Eliza clawed her way up the muddy slope. Black dirt packed tightly beneath her fingernails.

She leaned against the rough bark of an oak tree, gasping for air. Her lungs burned as if she were breathing in broken glass.

She closed her eyes. She tried to focus her mind, attempting to awaken the biological enhancement abilities from Project Chimera.

A faint resonance hummed deep in her consciousness. But the cardiovascular system of this normal, broken girl could not handle the energy surge.

Eliza suffered a sharp, agonizing spasm that tore through her chest, forcing a wet, ragged cough from her throat. The enhancement activation failed.

She let out a low, bitter laugh. She accepted the reality that she had to rely solely on this fragile, mortal shell for now.

She ripped a strip of fabric from her ruined dress. She tied it tightly around a deep gash on her thigh to stop the bleeding.

Suddenly, a low, guttural roar tore through the silence of the rainy mountain.

It was the distinct sound of high-octane fuel burning inside a V12 engine.

Eliza's eyes sharpened, her tactical mind instantly calculating the distance and direction. A vehicle meant a way out. She couldn't wander aimlessly; she had to actively secure transport. It was her only chance to survive the night.

She forced her broken body to move, tracking the acoustic signature of the engines, gritting her teeth against the pain as she crawled over the ridge.

She actively pushed aside the dense, wet bushes, seeking her extraction point. Down in the canyon, a stretch of asphalt was lit up as bright as day.

Dozens of heavily modified supercars lined up behind a starting line. Floodlights cut through the rain.

Scantily clad grid girls and frantic, wealthy heirs partied in the downpour. This was an illegal underground street race, a playground for the elite.

In the center of the crowd stood Duval Estrada. He wore a custom-tailored black dress shirt. He held a black umbrella, his expression entirely bored.

His friend, Griffin Fletcher, pointed excitedly at a modified red Ferrari. Griffin laughed loudly, taunting Duval.

Griffin bet that Duval wouldn't dare race his stock Aston Martin against a car tuned specifically for canyon runs.

Jules Mcintosh, the son of a prominent politician, pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up his nose. He smiled and added five hundred thousand dollars to the pot.

Duval exhaled a thick cloud of cigar smoke. His eyes were dead, showing no interest in the money or the thrill.

A racer covered in neck tattoos walked over. He arrogantly flipped his middle finger right in Duval's face.

Duval's eyes instantly turned to ice. He looked at the tattooed man as if looking at a corpse.

He turned his head slightly and snapped his fingers at his special assistant, Rook Valis.

Rook immediately stepped forward. He handed over a black card. Duval spoke two words, his voice devoid of emotion: "Two million."

The crowd erupted into screams. The stakes had just hit an insane level.

Duval dropped his cigar into a puddle and crushed it beneath his leather shoe. He walked toward the pitch-black Aston Martin.

Halfway up the mountain, Eliza calmly watched the scene unfold. Her eyes locked onto the black car.

Her brain processed the information like a tactical computer. She analyzed the layout of the canyon track and the performance specs of the vehicles.

She knew her body would shut down before she walked out of these woods. She had to get in that car.

Eliza hooked her left arm into a thick vine. She slid down the steep rock face, a desperate, one-sided scramble.

She slipped into the thick brush just before the first hairpin turn of the track-the most dangerous blind spot on the mountain.

A gorgeous woman in a soaking wet bikini walked to the center of the road, standing between the two idling supercars.

She raised a black-and-white checkered flag high above her head.

Duval sat in the driver's seat. He held the steering wheel with one hand, his posture relaxed and utterly indifferent.

In the next lane, the tattooed racer slammed his foot on the gas. The Ferrari's engine screamed, trying to dominate Duval with pure noise.

The woman slashed the flag downward. Both cars launched forward like bullets fired from a gun.

The tires spun wildly on the wet asphalt, burning rubber and sending up thick clouds of white smoke.

Duval's Aston Martin utilized its superior torque. He pulled ahead by half a car length in the first three seconds.

The tattooed man cursed. He stayed right on Duval's bumper, trying to use the slipstream to gain speed for a pass.

The rain poured harder. The windshield wipers thrashed violently, but visibility dropped to near zero.

In the bushes just before the hairpin turn, Eliza stood as still as a stone statue. She didn't even breathe.

The vibration in the ground grew stronger. Blinding headlights swept across the tree trunks.

Eliza counted down in her head. Three. Two. One.

The Aston Martin approached the braking zone at one hundred and twenty miles per hour. Eliza moved.

She leaped out of the bushes like a ghost. She planted her feet directly in the center of the lane, facing the speeding machine.

Duval's pupils contracted into tiny dots.

