#burning rubber

The trailer shuddered with life outside, an entire world buzzing just beyond the thin aluminum walls. The hum of engines rose and fell in waves, low and restless like rolling thunder, shaking the air with every burst of acceleration. Wrenches clanged in the pit lane. Power tools hissed as the mechanics barked instructions. A crowd howled somewhere past the pit, their voices smearing together in a restless chant.

His name, probably. Who else should they give a shit about?

It was just noise to him. Always had been. Shutters clicking as reporters jockeyed for position, microphones shoved forward, questions he’d never bother answering. They wanted spectacle. Headlines. A star to pin the story on.

He only wanted the silence that came when the lights went green.

Every race started like this. The buzz. The frenzy. The heat rolling off the asphalt like it might swallow the track whole. The feeling that the world was holding its breath, waiting for him to break it. Nerves should’ve come with it—sweaty palms, a racing heart—but instead, he only felt that coil in the back of his skull sharpening everything into focus.

Satoru leaned closer to the mirror, grinning lazily at the reflection staring back, eyes brimming with the kind of confidence that bordered on arrogance. Helmet tucked under one arm, leather gloves whispering as he flexed his fingers, already itching to wrap around the wheel. The fluorescents bleached every shadow from his face, white hair stubbornly sticking out in every direction like he’d rolled out of bed five minutes ago and still expected the world to adore him.

They would.

Because he was The White Flash.

They’d given him that nickname after his first official win, when he tore through the track in a blur of speed and nerve so reckless, so clean, that the rest of the racers didn’t stand a chance. He wore it now like a second skin, a reminder that he was meant to be untouchable.

“Alright, Satoru…You’re the fastest thing out there,” he murmured under his breath. “You’re gonna win this thing. That Cup’s already yours, you just gotta show up and take it.”

The words weren’t for hype anymore. They were habit. More ritual than pep talk. He’d been saying them since the days of junker cars and illegal midnight street races, convincing himself he could outrun anything if he pressed the pedal hard enough. Back then, it was the cops. The debt collectors. A beat-up Nissan and a death wish. 

Now? It was something else.

Bigger.

Louder.

Harder to name.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Yaga’s fist rattled the door. “Gojo,” came the bark, gruff and impatient. “The press is swarming the pit. You ready to get your ass out here, or do I have to drag you?”

A slow grin curled easily across his lips. “Relax, old man. The star always makes an entrance, right?”

But that grin faltered just a breath later, quick as a misfire, before he pulled the door open and stepped into the frenzy. Because no matter how many times he told himself he belonged here, no matter how many times they chanted his name, how many cameras flashed, a voice in the back of his mind always whispered he shouldn’t have made it this far.

And that was exactly why he’d make sure they never forgot him.

The world outside hit him all at once like a punch—heat, noise, gasoline thick enough to coat his lungs, scorched rubber biting the back of his throat. Engines snarled under open hoods, restless beasts begging to be let loose. Men shouted over the clatter of tools, the whole pit alive with urgency.

And Gojo? He cut through the chaos like every square inch of hot asphalt belonged to him. Sunglasses sliding low on his nose, grin easy, every step soaking in the spotlight. Yaga lumbered a pace behind, broad shouldered and grim, scowling like he’d been born with the expression carved into his face. It was the perfect contrast.

Gojo played the star, Yaga the storm cloud

Somebody had to keep the balance.

The barricades shook with the weight of his name. Screams, flashes, the shrill cadence of voices desperately trying to claim a piece of him. He didn’t bother looking. Just flicked a gloved hand into the air, casual as a yawn, and the reaction hit like gasoline on open flame. Somewhere in the stands, a girl’s scream carried so loud it rose above the roar of engines.

For a second, he let it wash over him. All of it. The frenzy. The hunger. The kid who used to sleep on borrowed couches, who’d thought this world was for someone else – someone born richer, luckier, better – staring down at everything he wasn’t supposed to have.

“—and there he is, folks!” The announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers, bright with the kind of polish you could only fake with years of practice. “Satoru Gojo, the rookie phenomenon they call The White Flash!”

Another voice slid in lighter, almost teasing. “White Flash is right. Blink and you’ll miss him! This kid’s been turning heads all season, and not just for his driving. I mean, look at him. I don’t know if he’s here to win or to model for a magazine cover.”

Gojo’s smirk widened. The camera feed clung to him like an orbit, microphones tilted forward like offerings.

