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.
