The neon lights of the city smeared into streaks as Anna Smirnova's taxi raced down the empty streets, the engine's roar cutting through the drizzling rain. It was past midnight, that hour when the world hangs between total exhaustion and anticipation. The rain wasn't pouring buckets—just a fine mist that clung to everything, turning the asphalt into a slick mirror under the sparse streetlamps. Puddles gleamed like oil slicks, catching reflections from distant billboards advertising energy drinks and cheap motels. Anna sat in the back seat, gripping the door handle, her knuckles whitening under thin gloves. The latex of her outfit—that glossy black corset and mini-shorts—stuck to her skin like a second layer, getting sticky and cold from the humidity. It was supposed to be alluring, but right now she felt exposed, like she was out in the wind.

Why do I keep doing this? she thought, her mind racing faster than the car. The answer was simple, hammered in by months of repetition: money. Uni for journalism won't pay for itself, and her family's modest savings wouldn't stretch far. Her dad, Artem, with his steady electronics engineer job, offered to help, but Anna wanted to prove she could stand on her own. Independent, she repeated to herself, echoing her mom Oksana's words from those late-night kitchen chats. But independence costs, and tonight the price was stepping out in front of a crowd of adrenaline junkies on these forgotten industrial backlots.

She asked the driver to stop not far from the meetup spot—an abandoned warehouse district on the outskirts, where streets widened into forgotten tracks perfect for underground races. The air stank of wet concrete and exhaust, that acrid mix always hitting her nose first. About a hundred spectators huddled under umbrellas or raincoats, faces lit by the harsh beams of pro cameras. This wasn't some amateur phone footage; the organizers brought in pros—guys with steadicams and drones buzzing overhead, catching every angle for editing. The videos would get dumped on underground channels later, racking up views and sponsors. Anna had seen those edits: glossy clips under pounding bass, where girls like her were just decorations against the roaring machines.

Stepping out of the taxi and paying up, Anna hopped down gracefully, her long legs splashing in a shallow puddle—she often went barefoot until the last second to keep the illusion intact. Rain dotted her porcelain skin, her light makeup glistening under the lights. She adjusted her black choker, the bow at her throat feeling like a noose tonight. Her chestnut hair, tied into two high ponytails with light curls at the ends, was already frizzing a bit from the damp. The headband with bunny ears sat on her head, the ears drooping in the wetness. Cutie, she thought bitterly. That's what they want. Cutie and untouchable.

Masha, her colleague and sometimes misery buddy, spotted her first. That spunky blonde was already posted up at the starting line, chatting with a camera op. "Anka! Over here!" Masha waved, her voice slicing through the crowd's hum. She was dressed similar—shiny latex hugging her curves—but with more flair, a red bow instead of black. Masha thrived in this; Anna endured. Approaching with her measured gait—confident but with a slight hesitation in her hips—Anna forced a small smile. Masha looked her up and down and smirked: "Fuck, Anka, you look so sexy today that all these assholes will forget about the races. You should be in porn, not flashing here—ass like a nut, tits perfect, and that waist... I look like a gray mouse next to you."

"Hey. How's everything setting up tonight?" Anna replied, keeping her voice even, professional. No need to dive into personal right away, even on compliments.

Masha grinned, wiping rain from her forehead. "Intense as fuck! Three top racers—that dick from the docks in a tuned Evo, and Alisa's crew. She's driving her ride tonight. Said she'd give you interview tips later if you want." Alisa was the wild card in Anna's circle: ex-journalist turned racer, all sharp edges and ambition. She pushed Anna to document these nights, turn them into stories. Real journalism, Alisa called it. Anna nodded, her silvery-khaki eyes flicking to the lineup of cars. Engines revved sporadically, low growls echoing off warehouse walls like distant thunder.

"Sounds good. I'll catch her after." Anna scanned the crowd, noting the makeup. Mostly young guys in hoodies and caps, a few women scattered among them, all buzzing with excitement—and plenty whispering about her, the favorite, the one who outshone all previous grid girls with her refined beauty. Cameras everywhere—handhelds panning the scene, tripods for wide shots. One drone hovered low, red light blinking, catching the sheen of wet asphalt. Streets empty beyond the barriers—cops rarely patrolled this far, especially on a rainy night. But the risk was always there, a knot in her gut.

