This narration contains themes related to illegal street racing, high-speed driving, and underground activities, including gambling, smuggling, and other illicit dealings. While it portrays the thrill and intensity of the racing world, it is important to recognize that such activities are highly dangerous and illegal in real life. This story is purely fictional and does not condone or promote reckless driving, criminal activities, or any form of endangerment.

Oikawa stood at Hanamaki’s side, his posture casual, but the way Mattsun lingered just a step away on his other side told him otherwise. It was subtle, the way they positioned themselves around him—not obvious enough to make a scene, but just enough to ensure no one got too close. He didn’t know if it was Iwaizumi’s orders or just their own instincts kicking in, but he wasn’t about to complain.

The crowd was thicker than the night before, voices overlapping with the occasional revving of engines that sent vibrations through the pavement. The air smelled like burning rubber, gasoline, and adrenaline, so far from the polished concert venues he was used to. Yet, for some reason, he didn’t feel out of place.

Tilting his head slightly, he looked at Hanamaki, then at Mattsun. “Can you give me some knowledge about this?” he asked, his voice carrying just enough curiosity to sound casual.

Hanamaki smirked, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Ano ka, trainee?”

Mattsun chuckled under his breath. “Saan mo gusto magsimula? Bets? Drifting? O yung illegal side ng lahat ng ’to?”

Oikawa blinked, then huffed a small laugh. “Let’s start with the basics, professor,” he said, crossing his arms as he waited for their explanation.

Kiyoomi, who had been standing nearby with his arms crossed, exhaled sharply before speaking, his tone flat and precise. “This isn’t just about who’s the fastest,” he began, eyes scanning the crowd before settling back on Oikawa. “It’s about control. Reaction time. Strategy. Hindi pwedeng bara-bara ka lang dito, unless gusto mong mamatay ng maaga.”

Oikawa swallowed at the bluntness but kept his expression neutral, nodding along.

“Every driver has their own approach,” Kiyoomi continued. “Some focus on speed, others on technical skills—like drifting. Iwaizumi?” He gestured vaguely toward where Iwaizumi stood near his car. “Combination. Hindi siya pinakamabilis, pero alam niya kung kailan magbabagal para sumabay sa takbo ng kalaban, only to overtake at the last second. That’s what makes him hard to beat.”

Kiyoomi clicked his tongue. “You want to understand this world? Then learn how these people think. Hindi lang ‘to basta silipan ng makina at apakan yung gas. It’s about knowing when to risk it all and when to hold back.”

Oikawa felt something curl in his chest—something dangerously close to excitement.

Suna, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke up, his voice smooth and nonchalant. “Tingin mo ba lahat ng ’to ginagawa lang for the thrill?” He smirked slightly, shifting his weight onto one leg. “No. May pera dito. Malaking pera.”

Oikawa blinked at the sudden mention of money. He had expected racing to be about pride and reputation, but money? He supposed it made sense—why else would so many people be here, eagerly watching?

“Bets run everything in underground racing,” Suna continued. “The more notorious the racer, the higher the stakes. The usual setup? May isang taong magho-host ng race, and people place their bets on whoever they think will win. Kung sigurado kang mananalo ka, you can even bet on yourself.”

Mattsun let out a short laugh. “Minsan, kung gusto mo talagang saktan yung kalaban mo, you bet against them. Walang mas masakit sa pride ng isang racer kaysa sa malaman na walang may tiwala sa kanila.”

Oikawa tilted his head, thinking. “So… how much money are we talking about here?”

Suna smirked, eyes glinting under the dim track lights. “Depends. Normal races range from thousands to hundreds of thousands. Pero kapag high-profile yung laban? Millions.”

Oikawa’s lips parted slightly in surprise. He knew underground scenes had money involved, but millions? His career as a pop star had given him access to ridiculous amounts of wealth, but this was different. This wasn’t sponsorships or brand deals—this was raw, risk-heavy gambling.

Suna must’ve noticed the way his expression shifted because he chuckled, tilting his head toward Iwaizumi. “Kaya mo nang hulaan kung magkano ang taya kay Iwaizumi ngayon.”

Oikawa’s gaze automatically flickered to Iwaizumi, who was still by his car, his expression unreadable. The weight of it all settled onto his shoulders then—the stakes, the risks, the reason they were being so careful about keeping him hidden.

Matsukawa cracked his neck before stuffing his hands into his pockets, his usual lazy grin making the weight of his words feel even heavier. “You already know there’s money involved, right? Pero hindi lang basta pera ‘to. Lahat ng nangyayari dito? Illegal.”

Oikawa swallowed, keeping his expression neutral. Of course, he had known—anything underground was bound to be illegal. But hearing it spelled out like this made it more real.

Mattsun continued, “The races? Wala kang permit, wala kang proper safety regulations, at kung mahuli ka ng pulis? Well, good luck explaining why you’re driving at 200 km/h sa isang abandonadong track.” He snorted. “Pero di lang yun ang delikado. You think lahat ng racers dito mga normal na adrenaline junkie lang?”

Oikawa furrowed his brows. “Aren’t they?”

Hanamaki scoffed. “Tangina, hindi.”