He reached his car, a customized masterpiece, gleaming black steel streaked with icy white and metallic blue that caught the light like lightning in chrome. His palm spread across the hood, gloved fingers tapping like a secret. This was more than a machine. This was proof. Armor. The closest thing to permanence he’d ever had.

“Don’t let that grin fool you,” the first announcer added, laughter tucked into his tone. “This is one of the fastest, most fearless drivers the series has seen in years. If there’s anyone who can take down the veterans this season, it’s him.”

Their voices spilled over the track, narrating his own life back to him like a myth. Foster homes. No parents. No silver spoon. A problem kid. The first car he ever touched at fourteen, stolen from a junk yard, stripped down, wired wrong but alive beneath his hands. Street races that ended in flashing blue and red lights, fists, and bruised ribs. County fairs. Dirt track derbies. And then Yaga, appearing like some gruff guardian angel in the dust, dragging him into the world of asphalt and checkered flags.

Gojo barely listened, letting the words blur. He already knew the story better than anyone. Every cut on his knuckles. Every night spent thinking he wouldn’t see the sunrise. It was almost strange, hearing the ugliest pieces of his life sanded down into some kind of legend. They said it like triumph. He remembered it like survival.

But here – now – none of it mattered.

“—and now look at him, leading the Jujutsu Motors team. You can’t make this stuff up, it’s history in the making.”

“He’s only been on the track for, what, two seasons?” The second announcer cut in, voice rising with the crowd. “And here he is, already gunning for the championship. If he wins this, there’s no stopping him. He’ll be the youngest, fastest rookie to ever claim the title.”

Gojo adjusted the strap of his glove, that smirk still locked in place. He lifted his chin toward the stands, letting his sunglasses catch the light in a flash. A dare. For the cameras. For the country. For himself.

“Hope you’re watching, Zenin,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Yaga to hear. “Try to keep up.”

From across the pit lane, Naoya Zenin leaned against the hood of his car, arms crossed, chin tipped just enough at an attempt to seem superior. The silver paint of his machine looked almost as flashy as Gojo’s, glistening under the sun, with deep green accents like emerald veins, the whole thing polished within an inch of its life. Even his crew moved differently, in their crisp uniforms, precise gestures, like they were working on a museum piece rather than a race car.

Naoya himself looked as staged as the car. Perfectly tailored fire suit zipped to the collar, hair sculpted into place, a Rolex flashing every time he adjusted his gloves. Gojo could laugh at the sight. The man looked less like a racer and more like the cover of some overpriced lifestyle magazine for pampered dipshits.

Gojo might have been the media darling of the season, but the Zenin family was no stranger to the circuit. They didn’t just race, they owned pieces of it all, their name stamped across decades of trophies and history. Naoya liked to carry that with him, like the title itself made him untouchable. 

Gojo could feel the weight of his stare from here, all smug confidence and thinly veiled hostility. His smirk twisted, as if the spotlight bleeding onto Gojo’s shoulders somehow robbed him of his own.

“Great,” he muttered, grin never faltering for the crowd. “And here comes Mr. Moneybags himself. Watch him bore the press to death about family dynasties.”

Yaga didn’t bother to answer, but he could practically feel the old man’s eyes roll.

Before the tension could thicken, a new voice cut through the noise. “Satoru Gojo!”

The crowd rippled as a reporter broke through the line of security, heels clicking against the asphalt, blazer official-looking. She clutched a mic in her hand, a cameraman trailing at her shoulder, eyes bright with triumph like she’d just cornered prey. “Just a quick question before the big race?”

Yaga moved immediately, a wall of muscle and scowl as he raised a hand to block her path. “No interviews right now. He needs to—”

“Aw, it’s fine. Let her through.” Gojo chuckled, tipping his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. “Don’t worry, I can multitask. Gotta give the people what they want.”

The reporter’s face lit up, thrilled to have snagged him, her voice almost catching as she leaned forward with the mic. “Gojo, everyone’s talking about you this season. How does it feel to be the most-watched rookie in the circuit? Are you nervous about today’s race? It’s the biggest of your career so far.”

“Nervous?” He laughed, leaning one arm against the roof of his car, casual as if they were chatting about the weather. “Nah. The track loves me. All I’ve gotta do is show up and do what I do best—win. It’s practically muscle memory at this point.”

Her eyes flicked to the camera, riding the moment. “And what about the championship? If you take the Cup, you’ll be the youngest racer in history to win the title. Do you think you’ve got it in the bag?”

“Think?” He slid his sunglasses back into place. “Sweetheart, I know.”

The cameraman snorted behind the lens.

