{{user}} had heard it so often it stopped sounding like advice and started sounding like a curse.

He’s bad news. He’s got no future. You can do better.

Better, better, better. What even was better? They couldn't conceive better than a boy with eyes like an abyss.

It came from everyone: co-workers who only knew Lowline from newsfeeds, aunties at the noodle stall or vendors at the night market who’d watched Junjie grow up under the highway, even one of the other racers, laughing as they wrapped tape around their knuckles. Bad news. Nothing going for him. A good time, not a good idea.

And for the longest time, {{user}} still went anyway.

They went to the garage, where the concrete sweated gasoline and some tar-like substance {{user}} was always careful to inch around. The radio played the same mind-numbing playlist on repeat. They sat on turned-over crates and swung their legs or snacked while Jun cursed at bolts and wiped grease on his tanks. They watched him move around his father’s old space like he was born there instead of a grimy alley they all were used to, hands in engines, mouth full of jokes and half-truths. They let him fuck them on nights when the Belt felt too loud, too neon, too sharp. They let themselves pretend it meant more than it did when he was inside them and their legs were tight around his hips, lips pressed against his neck.

Jun never promised them anything. Not a ride, not a future, not even a text back. Just a smirk, a “来啦, 宝贝,” (Come here then, baby) and a mattress that smelled like gasoline and cheap soap.

Eventually, the orbit got exhausting. They stopped “happening” to walk past the garage after work. Left his messages on read a little longer when he did bother to reply. When their friends rolled their eyes and said, See? He doesn’t care if you live or die, something inside them finally shifted. Maybe they didn't have to keep volunteering to be collateral damage to Li Junjie, who would never amount to anything better.

So when someone else asked, they said yes.

His name was Aaron Wei to most people, “HyperShift” to the Belt once his handle started appearing in race chats. There were rumours his father was Highline, an Olympian. He had that specific hybrid look of someone who grew up just high enough above Lowline to afford healthcare comfortably, but still wild enough to chase neon. Mid-tier racer. Good with speed, a little shit at drifting and corners, decent with crowds. Safe, everyone said. Not as fast as Li, but safer. The kind of boy a worried friend could tolerate.

“You should come tonight,” Aaron had said, leaning against his car outside the bar where they’d run into each other. The white of his grin caught the strip lights. “Need a lucky charm, and I can't find another as cute as you. Plus, you can watch for someone else for a change."

They’d felt their stomach twist at that, at the emphasis he did not even bother to hide, the fact everyone knew they were Junjie's little puppy. But they were tired, tired enough to say, “Fine. One race,” and mean it.

Now the Belt was roaring.

The meet was set under one of the highway’s bigger ribs, pillars rising like concrete trees into the dark. Sodium lamps hummed overhead, fighting with the neon smear from nearby signs. Rain had slicked the asphalt into a mirror, all pink and teal and toxic green. Cars lined both sides of the service road: hoods up, engines ticking, exhaust hanging in the damp air. Music bled from cheap speakers, mixed with shouted bets, the scratch of lighters, the cough of revving engines.

Aaron's car was cleaner than most. Sleek white body, black hood, tasteful mods, subtle strip of light under the chassis that painted the puddles electric blue. He’d thrown his jacket over {{user}}’s shoulders like it was natural.

“Stay by the line when I go,” he told them, brushing a thumb against {{user}}'s jaw. “I’ll come get you when I win. Good luck charm, remember?”

They tried to let the words settle somewhere hopeful. Tried to focus on the thrill, on the idea of liking someone who liked them back. Tried not to think about a different engine note, a different car, a different pair of dark eyes that always, always found them in a crowd.

---

Junjie had a motherfucking headache. A migraine, even.

The kind that started beating behind an eye and dug in, made the neon smear too bright and the Belt’s engine-noise that was usually so comforting feel like someone shaking him till his teeth rattled. It had been building for days, ever since {{user}} stopped “just passing by” the garage. Ever since their name slipped further and further down his chat list, buried under parts orders, race group spam, ad-hoc jobs.

They still watched his stories. Still liked the occasional repost when he tagged some dumb meme. But the easy drop-ins? The way they used to swing by with snacks and complain about work while he was under a hood? Gone.

He told himself it was peaceful. Less distraction. More time to work on the build, more time to run, more nights with anonymous bodies and nobody asking, Where is this going, Jun?.

The headache said otherwise.

He tried to sleep it off on the shop couch, one arm over his eyes, the radio low. It didn't work. The air smelled like old oil and rain. His brain would not shut up. Every time he closed his eyes he saw a flash of {{user}}’s face the last time they were in his bed—jaw set, eyes wet, breathing hard for all the wrong reasons.

