The school gates surrendered.

Security barely had time to register the approaching roar—that unholy trinity of V12 fury and flat-plane crank violence screaming up the approach—before we detonated into Lincoln High's front compound like missiles finding target.

Three hypercars. Three egos. One audience that had no idea what was about to hit them.

I went in first.

The Veneno Roadster crossed the threshold doing ninety, engine note climbing into frequencies that made windows vibrate in their frames. That aggressive body—sharp angles and aerodynamic violence wrapped in carbon fiber—caught morning sun like molten metal.

Every line screamed predator. Every vent exhaled threat.

I didn't slow down.

The compound opened up—two hundred feet of pristine asphalt meant for school buses and concerned parents dropping off their precious cargo. Not for this. Never for this.

My left hand yanked the wheel hard right. My right foot buried the throttle while simultaneously stabbing the brake. Weight transfer. Physics bent to my will.

The Veneno's rear end broke loose.

SCREEEEEEEEEEEE—

Tires screamed. White smoke erupted in a perfect circle as I spun the Lamborghini like a top, drifting in a controlled donut that painted twin black arcs across the compound. The V12 howled—a demonic shriek that echoed off the administration building and made the American flag snap on its pole.

One full rotation. Two. Three.

The world became a blur of faces, brick walls, parked cars, shocked expressions melting into streaks of color. G-force pulled at my skull. The engine's scream penetrated bone-deep.

On the fourth rotation, I straightened out, the Veneno snapping to attention like a soldier, and drifted backward into a parking spot with surgical precision. Rear tires kissing the curb. Perfect. Engine rumbling. Victorious.

Before the smoke cleared, Tommy arrived.

The Mansory Carbonado came in like death incarnate—matte black carbon body so dark it seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Those quad headlights burned red in the morning sun, demonic eyes tracking prey. The exhaust note was deeper than mine, a bass-heavy roar that you felt in your chest cavity before you heard it.

Tommy didn't copy my move.

He went wider.

Entered the compound at a sharper angle, weight shifting violently as he initiated his drift. The black missile slid sideways, rear end stepping out in a massive arc that covered more ground than my donut.

Smoke poured from all four tires—thick, white, acrid clouds that billowed across the compound like fog rolling in from the ocean.

His drift was messier than mine. More aggressive. Less controlled. Pure chaos wrapped in Italian engineering and oil money.

He spun once. Twice. The Carbonado's tail clipped a trash can—sent it cartwheeling across the asphalt in a shower of garbage and metallic clanging. Someone screamed. He didn't care.

Third rotation and he straightened out, slamming into the parking spot next to mine with a violence that made his suspension groan. Engine revving. Defiant.

The smoke hadn't settled before Madison arrived.

And she didn't announce herself with noise.

She announced herself with precision.

The sky-blue McLaren SpeedTail sliced through the smoke like a blade through silk. That teardrop body—flowing, organic, impossibly smooth—caught sunlight and threw it back in prismatic bursts. The center-seat configuration meant Madison sat in the middle of the car, framed by the windshield like a pilot in a fighter jet.

She didn't drift.

She glided.

Entered the compound at speed, then executed something I'd only seen in Formula 1 highlight reels—a reverse-entry drift that snapped the SpeedTail's rear end around with balletic grace. The hybrid powertrain's instant torque vectoring made it look effortless. Smoke rose, but less. Cleaner. More controlled.

She spun. Once. The McLaren rotated on its axis like a dancer mid-pirouette, blue body reflecting sky and smoke and stunned faces.

Then she straightened out, rolled forward with predatory calm, and backed into the spot on my other side.

Engine note dropping to a purr. Door scissoring up like a wing.

Three hypercars. Three parking spots. Three clouds of tire smoke drifting across Lincoln High's front compound like battlefield fog.

And everywhere—everywhere—people.

The crowd had materialized out of nowhere. Or maybe they'd been there all along and I just hadn't registered them through the speed-drunk haze of adrenaline.

Students flooded from the buildings, from the quad, from parked cars and drop-off lanes. Phones already out. Already recording. The TikTok generation capturing their content goldmine in real-time.

They formed a semicircle around us—fifty people, a hundred, more flowing in every second. The front row pressed close enough to touch the cars' still-hot hoods. The back rows stood on benches, on trash cans, on each other's shoulders.

"Holy shit!"

"Did you see that?"

"That's fucking insane!"

"Who are they?"

"Is that Peter Carter in a Lambo?"

"That's Madison Torres!"

"Tommy Chen!"

Connor Hayes was front and center—of course he was—phone held high, that manic TikToker energy radiating off him like heat off asphalt.

But this wasn't just another school morning livestream.

