Engines aren't supposed to scream like this--tearing heaven apart--at 7:13 AM.

Mine didn't care. It was a beast woken too early, hungry and savage.

The Lamborghini Veneno Roadster didn't just accelerate—it detonated. The instant I slammed the throttle pedal to the firewall, the V12 behind my head unleashed a howl that scraped the marrow from my bones. It wasn't a roar; it was a physical blow, a sonic fist punching the dawn silence into oblivion.

Tires—massive, slick Pirellis—bit into the cool asphalt with a shriek of tortured rubber, shredding the quiet like it owed me a debt paid in smoke and fury. The open cockpit wasn't just ventilation; it was a portal to chaos.

The wind became a hurricane, a roaring, physical force slamming into my skull, whipping at my jacket, trying to tear the sunglasses from my face.

The world warped and stretched.

Trees became vertical streaks of emerald green. The road blurred into a river of melted obsidian. The sky was a fractured smear of pale blue and gold. The Veneno wasn't just moving; it was violating reality, hurtling forward as if trying to punch a hole through the fabric of spacetime itself.

No narrator. No warning. Just GO.

Behind me—no, hunting me—was Tommy. His Mansory Lamborghini Aventador Carbonado wasn't just a car; it was a predator. A black matte missile, stitched together with hatred and carbon fiber, forged in the fires of arrogance and fueled by pure, distilled rivalry.

Its exhaust note wasn't a sound; it was a presence, a deep, guttural growl that vibrated through the asphalt, through the frame of my own car, up my spine. In the rearview mirror, his quad LED headlights weren't lights; they were eyes.

Dragon eyes, flickering and intense, tracking me, locking on, burning with cold, predatory intent.

He shifted lanes left, a brutal, decisive jerk.

I drifted right, the Veneno's rear end sliding just millimeters, a controlled slip that ate the distance.

We weren't driving. We were dueling. Two titans of metal and fury locked in a death waltz at velocities that defied sanity.

The road ahead narrowed, splitting into two tight, knife-edge lanes threading like a serpent through the dense countryside forest.

Sunlight struggled through the thick canopy overhead, dappling the asphalt in shifting patterns of light and shadow. The lightweight branches of the ancient oaks and maples didn't just sway; they shook.

Tremors ran through their leaves, sensing the approaching violence before the engines' screams even reached them, like prey feeling the footfall of the apex predator.

The tight left bend loomed—deceptive, treacherous, a concrete curve hugged by sheer rock faces on one side and a drop shrouded by thick undergrowth on the other.

Too sharp. Too fast. Perfect for me.

I didn't touch the brakes. That was for cowards. My left foot hovered over the clutch pedal. My right hand slammed the steering column-mounted paddle.

CLUNK!

Downshift. Third gear bit hard, the engine revs spiking instantly, the V12's scream climbing to a terrifying, glass-shattering pitch. The sudden compression braking wasn't just slowing me; it was swinging the rear end.

The Veneno pirouetted sideways in a controlled, breathtaking drift at 140 mph. Tires spat brilliant blue-white flames off the pavement, a furious testament to friction. The G-force slammed me sideways into the carbon-fiber bucket seat, the harness biting into my shoulders.

The rear end didn't wobble. It didn't hesitate. It snapped straight with the brutal efficiency of a mousetrap spring—perfect control.

The trees were no longer blurs; they were solid walls passing inches from my driver's door. Close enough to see the intricate patterns of bark, close enough to smell the damp earth and pine sap, close enough to imagine reaching out and scraping my knuckles against ancient wood.

Tommy followed—hot, aggressive, late.

He tried to mimic my drift but carried too much speed, too much heat into the apex. His wheels bit too hard. The black matte missile swung wide, its rear quarter-panel screaming towards the unforgiving steel of the guardrail.

SCREEEECCCHHH—KRRRRANG!

Sparks erupted like a fountain of liquid gold and orange firework fragments behind him. The sound of metal grinding on steel was a horrifying, tooth-jarring shriek that echoed through the trees. His rear diffuser scraped along the rail, leaving a trail of gouged paint and shredded carbon fiber in its wake.

Amateur move.

But somehow, muscle memory or pure terror, he wrenched the wheel, caught the slide, and wrestled the Carbonado back onto the blacktop. It bucked and snarled like a wounded animal, but it held.

I smirked.

He didn't see it.

He felt it.

A psychic broadcast across the roaring void. A challenge thrown down like a gauntlet.

Challenge accepted.

My foot buried the throttle again. The Veneno didn't accelerate; it teleported. The world outside the windscreen dissolved into pure speed. The V12's shriek became a physical thing, a pressure wave vibrating my teeth, pressing against my eardrums, trying to tear itself free from the carbon-fiber monocoque surrounding it.

Each gearshift wasn't a click; it was an explosion.

Gear 3—BOOM! The snap of the clutch, the violent engagement, a gut-punch of acceleration.

Gear 4—BOOM! Faster still, the tach needle burying itself in the red, the scream becoming almost ultrasonic.

Gear 5—BOOM! The world blurred into a watercolor painting of motion.

My vision narrowed. Tunnel vision. The laser focus of a predator locked onto prey. Just road. Just instinct. Nothing else mattered.

Another curve approached. Tighter. More dangerous. A downhill chicane disguised as a simple left bend.

No brakes.

Fingers found the downshift paddle.

CLUNK! Second gear.

The engine compression hit like a hammer blow. The Veneno's rear end stepped out violently, eager now, predatory.

I let it slide, feeding tiny, precise steering corrections, feeling the car dance on the knife-edge of adhesion. The rear tires skidded sideways, half a meter off the sun-warmed asphalt, kissing the loose gravel shoulder with a sound like a thousand marbles rolling down a metal roof—

Then snapped back in.

With brutal, beautiful finality. Hooking the blacktop like a grappling iron finding purchase. One smooth, fluid motion, executed with the cold, ruthless perfection of a surgeon wielding a scalpel. Rehearsed a thousand times in dreams, executed flawlessly in the screaming, fire-spitting reality of 160 mph.

Tommy wasn't so graceful. He saw the trap too late. Panic.

He stabbed the brakes. The ABS system kicked in instantly, a frantic, chattering rabbit-punch of KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK that shook the entire Aventador's chassis like a dog shaking a rat. Tires screamed like banshees being flayed alive, white smoke billowing in thick, choking clouds.

It bucked violently, a mechanical bull trying to throw its rider, the rear end fishtailing wildly across both lanes.

But he held on. White-knuckled definitely. Defiant.

We rocketed out of the curve side-by-side, two wounded beasts clearing smokescreens like fighter jets punching through cloud cover after a dogfight.

Dead straight road ahead.

Sunlight glinting off distant metal.

Quarter mile until the bridge.

Ten minutes until the first bell shrills its warning.

Two minutes until this private war is decided. Victory or ruin.

I lifted one hand off the leather-wrapped steering wheel. Not frantically. Not desperately.

Casually. Confidently. Arrogantly.

I raised a middle finger. A clear, deliberate gesture flipped backward over my shoulder. A silent command screamed over the roar of our engines:

Catch me if you can.

Tommy's reply wasn't a gesture. It wasn't a nod.

It was a thunderous downshift I felt through the soles of my shoes, through the bones in my spine, vibrating my teeth with its raw, aggressive promise.

RRRRRROOOOOAAAAARRR-CLUNK!

He was coming.

And staring at that dead-straight road leading to the bridge, feeling the Veneno's engine screaming its defiance, I realized with a slow, predatory grin spreading across my face:

I wasn't done. Not by a long shot.

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