Mattsun’s smirk grew sharper. “Half of the people here? Affiliated sa kung anong sindikato. Yung iba, nagpapalakas ng pangalan nila sa mundo ng smuggling. Yung iba naman, ginagamit ‘tong races para magpalitan ng illegal goods. Drugs, armas—name it. This track? Business venue ‘to para sa karamihan ng mga ‘big shot’ na mahilig sa karera.”

Oikawa felt his stomach tighten. His world had been strict, full of contracts and scripted smiles, but it had rules—rules that, if followed, ensured safety. This world? It had no safety net.

Suna let out a low chuckle. “Minsan, may mga laban dito na hindi lang pera ang taya. Kotse, teritoryo, buhay.”

Oikawa’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

Mattsun tilted his head, his gaze flicking toward Iwaizumi. “Alam mo na siguro kung bakit hindi pwede si Hajime matalo mamaya, ‘di ba?”

Oikawa’s breath caught in his throat. He turned toward Iwaizumi, who remained by his car, unaware—or perhaps uncaring—that he was the center of their conversation. For the first time since arriving here, Oikawa truly understood what was at stake.

Hanamaki clicked his tongue, stretching his arms over his head before lazily resting one hand on Oikawa’s shoulder. “So, naiintindihan mo na? Malayo ‘to sa mundong kinalakihan mo. Hindi ‘to showbiz na puro publicity at contracts. Dito, isang maling galaw, tapos ka.”

Oikawa swallowed.

Hanamaki continued, his tone unusually serious. “Ang mundong ginagalawan namin? Walang rules dito—o kung meron man, binabalewala ‘yan depende sa kung sino ang may hawak ng pera o kapangyarihan. Lahat ng kilos mo may bantay. Lahat ng taong makakasalamuha mo, may agenda. Kung hindi ka sanay sa ganitong klaseng buhay, kakainin ka ng buo ng sistemang ‘to.”

He took a step closer, voice dropping lower. “Sa’yo ang buhay mo dati? Alam mo kung sino ang kaibigan mo, sino ang kalaban mo. Alam mo kung paano gumalaw, kung paano makalusot sa mga issue, kasi may manager kang nagbabantay sa’yo. Dito? Wala kang manager. Kung gusto kang patumbahin ng isang tao, gagawin nila, at walang makakapigil sa kanila.”

Oikawa exhaled sharply. He had spent years navigating the ruthless world of fame, but at least there, the worst thing that could happen was getting canceled or blacklisted. Here, the stakes were real—tangible.

“Walang safety net dito,” Hanamaki muttered, watching Oikawa’s expression shift. “At kapag nadapa ka? Wala kaming magagawa kundi kunin ang katawan mo sa kung anong kalye ka mahuhulog.”

Oikawa shivered at the bluntness. Hanamaki wasn’t saying it to scare him—he was saying it because it was the truth.


Iwaizumi gripped the steering wheel, rolling his shoulders back as he exhaled through his nose. The low hum of engines reverberated through the air, a symphony of power and impatience. He could feel the vibrations from the asphalt, the way the tires gripped the road beneath them. His Nissan GT-R35 was in perfect condition—Mattsun and Makki made sure of that.

The lineup was tighter tonight, more competitors, more bets being thrown around. He could hear the distant cheers and the clinking of cash being exchanged. It was noisier, messier. There were more eyes watching, more risks.

His gaze flickered to his side mirror, catching a brief glimpse of where Oikawa stood with the others. He was holding himself together well, but Iwaizumi knew better. The tension in Oikawa’s shoulders, the way his fingers kept adjusting the mask Iwaizumi had given him—it was clear that the weight of this world was pressing down on him.

Iwaizumi clicked his tongue, refocusing on the track ahead. He had no time to worry about that now. Not when the race was seconds away from starting.

His foot hovered over the gas pedal, muscles coiled, ready to launch forward the moment the signal dropped. The thrill of the race—the only thing that ever made his blood rush the way it did now.

And yet, for the first time in years, his mind wasn’t solely on the track.

It was on the pop star hiding in the shadows.

As the engines roared around him, Iwaizumi’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel, his pulse steady despite the chaos. The woman in the center of the track raised the flag, her stance confident as she waited for the moment to drop it. The crowd’s cheers swelled, an electrifying current running through the atmosphere.

Out of habit, he turned his head slightly to the side, scanning the lineup. And that’s when he saw it—someone already staring back at him.

A man, leaning against the car beside his, one hand draped over the wheel, the other tapping idly against the dashboard. His smirk was sharp, amused, and far too self-assured. But it was his eyes that caught Iwaizumi’s attention—calculating, assessing, like he already knew everything there was to know.

Iwaizumi didn’t have to guess. This had to be the person Kita had warned him about, the one Tendou had brought into the scene.

His jaw ticked. So this was how it was going to be tonight.

Before he could analyze further, the flag dropped.

And the race began.

The moment the flag dropped, Iwaizumi slammed his foot on the gas, the roar of the Nissan GT-R35’s engine cutting through the night air like a blade. The tires screeched against the asphalt, sending up the scent of burning rubber as the car shot forward, seamlessly weaving past two competitors in an instant.