Ever since the auction—since Tommy Chen's software sold for hundreds of millions and put Lincoln Heights on the fucking map—everything connected to this small town in LA had become a hot commodity. Media outlets were digging. Tech blogs were speculating. Investors were trying to uncover the mystery behind the teenage millionaire who'd emerged from nowhere.

Lincoln Heights wasn't nobody anymore. And Lincoln High definitely wasn't just another public school.

Connor Hayes, Lincoln Heights native and Lincoln High student, had stumbled into a goldmine of proximity. He wasn't just some kid with a phone anymore. He was the inside source. The local correspondent. The guy who actually knew Tommy Chen before the money.

"Master, his livestream viewer count reflected 2,147 viewers and climbing. At 7:23 AM on a Monday morning."

That wasn't normal. That was national attention funneling through one social media-addicted teenager's phone because people were desperate for any crumb of information about the Lincoln Heights phenomenon.

Connor knew it. Fed off it. His voice carried over the crowd, pitched for maximum engagement, playing to an audience that stretched far beyond the school compound...

"LINCOLN HIGH! ARE YOU SEEING THIS? Three hypercars! MILLIONS OF DOLLARS! This is your boy Connor Hayes bringing you EXCLUSIVE CONTENT!" He was practically vibrating. "You're looking at Lincoln Heights' very own PRINCE—Tommy Chen! After his software sold for HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS—"

"The chat on his livestream is exploding. Numbers climbing on his screen reflection. 500 comments. 800. 1200."

"—Tommy Chen put Lincoln Heights AND Lincoln High on the MAP! But that's not all, folks!" Connor's voice dropped conspiratorially, leaning into his phone. "Rumor has it Tommy's got connections to Charlotte Thompson herself! You know, THE Charlotte Thompson, CEO of Quantum Tech? Word is they go WAY back—"

3000 viewers now. The chat was scrolling so fast it blurred. Didn't these people have a life. Who watches live on Monday mornings?

Connor pivoted, camera swiveling to capture Tommy's black Carbonado, then panning over to my orange Veneno. His voice dropped even lower, like he was about to drop the juiciest gossip of the century:

"But here's the thing, Lincoln High. Here's what we ALL know—" He zoomed in on me through the Veneno's windshield before I'd even stepped out. "Peter Carter. That guy right there. He's always been Tommy's superior when it comes to tech. When it comes to... uh, well... EVERYTHING."

The chat went insane:

"NO WAY"

"Peter Carter?? The kid we heard who got bullied??"

"He looks hot... wtf"

"THATS CAP"

Connor was grinning now, feeding off the engagement. "Peter Carter is the smartest person at Lincoln High—second only to Lea Martinez in academics, but when it comes to TECH? Peter Carter is the GIANT. And according to rumors—" He paused for dramatic effect. "—Peter Carter was actually the one behind Tommy's software. The REAL architect."

The livestream viewer count hit 2500. The comments section became a war zone.

"Bullshit"

"Peter was just a sidekick"

"Tommy's the genius not some random kid"

"Wait who is Peter Carter"

"Link to Tommy's story??"

I shook my head, still sitting in the Veneno watching the livestream. Of course, Connor was doing this.

Connor laughed, reading the disbelief flooding his chat. "I know, I know! You guys don't believe me!" He leaned closer to the camera, voice dropping into that conspiracy-theorist whisper that TikTokers use when they're about to drop something juicy. "But here's the thing—this rumor might be unfounded. Might be. But most people don't know this. Maybe nobody knows this."

He paused for effect, letting the anticipation build. The viewer count ticked up. 3,847 now.

"This wasn't the first time Peter Carter did something behind the scenes." Connor's eyes gleamed with that particular satisfaction of someone who knows they're about to blow minds. "There was this girl at our school. Kayla Richards. Sarah Carter's friend—Peter's sister's friend. And Kayla used Peter Carter to design blockchain software for her."

Another pause. Letting it sink in.

"And where does Kayla Richards work now?" Connor's grin widened. "Mirror. Crypto. House."

The chat exploded.

"WAIT WHAT"

"MIRROR CRYPTO HOUSE??"

"THE BIG ONE??"

"NO FUCKING WAY"

"YES!" Connor was practically shouting now, feeding off the engagement. "Mirror Crypto House! The company that owns the fifth-largest Bitcoin holdings in the world! Fourth largest in Ethereum! That Mirror Crypto House! And Kayla Richards—eighteen teen-year-old girl from Lincoln Heights—is working there because Peter Carter built her the blockchain software that got her hired!"

*

"Language, Mr. Chen!" Principal's voice cut through, red-faced, bellowing from the admin building entrance. "All three of you! My office! NOW!"

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