A normal driver would have jerked the steering wheel to avoid her, sending the car rolling off the cliff. Duval's reaction was pure, selfish calculation.

He slammed the brake pedal to the floor and aggressively downshifted the transmission.

The carbon-ceramic brake rotors exploded with bright orange sparks. The entire chassis shuddered violently.

The supercar lost traction on the wet road. It began to slide sideways, hydroplaning directly toward Eliza.

Eliza stood perfectly still. She didn't blink. She stared coldly through the windshield at the man behind the wheel.

The tires shrieked. The front bumper stopped exactly one inch from Eliza's raw, blood-slicked knees.

The massive G-force threw Duval forward. The seatbelt locked, bruising his collarbone.

The tattooed man saw the obstacle. He laughed like a maniac, swerved into the oncoming lane, and blew past them, taking the lead.

Duval slowly lifted his head. Pure, murderous rage boiled in his eyes. He glared through the glass at the woman who had just cost him the race.

Eliza dragged her bleeding right leg. She limped to the driver's side window.

She raised her blood-soaked left hand and knocked hard on the bullet-resistant glass.

Duval rolled the window down. The air around him felt heavy enough to crush her lungs.

Eliza ignored his killing intent. Her voice was hoarse, but steady as steel. "Do you want to win this two-million-dollar bet?"

Duval sneered. He opened his mouth to order his security to throw her off the mountain.

Eliza looked straight into his eyes. She laid out her terms. "Let me drive. I will win it for you. The price is, you take me out of here and provide the highest level of medical care."

Duval narrowed his eyes. He scrutinized the girl standing in the storm. She was covered in mud and blood, looking like a corpse that had crawled out of a grave.

He searched her eyes for fear. He found nothing but absolute, chilling confidence.

That look struck a chord deep within Duval's twisted psychology. It fed his craving for madness.

He let out a short, dark laugh. He pushed open the passenger door and climbed over the center console. "You have exactly five minutes to impress me."

Eliza didn't waste a single breath. She forced her broken body into the driver's seat.

Her blood immediately soaked into the expensive hand-stitched leather. She didn't care.

She gripped the steering wheel with her left hand. Her right hand, though broken at the shoulder, moved with terrifying precision to flick the paddle shifters.

She stomped the gas pedal. The Aston Martin roared in fury and launched forward.

The brutal acceleration pushed Eliza back into the seat. Blinding pain exploded in her fractured ribs and shattered shoulder. Her vision swam with dark spots, but she refused to pass out. She bit her lip until it bled, using the sharp spike of agony to keep her mind anchored. Her body was failing, but her combat-honed muscle memory completely took over. Every shift, every flick of the wheel was driven by sheer, terrifying willpower rather than the failed Chimera enhancement.

Duval sat in the passenger seat. He watched her hands. Her movements were flawless, mechanical, and terrifyingly professional.

A series of S-curves approached. The taillights of the Ferrari glowed faintly in the rain ahead.

Eliza didn't touch the brakes. As she entered the corner, she yanked the emergency brake lever.

The car snapped sideways. It drifted across the slick asphalt, the front tires kissing the exact apex of the curve.

The rear tires spun off the edge of the road, kicking gravel down into the black abyss below.

Duval raised an eyebrow. This was a suicidal driving technique. Not even professional rally drivers would attempt a Scandinavian flick on a wet mountain edge.

In just three corners, the Aston Martin was riding the Ferrari's bumper.

The tattooed man checked his rearview mirror. Panic set in. He began to swerve wildly, blocking the narrow lane to prevent Eliza from passing.

Eliza stared at the Ferrari. Her eyes were locked on her prey.

Ahead was the most notorious section of the track: the "Kiss of Death." It was a U-shaped turn with no guardrail on the outside edge.

The tattooed man hugged the inside line, forcing Eliza to take the outside path near the cliff.

Eliza didn't lift her foot off the gas. She downshifted, rev-matching perfectly.

The Aston Martin surged forward on the outside line. The two left wheels completely left the asphalt, hanging over the deadly drop.

Duval's pupils dilated. He felt the sickening sensation of weightlessness as the car tilted toward the canyon.

Eliza used the heavy weight of the engine block on the right side to keep the car pinned to the road. She executed an impossible pendulum drift.

The Aston Martin scraped against the Ferrari's front bumper and squeezed past on the very edge of the cliff.

The tattooed man lost his nerve. He slammed on his brakes in sheer terror. His car spun out and crashed hard into the rock wall.

Eliza completed the pass. The left wheels slammed back onto the pavement. The suspension groaned in protest.

The floodlights of the finish line pierced through the rain.

Eliza kept the throttle pinned to the floor. The black car tore across the finish line like a shadow.