The city’s neon glow streaked past Qin Hong’s windshield like liquid lightning as he white-knuckled the steering yoke. Sweat slicked his palms. *This isn’t a training sim anymore.* The academy’s clunky old hovercars had nothing on this beast—a midnight-silver F300s with enough torque to outrun his mounting panic.
"Dispy exit routes! Tag nearby patrol units and police interceptors!" His voice cracked.
The AI responded with gcial calm: *"Fastest route plotted. Turn left in one kilometer, then proceed straight for fifty kilometers to exit city limits."*
A metallic *thunk* reverberated through the chassis before he could react. Qin Hong whipped his head around to see a bck police interceptor tched onto his rear fnk, its magnetic "skewer hook" buried deep in his fender. The cruiser yanked backward, decelerating him violently. Though the F300s’s engines roared in protest, the w enforcer’s reinforced tow winch held firm—they were seconds away from being suspended midair like a predator’s trophy catch.
*Think. Think!*
Qin Hong smmed the throttle to zero, then wrenched the yoke upward. The F300 s’s nose pitched skyward as inertia hurled it backward toward the police cruiser. Through his inverted windshield, he glimpsed the stunned face of the enforcer inside—mouth agape, eyes tracking his trajectory—before the cruiser’s collision-avoidance system kicked in, diving just enough to let the F300s scrape overhead.
The moment his tail cleared their cockpit, Qin Hong maxed the throttle again. The skewer hook snapped like a breadstick. The sudden release sent the police interceptor spiraling into a tailspin before it cratered into a rooftop garden below.
But victory was short-lived. Two more interceptors materialized in his rear dispys, fnking him like wolves. Their amplified warnings boomed through his speakers: *"Silver F300s, descend immediately! Further resistance will—"*
Qin Hong muted them. His eyes locked onto the byrinthine storm drainage channels snaking along the city’s underbelly—a rat’s warren of tunnels where floodwater and fugitives alike vanished without trace. *There.*
He killed his running lights and nosedived. The F300s skimmed the canal’s murky surface, its wake fanning out in a V of froth. The pursuing interceptors gged briefly, buying him precious seconds. Ahead, the tunnel forked. Left or right? No time—
He barrel-rolled right, grinding his starboard wing against the concrete wall in a shower of sparks. On his rear cam, a decoy silver F300s shot eastward, drawing the interceptors away until all three dwindled to pinpricks of light.
Only then did Qin Hong realize he’d stopped breathing.
---
**The Girl in the Moonlight**
The F300s sat powered down in a derelict hover-scrapyard, its stealth cloak blending with the shadows. Qin Hong clutched the silver briefcase—the one that nearly got him killed—and pried it open.
The scent of crisp *maso* bills flooded the cabin. Stacks upon stacks, enough to buy a small moon. His fingers trembled as he traced their edges. *What the hell is this delivery really about?*
A gust kicked up rust fkes around him. Across the yard, a silhouette emerged—slim-hipped in cargo shorts, combat boots crunching gravel. Moonlight gilded her violet updo as she stepped closer, lips stained cherry-red, eyes sharp enough to fy him open.
"You’re te," she said. Her voice was honey poured over steel.
Qin Hong blinked. "How did you—"
"Grandpa’s expecting you." She jerked her chin at his battered F300s. "I’d recognize that dent anywhere. Follow me."
As they walked past mountains of corroded hoverframes, Qin Hong noted how her hands—calloused but elegant—twitched when he asked about her mechanical skills.
"Try not to sound so surprised," she huffed. "I’ve rebuilt your boss’s rides more times than you’ve hotwired snacks from vending machines."
He grinned. "My mistake. You just look more like a showroom model than a grease monkey."
Xiao Yu’s neck flushed pink. "Shut up. That’ll be thirty grand for the hull breach, by the way."
Qin Hong’s smile died. *There goes my first paycheck.*
---
**The Devil in the Details**
Plet, the scrapyard’s patriarch, peered through his opti-loupe like a jeweler appraising a counterfeit gem. "So. Guann sends me a whelp who can’t outfly municipal traffic." His nose—a topographic marvel of bumps—wrinkled. "He must *really* not care about this deal."
Qin Hong set the briefcase on the workbench but kept his palm atop it. "Actually, sir, he said you’re the best teacher for someone like me." *Lie smoothly. Watch his tells.*
The old man’s chuckle sounded like gears stripping. "Teacher? What’s next, you’ll call me *sensei*?" His grin vanished. "Money. Now."
Just as Plet reached for the case, Qin Hong snapped it shut, nearly catching the man’s fingers. "My turn to inspect the merchandise."
A flicker of respect crossed Plet’s face before he barked at Xiao Yu: "Get it."
As she disappeared into the backroom, Qin Hong’s gaze lingered a second too long. Plet’s wrench hit the table with a *cng*. "Eyes to yourself, boy, or I’ll—"
The explosion atomized the rest of his threat.
---
**Human Torch**
Qin Hong’s vision swam in and out of focus. Through the smoke, a figure strode through molten steel as if wading through mist. Fmes *danced* along his bare arms—no, not danced. *Worshipped.*
The man raised a palm. Fire coalesced into a miniature sun above his fingertips.
Then the world became light and pain.