She pushed forward, glancing sideways as if reminded by her producer what the audience really wanted. “Even with Naoya Zenin on the track? There’s been a lot of buzz about your rivalry with him this season. Are you worried about him stealing the title out from under you?”

From across the pit, Naoya’s smirk stretched wider, like he could hear every word, waiting for that question all along.

Gojo let his gaze slide lazily toward him, meeting that stare for half a heartbeat before turning back to the mic. “Zenin?” He shrugged. “He’s a good driver. Dangerous, even, when he’s focused. But he’s overhyped. The guy’s got all the money and the sponsors in the world, but…speed like mine? You can’t buy that.”

The words landed like a stone tossed into water. Naoya’s jaw ticked, his smirk flattening into something colder. Exactly the reaction Gojo wanted.

He leaned closer to the mic, smile sharp as broken glass. “So no, I’m not worried. If anything? He should be worried about me.”

The crowd around them roared, caught between awe and nerves, while the cameraman panned in close. Yaga’s hand clamped down on Gojo’s shoulder before the reporter could ask more, firm and final, jolting him from the pose. “Alright, kid. Enough grandstanding. Time to focus and get in the damn car.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Gojo tapped the side of the mic with one finger, winking at the reporters as he stepped back. “Thanks for the warm-up, gorgeous. Make sure you get my good side when I cross the finish line, yeah?”

One last wave to the stands, a flash of pretty teeth for the cameras, and then he ducked into the driver’s seat.

He settled in like it was a throne, the clamor of the world outside dropping to a muffled drone the instant the door shut. He exhaled slowly, letting the familiar scent of the interior wrap around him – leather warmed by the sun, the tang of gasoline, the sharp bite of engine oil that lived in the fabric no matter how many times it was scrubbed down.

The cockpit molded to him like a second skin, waiting for his arrival. Every dial and switch sat perfectly within reach, the steering wheel snug beneath his palms. Out there, he could lie, laugh, boast. In here, he didn’t have to. This was the one place in the world that made sense. The one place he didn’t just feel untouchable—

He was.

He slid his helmet over his head, the padding pressing close, the tinted visor catching the last edge of sunlight. Buckles snapped into place as he strapped himself in, harness pulling tight across his chest until the pressure felt grounding and steady. His fingers moved through the routine without thought – steering column adjusted, wheel tapped, throttle coaxed with an impatient brush of his boot. Every motion was a prayer he didn’t believe he could live without.

Then a shadow fell across the open window, an agitating, grating voice filling his ears.

“Good luck out there,” Naoya Zenin drawled, his tone so syrupy that it practically dripped in disdain. He leaned against the roof, close enough that Gojo could see the smug curl of a grin beneath his helmet’s visor. “Try not to choke under pressure, rookie. It’s a long race. Would be embarrassing if you burned out too fast.”

“Thanks, moneybags. I’ll make sure to wave when I lap you, alright?”

Naoya’s ugly sneer faltered, a crack in polished glass, before he scoffed and pushed off the car. “Yeah. See you at the finish line. If you even make it that far.” His crew peeled away with him, trailing behind like shadows.

Gojo rolled his eyes, but the words stuck like a burr under his skin, irritating and impossible to ignore. He forced a breath through his teeth, pressing back into the seat until the car swallowed him whole.

Two sharp knocks rattled the roof. Yaga.

“Alright, listen up.” His gruff voice filled the small space, a lecture Gojo had heard a hundred times, but still delivered like life or death. Because really, it was. “Ignore him and stay focused. Don’t get tunnel vision. We got pit stops lined up at ten and twenty. Refuel. Tires. Do not try to push past that or we’ll be scraping your ass off the track.”

“Yeah, yeah. I got it,” Gojo flicked a few switches on the console with a flourish, pretending not to listen, the grin in his voice audible. “Fuel, tires, win the race – easy peasy.”

Yaga leaned closer, his sigh audible over the rumbling of the engine. “I mean it, kid. Don’t get cute out there.”

Gojo pulled his helmet down and locked it into place, the reflective sheen of the visor sealing away the glint in his eyes. “Cute? Nah. You’re about to see art in motion.”

Yaga muttered something that sounded a lot like “cocky little shit” under his breath before stepping back. Engines growled to life all around, one by one, until the ground itself trembled. The vibration sank into Gojo’s bones as he rolled his shoulders back and adjusted his grip on the wheel.

This was it. The moment he lived for.

