon, it’ll throw me into a ditch before I can even say “rookie mistake.” But for now? I’m still alive. And that's worth celebrating. Sort of.

  The car’s a beast. Not the tame kind you take out for a Sunday cruise—no, this is a snarling, turbocharged animal that wants nothing more than to throw me into the nearest hedge at the first opportunity. And right now? It’s about to get its wish.

  The first series of bends comes up fast, and I’m already second-guessing myself. “Left-right-left, smooth transition,” the Chief says over the radio, calm as if he hasn’t just thrown me into the lion’s den. Smooth transition? I’ve barely got the car pointed in the right direction.

  I fling the wheel left, but the car’s too eager—almost as if it can’t wait to take the corner. The right’s tighter than my grandma’s knitting, and I can already feel the rear tires giving me that little, unwelcome nudge. No, not today. I force it back, but it’s already too late—there’s that terrifying screech of rubber and the overwhelming realization that this is exactly how rookie drivers end up parked in a wall.

  I can hear the Chief’s voice again, sharper this time. “Steady, Akeno. Steady.”

  I don’t feel steady. I feel like I’m wrestling a drunken bull on ice. The final left? Let’s just say I’m halfway to the grass when I yank the wheel again. Tires screaming in protest, the car fishtails—yep, that’s it, this is where I die, I think.

  Then, of course, the Chief comes through again, like a calm voice of reason in the middle of the apocalypse. “Sharp right, sharp braking, stay wide.” Sure, I’ll stay wide. Like I can actually stay wide when the car’s acting like a toddler who’s just been told it’s bedtime.

  I slam on the brakes, way too late, way too hard. The 205’s front end dives like it’s decided it wants to go for a swim in the gravel. The back end kicks out like it’s trying to escape me, and I fight to get it under control. My heart’s in my throat, my hands are shaking—this is the moment, isn’t it? The moment when I become another rookie statistic.

  But no. Somehow, by sheer dumb luck, I get it back on track, but that’s about the only thing going right. The car’s still a handful, sliding, twitching, like it’s actively trying to kill me, and I’m the poor sod trying to convince it otherwise. The Chief’s voice again—“Cut in! Now!” I do what I can, but it’s not pretty. The car’s wriggling beneath me, fighting for freedom, and I’m just trying to hold on. “Cut it! Cut it! Smooth, Akeno,” he barks. Yeah, smooth. This isn’t smooth. I’m hanging on like my life depends on it, because, well, it kind of does.

  Finally, after what feels like a thousand years of absolute mayhem, the Chief comes back through, and I’m half-expecting him to tell me I’ve just ruined the entire race. Instead, he says, like nothing at all’s happened, “Akeno, we got all we need. Good job. Do a cool-down lap and meet us back at the trailer.”

  Good job? Good job? After I nearly turned the car into a scrap heap? That’s when it hits me: I’ve somehow survived. And with the faintest trace of pride, I slow the car down, taking the cool-down lap at a pace that feels almost… graceful. The Chief’s still in my ear, but now, he sounds like a voice from a distant, much saner world. I’m still in it. I’ve made it this far. And maybe, just maybe, that’s all that counts.