Fatty audibly gasped. Chatty's eyes darted between the bridge and Pharsa's Ferrari, his heart hammering against his ribs. Four Eyes gripped the railing so tightly it hurt.

Pharsa didn't falter.

She slammed the accelerator again.

The Ferrari surged forward, the weightlessness of the moment stretching eternity as the car flew off the edge.

It was airborne.

Time froze. Gravity had no say in her fate.

Then — the impact. The tires hit the metal with a force that sent sparks flying. The Ferrari wobbled for a fraction of a second, its back tires nearly slipping, its balance trembling on the knife's edge of oblivion.

Then she corrected it. Instinctively.

The car stabilized, shooting forward once more, devouring the rest of the track as if the near-fatal moment had been nothing but a minor inconvenience.

In the VIP lounge, the three men exhaled in unison — only then realizing how long they had held their breath. Fatty wiped at the nonexistent sweat on his forehead, his skin cold despite the heat of his own nerves. Chatty, for the first time, was utterly silent. Four Eyes let out a strangled laugh, not because it was funny — but because it was the only thing his brain could process.

Down below, Pharsa wasn't even smiling.

This was just another run.

Another moment where she defied fate itself.

The roar of the engine faded into a deep, guttural purr, and then — silence. Only the ticking of cooling metal remained, a rhythmic pulse as Pharsa stepped out of her car, the sound of her boots hitting the pavement and cutting sharply through the thick, electrified air.

She moved with deliberate ease, rolling her shoulders as if shaking off the weight of what had just transpired. To her, it was nothing. A mere demonstration. The blistering speeds, the death-defying turns, the hanging bridge that had swallowed racers whole — it had been just another drive.

But to the three men watching from above, it had been something else entirely.

Four Eyes, Chatty, and Fatty remained rooted in place at the VIP lounge, their bodies stiff, their lungs still struggling to recall how to breathe properly. Fatty had a hand clamped over his face, his chest rising and falling unevenly as if he had just been the one behind the wheel. Chatty, usually the one to have a cocky remark ready, found his smirk absent, replaced by something dangerously close to awe. Even Four Eyes, ever composed, let out a low, breathless chuckle — half amusement, half disbelief.

Pharsa flicked her gloves off with a casual snap, not even sparing them a glance as they dropped onto the hood of her Ferrari, its deep crimson paint shimmering under the bright sunlight. The color suited her perfectly — bold, striking, untamed.

She lifted her gaze toward the VIP lounge, her expression unreadable except for the hint of satisfaction dancing in her eyes. She had seen them tense, seen them grip the railing, seen the nonexistent sweat forming on their brows as they had watched her tear through the mountain as she owned it.

And she did.

Then, with a sharp, dismissive snort, she turned away, her movements carrying a subtle air of challenge.

'You thought that was intense?' her gesture seemed to say. 'You haven't seen anything yet. You haven't seen Madam Ling Li.'

The three men remained frozen, struggling to process everything they had just witnessed. Fatty exhaled shakily, running a hand over his face. Chatty, despite himself, felt his pulse still hammering in his ears. Four Eyes laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

Pharsa had proven her point.

And none of them would ever doubt her again.

The tension still lingered in the air like the remnants of burning rubber on the track. Pharsa stepped into the VIP lounge with the same effortless confidence, her racing suit still clinging to the adrenaline of the mountain track. She didn't bother changing—not when the energy of victory still buzzed beneath her skin.

Goldie was the only one breaking the silence, his chuckling soft but amused. He had seen this kind of reaction before — the kind where people were so stunned that words failed them.

Chatty, however, couldn't bear the awkward stillness. He straightened abruptly, running a hand through his hair in some attempt to shake off the lingering shock. "Didn't you say there's a NASCAR Oval at the back? Let's go," he blurted out, his voice uneven — his usual arrogance faltering.

Chatty didn't wait for a response. He just turned on his heel and strode out of the lounge, his pace just a little too hurried, as if trying to outrun the memory of what he had just witnessed.

Pharsa watched him go, her lips curving into a smirk, arms crossed. She had seen this before — someone trying to regain their footing, their composure, after having their world shaken.

Without much discussion, the rest followed. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable — it was contemplative, weighted by the memory of her race. As they slid into the car, the scent of burning asphalt and gasoline still hung in the air.

This time, they weren't watching from the lounge.

They were heading straight for the next challenge.

The NASCAR Oval awaited.

They drove for ten minutes before arriving.

On the opposite side of the mountain race track lies a state-of-the-art NASCAR oval, a thunderous coliseum of speed where precision and raw power collide. The circuit boasts a perfectly banked oval, designed for high-speed drafting, intense side-by-side battles, and edge-of-your-seat finishes.

The track itself is a hybrid masterpiece, offering varying degrees of banking — steep enough to allow cars to maintain momentum without losing grip yet technical enough to challenge the most experienced drivers. Two long straights lead into daring turns, where speeds soar, and tensions rise with every lap. The surface is engineered for maximum durability, ensuring grip remains consistent from the first lap to the final showdown under the stadium lights.

As for the spectator experience, fans are treated to unmatched visibility, with grandstands that rise like walls of energy packed when roaring crowds during the race. The VIP suites sit above the front stretch, offering bird's-eye views of the action, complete with luxury seating, private catering, and interactive real-time race data displays.

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