The line of cars crawled into position. He followed, sliding into his spot on the starting grid. The stands erupted into a wall of noise, the crowds chanted an electric buzz threading into his veins. His pulse didn’t stutter.

Zenin wouldn’t stand a chance.

The grid trembled under the weight of a dozen cars snarling in sync, their collective growl shaking the asphalt until the air itself felt unsteady. Heat shimmered in waves off the track, wrapping everything in a wavering haze, the stench of scorched rubber and gasoline thick enough to taste.

He eased his car into place, tires kissing the painted line. His fingers tapped the wheel once, twice, before going still. The leather was familiar beneath his gloves, worn in by countless laps, countless victories. Helmet locked, visor sealed, every muscle wired tight. The rest of the world could have been light-years away.

This was where he belonged. Not in interviews. Not under neon lights or in front of microphones. Here. Harness biting into his chest, wheel steady in his hands, seconds from takeoff.

He already knew how this race would end.

With him crossing the finish line first.

Naoya’s car rolled into its slot just one row ahead, silver and green paint polished to perfection, chrome catching the floodlights like it wanted to blind. Gojo didn’t need to see his face. He unfortunately knew that expression by heart. Smug. Rehearsed. Confident in a way that had nothing to do with skill and everything to do with bloodline. The Zenin name had been carved into trophies before Gojo was even born.

But Gojo? He’d carved his name into the asphalt.

He flexed his fingers, loosening, then tightening, like a pianist coaxing sound out of silence.

The announcer’s voice boomed overhead, tinny with reverb, his words almost swallowed by the engines and the screaming crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the opening lap of the NASCAR Cup Series! Twelve racers, one champion – who’s taking it home tonight?”

The words barely registered. They were for the crowd, not for him. He didn’t need to be told what was at stake.

Thirty seconds to green.

He inhaled slow through his nose, the air hot and acrid inside his helmet. The car purred beneath him, vibrating through the sole of his boots, syncing to the beat of his pulse until it felt like they shared one heartbeat. He leaned back against the seat, letting his shoulders loosen.

He was untouchable here. Sealed in, surrounded by caged steel, a few seconds away from turning the rest of the world into a blur of the past. 

Focus, Satoru. You’re not just here to win. You’re here to humiliate him. To make the Zenin name choke on dust.

Yaga’s voice crackled through his headset. “Eyes on the track, kid. Don’t get cocky in the first lap. Let him burn himself out.”

Gojo smirked, rolling his neck until it popped. “Relax, old man. I’ve got this.”

Twenty seconds.

His grip shifted on the wheel, gloved fingers tracing over the stitching. The car grumbled louder. He closed his eyes for only a second, and saw it – his first race at sixteen, headlights blurring down a county road, the sick rush of outrunning a cop in a beater. He had that same feeling, even now. Only bigger.

Fifteen seconds.

No cameras. No crowd. No Zenin.

Just speed. Just asphalt.

Ten.

The countdown pulsed in scarlet.

Five.

Every nerve lit up.

Four.

The leather creaked under his grip.

Three.

The car shivered like a beast straining its leash.

Two.

He tilted his head, catching the barest glimpse of Naoya’s car in the corner of his eye. He could almost feel the bastard staring back.

One.

His pulse spiked, every muscle firing at once. 

There’s no one faster. Not tonight.

The green flag dropped.

And the world detonated.

Tires screamed, rubber and smoke curling behind him like a ghost. He slammed his foot fown and the car launched forward, a bullet cracking from the chamber. The harness cut across his chest, the force slamming him back into the seat.

The noise should’ve been deafening. Unbearable. Metal, fire, raw velocity ripping at air. But inside the car, it was symphony. The perfect song. The one he’d been chasing his entire life.

The track blurred, colors streaking past, the crowd dissolving into static.

And he was grinning, wide and merciless, already eating into the gap. The thrill dug into his bones, deeper than adrenaline.

This wasn’t just racing. This was existence.

Gojo was in his element.

He thrived in this kind of chaos. Snap decisions, the blur of risk and reward, the thrill of threading a needle at two hundred miles an hour with nothing but reflex and arrogance to keep him alive.

The track melted beneath his tires, traces of black and white lines smearing into one perfect ribbon. He took the next curve a little too sharply, tighter than Yaga would ever allow. The tires screamed back but held, the whole frame shuddering as though straining to keep pace with his nerve. He wasn’t just fast, he was surgical. Every flick of the steering column, every angle, a cut to perfection. Clean. Beautiful.

Overhead, the announcers shouted into the frenzy.

