A red sports car sped across an empty race track under the floodlights of a silent arena.
"Shit!" a voice cursed from inside.
The driver wore a red helmet with dark glass, a red-and-black leather jacket, gloves, jeans, and boots. The car tore through the curve, wheels screeching. It tried to drift—but failed. The back slammed into the edge of the track.
The car sped forward again, the speedometer shooting from 0 to 100 km/h in ten seconds. Another curve was coming, shorter this time. The driver yanked the handbrake and turned hard.
"Come on! Come on!" he yelled. The car spun dangerously close to the barrier but somehow stopped just inches away.
"Yes!" he shouted. It was a small victory after countless failures.
The driver tried again, pushing the speed past a hundred. This time, the drift failed completely. The car crashed into the edge.
"Damn it! Damn it! DAMN IT!" he screamed, slamming his fists against the steering wheel. Breathing heavily, he leaned forward, resting his head on it.
"I've lost count. Dozens of times? Maybe hundreds? And I'm still no better than when I started."
A blue digital screen appeared before him:
Reminder: Race will begin in 30 minutes. Would you like to back out? Yes. No.
He waved it away. "Thirty minutes, huh? I'd say that's enough time, but I'd be lying to myself. Give me a year and I still wouldn't improve."
He sighed. "The only thing I can do is keep racing."
He hit the pedal again, trying to perfect his drift. Again and again he crashed. The blue screen reappeared.
Reminder: Race will begin in 30 minutes. Would you like to back out?
He leaned back. There was no point. The timer ticked down to two minutes.
"There's no backing out for me. Not with what I have on the line."
5…4…3…2…1…0.
The driver and the car dissolved into streaks of blue light.
When the light faded, he was still in a car—but surrounded by others. Nine more vehicles, each glowing as they appeared beside him on the track. Ten racers total. Same model, different colors.
Engines purred, loud and eager. The driver in red gripped his wheel and, for the first time in years, prayed.
"Please, God. I know we haven't talked in a while, but I need this. Just one win. You know what'll happen if I lose again."
Numbers appeared before them.
10… 9… 8…
The racers prepared—tightened belts, adjusted gears.
2… 1… 0!
An orange line flashed across the ground. The cars roared forward in unison, crossing the checkpoint with a chime.
The race had begun. Each time a car passed the orange line, the screen blinked and recorded the order. Whoever crossed it first five times would win the Selection Race.
The driver in red brought up his digital display. It showed the arena map and racer positions. A black sports car was leading. Red was in fifth place.
Not bad—but not good enough.
He slammed the pedal, trying to overtake the pink car ahead. Every move he made—right, left—the pink car blocked him.
"What is this? The world's first black belt in overtake blocking?" he muttered.
He saw nothing but that pink trunk. Rage boiled inside him.
"Fine. You wanna play that way? You leave me no choice."
He rammed the pink car's rear. Once. Twice. Three times. Each hit harder than the last. Finally, the pink car lost control, drifting off track and crashing into the wall.
"Ha! How do you like that?" he shouted, now in fourth place.
He checked the map: yellow ahead, green second, black first.
"Just three more."
Then—a jolt. His car shook. Another thump followed.
"What the hell?"
He glanced behind. A blue car was slamming into his trunk again and again. A heavy hit made him lose control; the car spun, screeching. He barely regained balance.
He checked his screen—fifth place.
"Okay, this isn't so bad, I can—"
Before he finished, an orange car rammed him and passed. Then a white one.
"Okay, I can still—"
A purple car overtook him, then a brown one.
"COME ON!" he yelled, pounding the steering wheel.
Then, to his disbelief, the pink car he'd knocked out earlier appeared ahead—its engine roaring. Through the glass, he could see the other driver grinning.
The pink car revved and charged straight toward him.
"Wait—no—"
It crashed into his red car with brutal force, flipping him off the track. The red car tumbled before landing upside down.
"Well, isn't karma a bitch," he muttered.
The screen appeared:
Warning: Vehicle no longer able to properly function.
A blueprint lit up, marking damaged areas in red—almost the whole car.
He exhaled bitterly as the others sped past him.
A final notification blinked:
The Qualification Race is over.
Winner: Black Knight 41
Congratulations. You are now a racer of Overdrive Online.
The screen faded.
The driver in red—Danny—sat frozen. It was his fifth loss. The closest he'd ever come to winning… and now the worst outcome imaginable.
Another message appeared:
You are being forcefully logged out.
The digital world shattered into pixels of light.
Darkness.
Then, a voice. Cold, familiar.
"That's a shame. You lost. You know what happens now, right?"
Danny's heart pounded. Sweat dripped down his neck. He ripped off the curved visor device strapped to his face and neck, jumped off the slanted chair, and ran toward the door.
Before he could escape, a hand caught his arm. A punch slammed into his gut.
He fell to his knees, coughing.
The massive bald man towering over him was Thomas. Danny knew him too well.
"Thomas, bring him back to her," the voice ordered.
Thomas dragged Danny across the room. Standing ahead was a pot-bellied man. Danny looked down, refusing to meet his eyes.
"Running away? That hurts my feelings, Danny," the man said. His voice was smooth but cruel. "I thought we had trust. Guess I was wrong."
"Jim, please," Danny begged. "I'll pay you back. Somehow."
Jim sighed, almost amused. "Yeah, that's what you said the last four times. Believe it or not, I had faith in you. But if you can't pay me from that stupid game everyone's addicted to, then I'll have to take my money another way. You know… the way we agreed."
Danny's blood ran cold.
"Thomas. Strap him to the chair."
"Okay, boss."
Danny tried to run again, but a kick to the stomach sent him down. Thomas taped him to the slanted chair.
Jim opened a toolbox and took out a scalpel.
"Are you ready, Danny?" he asked with a twisted smile.
Danny's eyes widened. "NOOOOOO!"