We were supposed to behave today.

The official plan—scribbled in diplomatic ink and enforced by the weary sighs of responsible adults—was a quiet, dignified ride to school in the blacked-out Range Rover with me and the girls.

Something "low profile."

As if any of us had ever successfully melted into the background of normal human existence. It was a nice idea. A civilized idea.

But of course, Tommy couldn't stay normal for more than 24 hours. His text buzzed at 3 AM—a frantic, caffeine-fueled manifesto vibrating with that barely-contained, manic energy he gets right before he does something profoundly expensive and utterly stupid.

No greeting. No "yo," "bro," or even a perfunctory "you awake?"

Just:

"I bought something. Actually… several somethings. Pick your fastest one. We're racing to school tomorrow."

Even through pixels, it was a sonic boom of pure ego. The dude had been on buying spree like I had but not of the same level.

When you're playing with a hundred-million-dollar allowance, you don't just buy a car—you ransack a dealership like it's a villain's arms cache. He'd picked up "something special," which in Tommy-language meant a garageful.

I pictured him leaving Lamborghini's flagship showroom looking skeletal, stripped bare like a carcass picked clean by a vulture in a tailored suit.

And obviously—he wanted to race.

"Bring your best car," he'd hissed, the challenge crackling through phone lines like static electricity. "Let's see who gets to school first… and who steals more attention."

Click.

Classic Tommy.

The thing about him? Give him a hundred million dollars, and he treats it like Monopoly money.

He doesn't purchase supercars—he panic-buys them, like hyper-evolved Pokémon that'll vanish if he hesitates. If a devil whispered "limited edition" in his ear, he'd max out his black card before hearing the full name.

Consistency was his only real talent.

Once, he challenged me to hack the Pentagon's satellite feed just because he was bored during brunch. He'd tried to out-code me, out-game me, out-lift me, out-breathe me.

Failed.

Every. Single. Time.

So, a morning race to school? Light work.

He had no idea what was waiting in my garage. I didn't just have supercars; I curated a sovereign state of automotive legend. Hypercars so rare the serial numbers started and ended with me. Machines where the exhaust note alone could shatter glass and shatter egos.

When I told the girls I was ditching the sensible Rover for this street-level missile launch, I expected eye-rolls. Exasperated sighs. A lecture about "setting an example."

I got approvals instead.

And only one of them was truly, gloriously psychotic enough to join the chaos: Madison Torres.

She didn't ask. She declared. "Count me in. I'm not missing this."

Madison had her own arsenal—cars, many of them actually but she only had one supercar her because her mom had limits on how many ways her daughter would court her own death. Her prized Koenigsegg Jesko which was currently "borrowed" (read: commandeered indefinitely) by her cousin.

So Madison solved the problem with typical Torres efficiency: at dawn, she let herself into the estate, walked into my garage like it was her walk-in closet, and appropriated my sky-blue McLaren SpeedTail like it was a spare hoodie.

She stood beside it, sunglasses perched on her nose, radiating a serene, terrifying calm.

"Ready to make history?" she asked, already sliding into the driver's seat.

And just like that… it was on.

One king with his ride-or-die bestie. One queen. Three rolling thunderclaps of carbon fiber and insanity.

This wasn't a school run.

This was an opening scene.

And so...

Kids like us weren't supposed to make engines scream like this on a local road at 7:13 AM.

Too bad our group didn't care.

My Lamborghini Veneno Roadster was still detonating off the road with line like a bolt of orange lightning.

The V12 behind my head unleashed a shriek that tore the quiet morning apart—a physical blow of sound pressure that vibrated my teeth. The open cockpit turned the wind into a hurricane, a roaring fist slamming into my skull. Asphalt vaporized under the tires. The world dissolved into a green-and-gray scream of speed.

In the rearview, faces gaped from parked cars. A businessman spilled his coffee. A cyclist wobbled, mouth open. Eyes widened behind windshields like saucers. We were the earthquake shaking their normal.

Behind me—hunting me—Tommy's Mansory Aventador Carbonado devoured distance.

Connor was definitely recording this from somewhere. Bastard always found a way.

Tommy swerved left, tires screaming.

I cut right, the Veneno's tail sliding millimeters, eating the gap.

We weren't driving. We were writing a war poem in tire smoke and burning asphalt.

Then Madison's sky-blue McLaren slid between us like a serpent. Not pushing, not pulling. Just… existing in the maelstrom. A serene, deadly shark in a feeding frenzy. She wasn't trying to win; she was the arbiter, the witness to our insanity. Her calm in the chaos was more terrifying than speed.

A sharp left curve loomed—deceptive, treacherous, hugged by ancient trees and a sheer drop.

Too sharp for sanity. Perfect for me.

I didn't touch the brakes. Coward's tool. My left foot stabbed the clutch. Right hand slammed the paddle: CLUNK! Downshift. Third gear bit hard, engine revs spiking into a glass-shattering scream. Compression braking swung the rear end violently.

The Veneno pirouetted sideways at 140 mph. Tires spat blue-white fire off the pavement. G-force slammed me sideways into the harness.

The rear end didn't wobble. It snapped straight with the brutal precision of a guillotine. Flawless control.

Trees became walls brushing my mirror. Close enough to smell pine sap and fear.

Tommy followed—too hot, too late.

SCREEEECCCHHH—KRRRRANG!

His rear diffuser kissed the guardrail. Sparks erupted like shrapnel—a fountain of liquid gold and orange firework fragments. Metal ground steel in a shriek that echoed through the trees. His Carbonado bucked like a wounded bull, trying to spit him out.

Madison's McLaren edged closer, her silent presence a dare. The blue shark circling the war.

The straightaway opened like a runway. Sunlight glinted off the school's distant spire.

Dead ahead.

Quarter mile to the bridge.

Ten minutes until the first bell shrieks its hollow warning.

Two minutes until this private war burns rubber into legend.

Tommy's Carbonado surged, closing the gap. Madison's McLaren held its ground, a silent enforcer. I buried the throttle. The Veneno teleportated forward, the V12's shriek climbing into the ultrasonic. The world blurred into pure velocity.

The school gates grew closer.

The bell waited.

But the bell doesn't ring for us.

We are the reason the silence breaks.

We are the thunder that silences the morning.

And we were just getting warmed up.

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