“And there he goes again, folks—look at that maneuver! Satoru Gojo’s living up to his name tonight. The White Flash seems to be holding strong in the top three, alongside Naoya Zenin and seasoned veteran, Ryomen Sukuna.”

“No surprise there! All season, these three have been neck-and-neck, tied for points. And it all comes down to this race—whoever crosses that finish line first is walking away with the NASCAR Cup Series title!”

Gojo’s grin grew behind his helmet. 

Neck-and-neck, huh? 

Cute. 

Watch how fast I can pull ahead.

“That’s right. And let’s not forget, Sukuna’s no joke.” The cameras panned to the crimson car just a breath ahead of Gojo’s bumper. “Two-time champion, top contender for nearly a decade, and he’s been hungry for the third title since the start of the season.”

Gojo’s pulse kicked harder. Sukuna was the kind of driver who didn’t make mistakes. Every line he cut was precise. Flawless. A machine in human skin.

Good. 

Machines break. 

All it takes is the right crack.

“But Gojo? This rookie’s something else entirely. He’s making moves I haven’t seen in years—and pulling them off.”

Yaga’s voice crackled over the headset, gravelly in his ear. “Don’t get reckless, Gojo, you hear me? You’ve got the lead pack, but you’re burning rubber too fast. 

“Loud and clear,” Gojo muttered, eyes locked on the curve ahead. “But you’re forgetting, I like reckless.”

The truth was, he couldn’t afford not to be. Reckless was why the sponsors wanted him. Reckless made crowds scream his name, made cameras track his every lap. Every stupid move he made on the asphalt was a negotiation for his future – faster cars, bigger contracts, names etched into banners. Reckless was what kept his phone buzzing with offers, what made companies salivate at the thought of his face slapped on their product.

He wasn’t just racing Naoya or Sukuna tonight.

He was racing hunger itself – the craving for more.

Because winning? 

Winning meant everything.

It was more than prize money. 

More than a trophy. 

Winning meant proof.

Proof that he wasn’t just some kid who’d grown up invisible and alone. A nobody pulled out of the dirt. Proof that he could build something in his own name. Every lap closer to the finish line was a lap closer to never depending on anyone again. No more hand-me-down sponsors. No more “rookie” excuses.

If he won this, he’d be the face of the future. The guy everyone else had to chase.

For now though, it was just the three of them. A storm of red, black, and silver tearing down the track. Sukuna relentlessly pressed him from the outside, while Naoya hovered on the edge like a vulture waiting for scraps, looking for any opening to sneak through.

And then the bastard moved.

The silver and green car flashed in Gojo’s side mirror, Naoya creeping up on the left. The nepo-baby was getting impatient. And predictable.

The car lurched forward, metal kissing metal as Naoya clipped Gojo’s rear bumper with a deliberate nudge. The impact rattled through his teeth. The car swerved and skidded half a lane, tires shrieking, the world tilting into chaos.

“Son of a bitch!” Yaga’s voice barked in his ear. “Control it, Gojo! Don’t you dare spin out!”

His adrenaline spiked hot and fast, but his body didn’t wait for orders. His hands moved on instinct, wrestling the wheel with brutal precision. He tightened, corrected, and steered into the spin before the tires could betray them and lose their grip. The car shuddered…fishtailed…then snapped back into line, as if it had never faltered.

He laughed as he shot past Naoya on the straightaway. Not from relief. From the high of it. The razor edge of almost losing it, only to wrench it back and make it look effortless.

That was the drug. That was why he raced.

The crowd erupted, and the announcers went wild, shouting over each other.

“Did you see that save? That’s why they call him The White Flash!”

“If Zenin thinks he can rattle this kid, he’s dead wrong. Gojo’s got nerves if steel and reflexes you just can’t teach!”

Gojo accelerated, slicing into a risky inside pass that left Naoya cursing in his rearview. Nice try, douchebag.

“Eyes forward, kid,” Yaga snapped. “And pit this lap. Tires are eating themselves alive, and you’re gonna run dry if you don’t refuel soon.”

Gojo barely heard him, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “I’m fine.”

“I’m serious! Don’t get stupid on me now—”

“I said I’m fine,” he huffed, leaning harder into the turn, his car practically hugging the inside line.

Pit stops were for drivers who doubted themselves. For men like Naoya who had everything handed to them, who could afford to play it safe.

He wasn’t going to slow down. Not when the finish line was still laps away, and yet close enough he could already taste it.

I don’t need a pit. 

Not yet. 

Not ever. 

