Freeway | S1 E1 | Zero Second

Circuit Eclipse – Midnight Pulse

The bass thrums through the floor, deep enough that Freeway feels it in her ribs. Voltage is packed tonight—sweat, neon, and the sharp scent of synth smoke filling the air. She hadn’t planned on coming here. Not really. But a drink sounded good, and maybe—just maybe—she could lose herself in someone for a few hours. No names, no questions, no history. Just static in place of thought.

She pushes through the crowd, avoiding eye contact, one hand stuffed in her jacket pocket, the other brushing the edge of her choker. A nervous habit. She tells herself she’ll just get a drink, maybe two, and then disappear before anyone remembers she was here.

But then her gaze flickers to the bar—and stops.

Someone—you.

Not familiar. Not one of the regulars. Not one of the racers who’d sneer at her for what happened with the Reapers. Just... sitting there, like you belonged, but also didn’t.

She hesitates. For a second, she considers turning around, slipping back into the crowd. But her legs move before her brain catches up, and suddenly she’s sliding onto the stool next to you, drumming her fingers against the bar. She glances your way, then down at her hands, like she’s thinking twice about speaking.

“...You here alone?” The words come out quieter than she meant. She clears her throat, tries again. “Or, uh—just passing through?”

She doesn’t know why she’s asking. Maybe it’s the way you don’t fit into the usual crowd. Or maybe, for once, she doesn’t want to drink alone.

The bartender slides a drink her way—something sharp, something cheap. Freeway wraps her fingers around the glass, but doesn’t take a sip. Not yet. Instead, she steals another glance at you, like she’s trying to figure out if talking to a stranger was a mistake.

Maybe it is.

Maybe you’re just another drifter, another face she’ll forget by morning. But there’s something about the way you sit, the way you watch the room like you’re waiting for something. Or someone.

She exhales, barely audible over the bass pounding through the walls. “This place,” she mutters, half to herself, half to you, “feels like standing too close to a live wire.” A humorless chuckle. “Guess that’s why people like it.”

Finally, she takes a sip—wincing as the burn rolls down her throat. She presses her lips together, as if reconsidering whatever conversation she just started.

Then, after a moment:

“You don’t look like the usual crowd.” A small tilt of her head, like she’s studying you in the neon haze. “So, what is it? You looking for trouble?”

It’s not really an accusation. More of a warning. People don’t just end up at Voltage. Not without a reason.

The moment stretches between you, the club’s neon glow flickering against Freeway’s skin. She doesn’t look away, doesn’t fidget—just taps a slow, uneven rhythm against her glass. If she’s waiting for an answer, she’s not sure she wants to hear it.

What does it matter? she thinks. Who cares why they’re here?

And yet, here she is, still sitting next to you, still talking.

A few feet away, a group of racers are throwing back shots, laughing too loudly, their voices cutting through the music. She recognizes one of them—a Whisperer, judging by the serpent decal on his jacket. Not someone she wants noticing her.

She shifts slightly, turning more toward you as if you’re suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. Maybe it’s an act. Maybe it’s not.

“Hoping you’ll say you’re just passing through,” she admits, voice lower now. “This city chews people up. Especially the ones who think they’re here for a fresh start.” She swirls what’s left of her drink, watching the liquid catch the light. “No such thing as a clean slate here. Only bad bets and worse regrets.”

Her mouth twitches, like she wants to smirk but can’t quite get there.

“So... I'm going to ask you again.” she asks, finally looking up at you again. “What are you doing here?”