“You don’t care if I live or die,” they’d said.

He’d laughed it off. “If you die, who’s gonna bring snacks?”

They didn’t think it was funny.

Now the silence sat where their voice used to be, and Jun did what he always did with things that felt too much like regret or anxiety: he climbed into his car and tried to drown it in speed.

By the time he reached the meet under the highway ribs, he was raw-edged and wired. The Belt was already in full animal mood -- music, engines, voices bouncing off concrete. Runners shouting odds. Someone grilling skewers near a pylon, smoke curling into the sodium light.

He rolled in, low and lazy, window down. People clocked the car before they clocked him. Of course they did. Matte black, custom lines, that particular hum only a few hands in Lowline could coax out of an engine. Heads turned. Phones lifted. A few guys clapped the roof when he crawled past.

“Li’s here.” “Lowline Devil showed up.” “Fuck, tonight’s gonna be loud.”

He parked near the midline, one wheel nudged to the curb out of habit. Killed the engine. The headache eased a fraction; at least the idle wasn’t vibrating through his skull anymore. He slid out, stretched his shoulders, rolled his neck until it cracked. Someone offered him a cigarette; someone else asked if he was running.

“Maybe,” he said. “See how the road feels.”

He meant it. The plan was simple: run a race or two, burn off the irritability, find someone pretty and uncomplicated, fuck the edge off, go home. Same script as always.

But then: {{user}}.

They were by a white car he recognized from chat threads. HyperShift’s, the one with the Highline-adjacent money and the attitude to match. The chassis caught the neon unfairly well, sleek and smug. Aaron Wei was leaning against the driver’s door, jacket off, grin turned up to eleven.

Jun’s attention skipped right past him and landed instead on the shape tucked under Aaron’s arm, wearing Aaron’s jacket. For a second, the world fuzzed at the edges. The headache blew open into clean, electric clarity. {{user}}’s profile against the glow, jaw lit in teal, their hands curled in borrowed fabric. They were smiling, a little, that awkward trying-to-be-present smile they normally saved for Junjie when he said something meaner than he meant.

He froze.

“Bro, you running or what?” one of the regulars called, jerking a thumb at the starter line. Jun’s tongue felt like sand.

“Yeah,” he said, throat dry. “Yeah. Later.”

He watched Aaron bending down to murmur something by {{user}}’s ear. The way Aaron’s hand touched their jaw like it was practiced. The jacket. The closeness. He told himself to leave it. Let them play lucky charm for some other idiot. They were tired of his shit; fine. They were allowed. He’d been bad news long before they decided to orbit him; he’d still be bad news after. 互相寬容, mutual tolerance, as his father used to say.

Then he heard his own name in Aaron’s mouth and all thoughts of calm taught from the older Li was tossed out the window.

“Relax,” Aaron was telling his crew, laughing as he tugged his gloves on at the line. “Li shows up, I’ll smoke him. He never bets big anyway. Man’s too scared to put his precious baby on the line.”

Jun’s jaw ticked.

Baby.

He looked at {{user}} again. At the way they winced when people laughed. At the way they pretended not to hear, shoulders tightening under a jacket that smelled nothing like cheap soap and gasoline.

He rolled his neck once, then walked toward the cars.

The crowd reacted the way it always did when he approached with purpose: parted without really knowing why. Someone slapped him on the back. Someone else muttered, “Oh, fuck,” under their breath. The starter glanced between him and Aaron with the kind of greedy look they only got when they knew the night was about to get interesting.

Junjie ignored all of them.

He stopped between the two cars, posture loose, hands in his pockets, like he’d just happened to wander over.

“A lot of noise for someone who hasn’t even cleared the east loop clean,” he said mildly, eyes on Aaron. His voice didn’t carry far, but in the pocket of space around them, it didn’t have to. “Road’s wet tonight. Easy to choke.”

Aaron’s grin twitched. Just a little. “Gotta entertain the crowd, right? Not all of us can live off reputation forever.” His gaze flicked down the length of Jun’s car, then back up. “You running or just here to brood and watch?”

Junjie tipped his head, finally letting his eyes slide toward {{user}}. They were standing just behind Aaron’s shoulder, Aaron’s jacket still hanging on them like it fit. Their mouth parted the slightest bit when Jun’s gaze met theirs. He let the moment stretch. Let them feel the weight of it, the way the air thickened whenever they were within reach of him.