Not when I’m this close to everything I’ve ever wanted.

It was a relentless cycle of smoke and speed, each lap bleeding together until time started to lose meaning. The only clock that mattered was the ticking of his pulse and the squeals of rubber beneath him.

Gojo kept himself in the lead pack, black and white flashing through turns like a streak of lightning, holding his position against Naoya’s shadow lunging at him whenever he faltered. But Sukuna – well, he was a different story. The crimson car was everywhere, haunting his mirror. 

Just ahead. 

Just behind. 

Never gone. 

A phantom refusing to be shaken loose.

If Naoya was a vulture circling for scraps, Sukuna was something scarier. He didn’t waste energy on intimidation. Didn’t need theatrics or cheap shots. He was a machine. A virtuoso of more tracks than Gojo could count. Every maneuver was smooth and controlled. He wasted no motion, no hesitation. Where Gojo relied on instinct and swagger and nerve, Sukuna carved the track apart with choreographed precision. 

Every angle perfect. Every pass inevitable.

A decade of dominance, knowing exactly when to hold back and when to strike. 

And it burned.

Because every lap Sukuna ran was a reminder that Gojo wasn’t racing just to win. He was racing to prove himself.. Sponsors weren’t lining up just because they liked his smile. They wanted the next big thing. If he couldn’t dethrone Sukuna, he was just another rookie flame-out. Another headline for a season, then forgotten.

He could feel it with every breath – the money, the partnerships, the endorsements. All of it dangling just out of reach, tied to whether or not he could keep pace with the King. If he won, he’d own the season. He’d own the future. His name on billboards, his face plastered on sponsorship deals, his team secured for years.

And the announcers were eating it up, feeding the crowd’s frenzy as the race neared the halfway mark.

“And folks, this is the battle we’ve been waiting for all season—rookie sensation Satoru Gojo holding strong against The King of the track, Ryomen Sukuna, while Naoya Zenin refuses to give an inch!

“Zenin’s been aggressive all night, but Gojo’s still not letting up. He’s getting pushed to his limit, but the kid’s fearless.”

“All three of these drivers are phenomenal, tied for points going into this final race. Whoever crosses that finish line first will take home the series title. You can’t ask for higher stakes than this!”

Gojo gritted his teeth, watching Sukuna glide into another flawless turn ahead. Smooth as water sliding over glass. Effortless. Fuck, he makes it look too easy. He leaned harder into his own curve, tires squealing in protest, the wheel vibrating against his gloves. He couldn’t let Sukuna dictate the pace. Couldn’t let him set the standard.

“Don’t get drawn into his tempo, Gojo,” Yaga barked in his ear. “You try to match him line for line, and you’ll shred your tires.”

“I’m not trying to match him,” Gojo’s voice was low. “I’m outpacing him.”

But even as he spoke, his knuckles tightened on the wheel anyway, betraying him. Because racing Sukuna wasn’t like racing anyone else, it felt like being hunted and challenged. Not malicious like Naoya’s schemes. It was worse. Sukuna was the kind of driver who forced you to expose yourself, to prove your worth lap after lap until you either broke or bled for it.

He leaned harder in, forcing the car to take the inside line so tight that the tires howled like banshees. He slid up alongside Sukuna’s bumper, daring him to make the first move. To flinch. To acknowledge him.

But the crimson car didn’t waver. Sukuna eased into the next with immaculate precision and grace, cutting Gojo off by mere inches, forcing him to adjust or eat the wall.

Gojo laughed under his breath. “Alright, old man. Let’s see what you’ve got…”

Behind, Naoya lurked in the shadows. The flash of silver in his mirrors, darting in and out of the slipstream, waiting for an opening, praying for someone to make a mistake.

“Don’t let Zenin bait you,” Yaga warned. “You’re faster. Just drive.”

“What a fight between the King and the White Flash!” the announcer howled. “Neither one’s giving an inch!”

His muscles burned, sweat slicking his back beneath the fire suit, but he didn’t care. Every nerve was lit, every cell alive. It wasn’t fear, it was the rush. The razor thin space where one mistake meant ending it all. To live right here, on the line, and come out laughing. And if he beat Sukuna, if he actually won this thing, he’d never have to wonder if he belonged ever again.

The race had found its breaking point – and so had his car. 

The laps ticked down, each one somehow faster than the last, the finish line dragging closer with every breath. Gojo had taken the lead, clawing his way to the front, streaking past the stands with only a whisper of lead between him and Sukuna. Naota hovered in his mirrors, a relentless snake waiting for blood.

