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.