While she chatted with Masha about the lineup—"Evo's got new turbos, should be fast but slippery in this mist"—Anna's thoughts drifted home. Her brothers would be pissed if they knew the full truth. Dmitry, the military guy, would lecture on safety; Alexey, the mechanic, might even show up to "protect," cracking jokes. But she hadn't told them everything—just that she worked events for cash. Better that way, she decided, fiddling with the metal heart on her thigh garter. Latex hugged her narrow 59cm waist, feeling even tighter in the damp, thigh gap accentuated by the shorts' cut. She felt the stares already—sneaky glances from spectators, muffled wolf whistles in the rain, and shouts like "Night, you're a goddess!" from fans, for whom she was the hottest ever to stand on this track.

The burly organizer, nicknamed "Bear" for his size, lumbered over. "Girls, five minutes. Positions, fuck. Rain adds drama—cameras love this shit." He clapped Anna on the shoulder too hard, his hand lingering a second too long, but then he added business-like, without extra sentiment: "You're on point tonight, An. Looking pro, like we need—crowd comes for you, views are up." Anna tensed, her graceful neck stiffening, she glanced at him briefly, then looked away. "Got it," she replied coolly, stepping back. Bear chuckled, unimpressed, and waddled off. Boundaries, she reminded herself. She wasn't rude—without cause—but she knew how to draw lines.

The drizzle picked up a bit as Anna and Masha headed to the starting grid. The road stretched ahead: a long straight strip of wet black asphalt, flanked by chain fences and graffiti on walls. Cars rumbled in position—sleek imports with neon underglow pulsing blue and purple, tires hissing on pavement. Air vibrated with anticipation, gasoline scent mixing with earthy petrichor. Anna's heart beat faster; despite the doubts, there was a rush here, raw energy feeding her secret notes. She'd write later: Rain beading on chrome like tears on a face. Stories waiting to be told.

Positioning at the lead car—Alisa's modded Subaru, hood covered in sponsor stickers—Anna struck a pose: hand on hip, the other adjusting a ponytail. Long, toned legs shone under the lights, rain trickling down smooth skin. She felt naked, lace inserts in the corset showing through in the wet, but kept her head high, aristocratic oval face calm. Inside, a whirlwind of doubts. What if someone recognizes me? What if the video blows up? But she squashed it, focusing on the job.

Alisa leaned out the window, rain dripping from the roof. "Looking fucking killer, Night. Ready for the chaos, bitch?" Voice teasing but kind—mentor vibe Anna appreciated.

Anna smiled faintly, almond eyes catching the dash glow. "Ready as ever. Good luck." They shared a quick laugh, Alisa revving in response. Masha, a couple cars down, flirted easy with a driver, laughter carrying over the noise: "Come on, you'll blast off in that thing like a rocket!"

As the countdown started—organizers yelling into megaphones—Anna stepped onto the road, barefoot feet chilling on slick asphalt. Crowd roared louder than usual, cameras zooming right on her—the fave, whose beauty eclipsed everyone, including Masha, making her an icon of these races. She waved the checkered flag, movements fluid but with that signature hesitation, like a deer in headlights masking grace. A spectator on the edge—skinny guy in a soaked jacket—yelled: "Hey, bunny! Come over after the race, haven't fucked one like you in ages!" Tone playful but pushy.

Anna's cheeks flushed under her blush, but she held it together. Glancing at him briefly, she shook her head politely but firmly. "Working. Enjoy the race." Turned back to the grid, heart pounding. Not tonight, she thought. Never, if I can help it. Rain drummed on her shoulders, latex creaking softly with movement.

Engines roared, start signal incoming. Anna stood there, between cars and crowd, night alive with possibility and danger. And then, from the far end of the street, came a low, vibrating rumble—not just an engine, but real thunder, echoing off wet walls. Crowd froze, heads turning: out of the darkness emerged it—the last racer, late but no accident. A matte black Porsche 911 GT3 RS, tuned to the edge of elegance and power. Carbon aero kit with sharp splitters up front, massive rear spoiler like a predator's wing, wide arches with gold rims on low-profile tires gripping even in rain. Under the hood—a boosted 4.0-liter boxer engine cranked to 700+ horses with twin-turbos and custom Akrapovič exhaust spitting flames on shifts. Neon underglow pulsed cold blue, body decked in minimalist cyberpunk vinyl stripes—stylish, unmatched, like a car from the future that could shred everyone on this wet track. Organizers scrambled: "What the fuck is this! Who’s that asshole? Let him in, dammit, or the race dies without the show!" Crowd exploded in shouts, cameras swiveled, drones dove closer. The car slid into position at the grid's end, tires hissing through puddles, the driver inside—a dark figure behind tinted glass—radiating confidence that made even Alisa glance in her mirror.

Who is that? Anna thought, silvery eyes narrowing slightly, stealing a look while holding position. Race about to start, but this car screamed winner—maybe a rich newbie, or a pro out to eclipse them all?