For a fleeting moment, it felt like the track belonged to him. Like the asphalt itself bent for him, carried him, whispered his name in every vibration. The world thundered around him – the stands, the engines, the announcers. But none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was that he was in the front.

By the time the race edged into its final stretch, the sun had dipped low, throwing shadows long across the track, painting the last few miles in molten gold. Black and white in the lead. Crimson as his bumper, and silver just behind.

“Pit. Now. This lap, Gojo.” Yaga’s voice growled through the headset, tight with frustration. “Your tires are shot. You’ve got one lap left in them, maybe two if you’re lucky. Don’t push it any further—”

“Relax,” Gojo cut him off, visor hiding the manic glint in his eyes. “I’ve got this. They’re wasting time in the pits. I’m cruising.”

“Cruising? Kid, you’re seconds away from turning that car into scrap metal!”

But Gojo was already gone, lost in the haze of hunger. He’d watched Sukuna peel off into the pits. Watched Naoya’s crew swarm him with fresh tires and gas. They’ve given up seconds, practically handing him the lead. It was his chance to break free, to taste sweet victory burning hot on the back of his tongue, without giving either of them the chance to catch up. And he wasn’t about to give it back.

The tires screamed, begging for mercy as the rubber stripped down to threads. The engine’s hum turned into a ragged snarl, dashboard lighting blinking red warning signs that he ignored. His whole body shook with the car’s fury, ribs rattling against the harness, sweat dripping into his eyes.

“Gojo!” Yaga’s voice cracked through the static again. “I’m serious! You push this any further, you’re going to blow a tire—”

“Then I’ll win before it blows.” His laugh came, steeped in madness. “This is what I do.”

Two laps left. 

The stands were chaos, the announcers tripping over each other to feed the frenzy. The cameras locked on him, the rookie out front with two giants breathing down his neck. Sukuna was closing the gap, the red machine creeping into his draft like a predator biding his time. Naoya flared silver in his mirror, lunging and retreating, waiting for the smallest crack in the foundation.

Gojo thought about the money. The sponsors. His face in ads, his name in headlines. He thought about every contract waiting to be signed if he proved this wasn’t a fluke. He thought about being the fastest rookie in history, about turning the Zenin legacy into ash. About never going back to being the kid no one bet on.

It was glory or nothing. That was the choice.

He was a breath ahead. Seconds. Inches. All that mattered was staying there. He leaned into the next curve, tires protesting with shrieks.

And then—

BANG.

The sound tore through the car like a bullet. Rear tire suddenly gone. The wheel jerked violently, almost ripped away from his grip. The car lurched sideways, fishtailing toward the outer wall. Smoke billowed, rubber shredding itself to nothing. 

“Fuck!” he spat, every tendon in his body straining as he fought the spin. The wheel wrestled back like it wanted to shatter his bones. Harness cutting into his chest from the tension, ribs aching with the force.

“Gojo! Get off the track!” Yaga’s voice was raw, desperate panic. “Now!”

“Not a chance,” he snarled through gritted teeth, wrenching the car back into the straightaway, muscles screaming as he forced the nose forward. The chassis bucked, the frame trembled, the entire machine howling its death throes. 

But he held it.

Smoke poured out from behind him, white ghosts curling in the wake as Sukuna loomed mercilessly. Naoya lurked just behind, waiting for his senior to falter. The finish line wasn’t close. Not close enough. But he could taste it. 

He would win, even if it killed him.

The black and white checkered flag was just a spot in the distance, less than a mile away now. Just a few more turns. Just a few more seconds. And he was ahead.

Barely.

The car groaned underneath him like it was about to fall apart at the seams, dragging the weight of his own stubbornness behind it. 

Okay, so maybe he should’ve pitted.

He knew it the second that first tire blew. But it was too late now, it was already shredded, rubber flapping in angry slaps against the asphalt. He had too much pride. Too much fucking fire in his chest to back off. Even if every turn of the wheel felt like steering a dying animal, one breath away from collapsing. 

But he wouldn’t let up.

He clenched his jaw hard enough that his teeth ached, the wheel slipping under his gloves as the front end fought against his control. 

Just hold.

Just hold together, come on—

And then—

BANG.

Another one.

The second tire ruptured, and the sound of it snapping was loud and guttural. The car pitched sideways, traction giving out in a violent pull. His shoulder slammed against the harness as the frame jolted, and the wheel spun wildly in his grip before he forced it back. His vision blurred from the shock, his ears ringing under the howl of the engine and steel shredding across the track.