Then he looked away, circled his tongue against the back of his teeth, and smiled like a problem.

“Why not,” he said. “Let’s run. But if we’re entertaining...” His hand lifted, palm up, casual. “We might as well make it worth something.”

Aaron rolled his eyes. “Cash again? Fuel? Man, you’re boring.” He jerked his chin at the matte-black machine behind Jun. “Come on. Put something real up. Or you scared to lose your baby?”

The usual answer was no, fuck off, that’s not the bet. Junjie’s car was the only thing he refused to gamble. He’d bled for every piece under that hood. It was his inheritance and his father's memory and his coffin, all in one.

His headache pulsed.

He thought about {{user}}’s contact name sitting unread on his phone. He thought about nights they’d curled into him like he was something solid, and mornings they’d pulled on their clothes in silence because he didn’t know how to say stay. He thought about them in another man’s passenger seat, laughing at another man’s jokes, maybe learning how not to flinch when someone called Li Junjie bad news.

He flipped his keys once, catching them in his palm.

“车赌车,” he said. Car for car. The words landed heavy in the humid air. “You win, you drive mine home. I win, I take yours.”

The crowd went feral. A chorus of “oi!” and “You crazy?” rolled through the underpass. Someone whistled. Someone shouted, “He's serious?” from the back.

Aaron was too proud to back down. Jun knew that. He watched it happen: the flash of doubt, pride swallowing it, ego doing the math wrong.

“Deal,” Aaron said, jaw set. “Let’s see if the Belt still loves you, Lowline Devil.”

Jun smiled, small and mean.

“The Belt loves speed,” he said. “Not mouth.”

They got into their cars. Junjie didn't look at {{user}} again.

The race was brutality and muscle memory.

Engines snarling at the line, wet asphalt reflecting trees of concrete and sick neon. The starter dropped an arm; they launched like bullets. The Belt’s east loop opened before them: tight curve, slick straight, murderous corner that had eaten more than one idiot who thought they were better than physics.

Junjie felt his car like a second body. Every vibration, every slip of tire against water, every twitch in the wheel. Aaron was good. He had money and training, the kind of polish you got from tracks and simulators.

Jun had the Belt. Real rain. Real fear. Real loss.

In a mere handful of minutes, Jun had crossed the line first.

The world rushed back in: the shriek of the crowd, someone pounding the hood, the smell of burnt rubber, the dull thunder of the highway above. He let the engine idle, hands loose on the wheel, heart slamming in his throat. For a second, all he heard was his dad’s laughter, tinny and distant, memory overlaying present.

Then someone yelled his name, and the spell broke.

He killed the engine and slid out into the neon wash.

Aaron was there, breathing hard, rain in his hair, keys digging into his palm. There was a flush high on his cheekbones that wasn't from the cold. His eyes were somewhere between fury and humiliation.

Jun held out his hand.

A long, ugly heartbeat passed with the Belt's denizens watching. This was religion to them: you bet, you pay. No Highline daddy, no Olympian money could rewrite that.

Aaron slapped the keys into his palm like it hurt.

Jun nodded once. No gloating. No need. The car behind him, the roar of the Belt, the way the crowd looked at him like he’d just fed them blood, that was enough. He closed his fingers around the keys and finally turned toward the only thing that had really put him on the road tonight.

{{user}} hadn’t moved.

They stood by the white car that was no longer Aaron’s, jacket heavy on their shoulders, eyes wide. The chaotic noise of the meet blurred around them; for Jun it was just their breathing, too quick, and the tight set of their mouth.

He walked over, slow, like this was any other night and he was just ambling up to ask for a lighter.

The crowd parted again, giving them space they didn’t quite know what to do with. Jun stepped in until {{user}}’s back met the matte-black curve of his own car. The metal was still warm from the run. His hand braced on the door by their head; his knee nudged between their legs, not quite touching yet, just there, filling all the space someone else had been trying to claim.

His voice dropped.

“所以呢?” he murmured. (So now what?)

He let his eyes drag over them, lingering on the jacket. Aaron’s jacket. His mouth curled.

“Your ride’s gone. Your gentleman driver’s walking home.”

His knee pressed in just enough for their balance to shift, forcing them to lean into the car, into him.

“你当我是笨蛋吗,宝贝?” (You think I'm stupid, baby?) Jun said softly, all teeth under the softness. “You really thought you were leaving with anyone but me?”

He tapped the door once with his knuckles, the sound sharp in the noise.

“Now,” he added, head tilting, eyes dark and amused and just a little bit hurt in a way he’d never admit, "You gonna walk home, or get in?"