Drift Hunters -

He smiled, shifted into first, and pulled a slow, smoky donut around the Corvette’s abandoned rear tire.

The judges (three old-timers with clipboards) raised a flag. Line perfect. Angle maximum. Points: 112. Drift Hunters

Silence.

Drayke’s jaw tightened. Second corner: a tight, technical chicane. He over-rotated, had to counter-steer hard, lost momentum. His car wobbled—a “saving throw,” not a drift. 45 points. He smiled, shifted into first, and pulled a

Kaito followed. He didn’t stomp the gas. He breathed into it. The Silvia’s turbo spooled, and at the apex, he feathered the clutch. The car pivoted like a dancer, rear bumper kissing the tire wall without a scratch. He held the drift through the transition, weight shifting smoothly, front wheels pointing exactly where he wanted to go—not where the car wanted to fall. Angle maximum

“First to three hundred points,” Drayke said, pointing to the maze of concrete barriers at the far end of the strip—a makeshift course marked by old tires and spray-paint. “Clips, angle, line. You lose, you leave your keys in the dirt.”

He stepped out of the Silvia. The Wolves stared, not at the wreck of their leader’s car, but at the skinny kid with the faded sticker. Drayke crawled from the driver’s side, dusting glass from his jacket. He didn’t speak. He just tossed his keys on the ground between them.