"FUCK!"

The scream tore out of him like fire. No comms. No Yaga. Just the sound of his own pulse pounding inside his helmet and the taste of blood in the back of his throat as the announcer’s voice yelled frantically to the crowd, “—OH! That’s a second tire down on Car 8—The rookie’s falling apart out there!”

They were right, though.

The car was completely unstable. It veered left again, too far, then snapped right, as if caught between giving up and holding on out of sheer spit. The chassis skidded as the frame dropped lower, dragging sparks behind it. The temperature gauges blinked red across his dashboard, warning signs he couldn’t afford to obey. Smoke started to rise from under the hood, black and curling like inky water. 

And still, he didn’t let up. Didn’t even blink.

He pressed harder.

It’s dying. 

I’m killing it. 

But I’m not fucking stopping.

His vision narrowed on the finish line, still there. Just ahead. Close enough to see the flag waving like a taunt. Close enough to hear people’s screams, the entire stadium up on its feet. 

So fucking close.

Another inch. Another breath.

He could feel them beside him – Sukuna and Naoya leeching the lead from his poor, dying car.

Crimson to his left. Silver to his right. 

They were gaining fast. Too fast. 

His remaining wheels were failing him, dragging him behind just wide enough to let the other two slip in. The car fought with every push, practically shuddering and begging him to stop.

He should’ve felt fear.

And he did.

A fleeting jolt of – shit, this could kill me.

A jagged whisper of instinct, telling him to just let up. To slow down.

To live.

But it passed. And what replaced it was rage.

At himself. At the car. At the fucking universe for setting him up just to tear him down again.

If this was going to kill him? Fine. Let it.

He’d rather burn than crawl.

“It’s neck and neck, folks! Sukuna’s right on Gojo, Naoya flanking the outside—three wide into the final stretch—!”The whole world blurred. His grip began to falter, his entire body shook as the car fishtailed once more, but he kept it straight, barely. 

You don’t get to take this from me. I don’t care if the whole car catches fire, I’m crossing that fucking line first—

His arms screamed with the effort.

Come on.

Come on, come on, come on—

And then—

It all happened at once.

The three of them surged toward the line. 

Gojo.

Sukuna.

Naoya.

And they crossed.

Together.

All three cars tore through at the exact same time. So close, you couldn’t blink between them.

No way to tell.

No way to call it.

The stadium detonated.

A wall of sound slammed inward, louder than anything that had come before. People leapt from their seats. Flags flew. The announcers shouted over each other into their mics, tripping over their words, scrambling for replays, disbelief coating every single syllable. 

“Did they—? Did they just—?!”

“That’s a three-way finish! I don’t believe it—”

“—Dead even across the line! This is—this is insane—!”

“Someone get a photo! A replay—ANYTHING!”

But Gojo couldn’t hear them.

Because as soon as the line passed beneath his tires, the car finally gave out.

Control vanished completely. The front end swerved wildly, the remaining tires left pulling him off course. He didn’t have the strength to fight it this time. The body of the car twisted, dragging weight and friction and smoke. The metal grinded with one last shriek until—

Impact.

The side slammed into the wall. A brutal, wrenching stop. Metal on concrete. Sparks sprayed like fireworks. The whole left side of the car buckled inward, the hood bent at an unnatural angle, smoke pouring out from beneath it in thick, choking waves. 

And as if to make matters somehow worse, flames sparked beneath the hood.

The only thing he could do was just sit there for a moment, his breath caught in the back of his throat, heart slamming against his ribcage like it wanted out, vision swimming. Yet, his hands refused to let go of the wheel. They twitched on instinct – unbuckle, escape, move—

But something in him refused.

The cockpit began to fill with smoke fast, thick and pungent, burning in his lungs. He could hear the comms again, finally, Yaga’s voice shouting his name in panic, rescue crews scrambling over the radio.

The door that wasn’t concave wrenched open from the outside. Hands urgently grabbed at him, pulling him from the wreckage as the fire took hold, heat licking at his boots. Someone shouted his name, but he didn’t answer.

He didn’t care.

He just stood there, staring through the chaos. He wasn’t sure if he was angry or dizzy or just fucking done. Fury twisted hot in his stomach, though, because he’d be so fuckng close. Because he hadn’t seen who crossed the line first. Because even with smog in his lungs and blood coating his tongue—

He still wasn’t sure who won.

And the only thing worse than losing was not knowing.

Chapter Index | Two

Divider: @hyuneskkami + Art by: @aransmind