The track was tight—narrow turns, unpredictable road conditions, and a brutal incline that separated seasoned racers from reckless amateurs. Iwaizumi had memorized every inch of this course, but tonight, the pressure was different. The weight of unseen eyes, the presence of someone Tendou had dragged into the mix, and the sheer number of unfamiliar faces watching made his grip on the wheel tighten.

A sharp turn was coming up. He downshifted quickly, braking just enough to glide into the drift, feeling the car’s rear swing out before catching traction again. His movements were fluid—muscle memory kicking in as he straightened out, accelerating into the next stretch.

Then, a flash of movement in his side mirror.

The car beside him was gaining. Not just gaining—matching his pace almost too effortlessly. It was the same one from the lineup, the driver who had been looking at him like he had already figured out his every move before the race even started.

Iwaizumi gritted his teeth.

“Son of a bitch.”

He pushed harder, fingers flexing against the wheel as he shifted gears, the engine roaring in response. The Nissan surged forward, barely slipping past another racer, its frame brushing dangerously close to the barrier. But the other driver wasn’t backing down either—he was pacing Iwaizumi, mirroring his movements like it was a game.

It was frustrating. Iwaizumi wasn’t used to being shadowed like this. He raced on instinct, on control—calculating every second and every motion to ensure his win. But this guy? He was testing him. Playing with him.

His jaw clenched as he took another sharp turn, tires skidding dangerously close to the edge of the track. The car behind him followed suit effortlessly, as if mocking him.

Iwaizumi exhaled sharply through his nose, his pulse hammering in his ears.

He needed to shake this guy off. Fast.

Iwaizumi’s grip on the wheel tightened as he flicked his eyes toward the rearview mirror. The car behind him was still there, relentless in its pursuit. Too close. Too clean. Too calculated. Whoever was behind that wheel wasn’t just some amateur with money to burn on a fast car—they knew what they were doing. And that pissed him off.

He clicked his tongue, fingers flexing as he shifted gears. Fine. If this bastard wanted to play, then he’d play.

His foot pressed harder against the gas, the Nissan GT-R35 lunging forward with raw power, its engine growling as if it shared his frustration. The next turn was a bastard—a sharp hairpin that had sent plenty of reckless racers straight into the barriers. But Iwaizumi knew this track like the back of his hand. He barely lifted his foot off the accelerator as he approached, flicking the wheel at the last possible second.

The car swung into a perfect drift, the rear tires skimming dangerously close to the edge of the track. He felt the shift—the precise moment the grip returned—and immediately straightened out, gaining an inch of distance.

But it wasn’t enough.

That car was still right there.

His brows furrowed. The driver hadn’t just kept up—they’d matched his turn perfectly.

His frustration burned hotter. This wasn’t normal.

Who the hell was this guy?

The straightaway was up ahead, the perfect chance to push the Nissan’s full power and gain some breathing room. Iwaizumi exhaled, adjusting his grip before slamming the pedal down, feeling the deep, guttural roar of the engine vibrate through his bones.

The car shot forward like a bullet.

Speed climbed rapidly—100 km/h. 140. 180. The wind resistance fought against the body of the Nissan, but Iwaizumi barely felt it, his focus razor-sharp. The end of the track was coming. Just a few more seconds.

But then—

A blur of movement to his left.

Iwaizumi’s eyes flicked sideways just in time to see the other car pull up beside him.

He swore under his breath. The fuck?

No one was supposed to catch up to him on a straight. But this guy did.

And worse—he was starting to overtake.

Iwaizumi’s grip on the wheel was tight, knuckles white as he pushed the Nissan to its absolute limit. The finish line was up ahead—just a few more meters, just a few more seconds. But the car beside him wasn’t letting up.

He could feel the pressure, the presence of the other racer—whoever the hell they were, they weren’t backing down. They were fast. Too fast. It had been a long time since someone had pushed him this hard in a race, and Iwaizumi wasn’t sure if he was pissed off or thrilled.

The final stretch was always the most dangerous. The track was uneven, slightly sloping, and at this speed, one wrong move meant losing control completely.

But Iwaizumi had done this a thousand times.

He braced himself, timing the final push perfectly. Just as the other driver tried to edge ahead, Iwaizumi flicked the wheel ever so slightly, adjusting his trajectory by a fraction of an inch—just enough to block them from cutting in front.

200 km/h. 210. 220.

The Nissan screamed across the asphalt, the force pressing him back into the seat.

Three seconds. Two. One—

The finish line blurred past.

Iwaizumi barely had time to process the flash of light from the cameras before the adrenaline crashed into him like a damn wave.

He’d won. By an inch.

The other car slowed beside him, and for a second, Iwaizumi almost wished he could see the driver’s face. Who the hell were they?

But there was no time for that.

The moment he pulled into the pit area, his hands finally relaxed on the wheel, heart still hammering. He let out a slow exhale, rolling his shoulders back.

His team was already waiting for him.

And when he stepped out of the car, the first thing he saw was Oikawa, eyes wide, watching him like he’d just witnessed something impossible.