February 1st, 12:38 pm. EST — South Beach Parking lot, Miami Beach, Florida 

In the shadow of towering city buildings, a secluded parking lot nestled among a thicket of palm trees hummed quietly with the occasional rustle of leaves. A silver Ferrari 812 Superfast, accented by a bold yellow stripe, glided in and parked, its engine purring like a restless cat. Two older men stepped out, their conversation sharp and businesslike. A few car lengths away, Carrera Célestin, a striking 19-year-old Haitian American girl, sat low in a beach chair, her face obscured by an oversized green hoodie and black shades. Her eyes, sharp and observant, fixated on the men as they moved toward a pay booth. On her lap rested a tablet, its screen lit up with the interface of a web application called freqgrab.io. Her fingers danced across the screen, generating a wavelength that flickered to life. 

As the men completed their transaction, one fumbled with his keys, pulled them out and pointed them at his sports car, but it gave no response. Confused, he moved closer and tried again, yet the car still didn't respond. Frustrated, he began tapping the lock button furiously until, at last, the car's doors clicked shut and its headlights flashed in acknowledgment. Satisfied, he turned away, but Carrera was already standing, stretching her limbs as if shaking off a long day's work. 

In a fluid motion, Carrera approached the Ferrari, opened the door, and started the engine, its powerful roar echoing through the lot. With a deft maneuver, she backed out and sped away. Just seconds later, a hidden motorcycle erupted from the shadows, its roar shattering the stillness. The enigmatic rider glided out of the lot and tailed Carrera down the road.

1:04 pm. EST — Collins Ave, Miami Beach, Florida 

As Carrera approached a red light, she eased off the accelerator, letting the Ferrari glide to a smooth stop. The powerful engine settled into a soft purr, a low rumble that resonated through the chassis. The sleek lines of the car shimmered in the bright Miami sun, sparkling like a polished gem.

Fiddling with the touchscreen on the center console, she quickly connected her phone via CarPlay and typed in a number. Moments later, the name Victor flashed across the screen, followed by a faint ring.

"Hey, I'm kinda busy here kid," Victor answered, his tone sharp. "Can I call you back—?"

"Clear some space for me at the shop," Carrera interrupted, her voice cutting through the Bluetooth connection.

"Look, the last three cars you brought me were duds. I barely broke even. Don't waste my time with any more junk. I need exotic!"

"I've got a big fish this time, so you don't have to worry about profit."

"Seriously? What kind of fish?"

"An Italian one," she said, pressing her foot down on the gas and unleashing the engine's roar.

"I know a rari when I hear one! We'll have two spots ready for you and a red carpet."

"That's what I like to hear."

Carrera ended the call and sat back, relaxed in her seat, her hands steady on the steering wheel. She exuded calm amidst the buzz of the world around her. Her eyes drifted across the bustling streets, briefly catching sight of a group of kids in the neighboring car, eagerly leaning out to grab her attention.

Suddenly, the name Behind You flashed across the screen, followed by the faint ring of an incoming call.

Startled and confused, Carrera glanced down at her phone. The mysterious caller was reaching out directly. Should she answer? She scanned the road behind her through the rearview mirror. A few trucks and cars trailed behind, but nothing out of the ordinary.

The light turned green, and with a swift press of the accelerator, she sped off, ignoring the call and instead typing the location of Victor's shop into her GPS.

Two miles later, she stopped at another red light and began rifling through the car for anything valuable. She found a nice bottle of cologne in the center console, next to a gold Rolex. "Ah, luxury," she grinned, slipping on the watch and spraying a little cologne on her neck. "I could get used to this."

Just as she settled back, the screen lit up again. This time, the name read, Still Behind You! Carrera's heart skipped a beat as she quickly rolled her window down and leaned out, scanning the road behind her. At first, there was nothing out of the ordinary—just a few cars, a couple of trucks, all humming along in the same predictable rhythm.

But then, a motorcyclist dressed entirely in black appeared, weaving through traffic with alarming precision, their black motorcycle cutting through the lanes like a shadow. They were heading straight toward her, moving faster than the other vehicles, and the unease in Carrera's gut deepened.

Carrera's hand moved instinctively to the phone button on the steering wheel., hesitating for just a moment before answering.

The voice on the other end was feminine, low, and smooth, but laced with urgency. "If you want to make it to Victor's shop, don't hang up."

A chill ran through Carrera as the words sunk in. Her grip tightened on the wheel. Who was this person? And how did they know where she was going?

Her breath caught in her throat. Without a second thought, she ended the call and threw her foot on the accelerator, ignoring the red light as she sped through it.

The engine roared as she veered into a side street, heart racing. She glanced at the rearview mirror—there, still behind her, the motorcyclist closing in fast. Panic surged, and Carrera pushed the car harder up, determined to outrun whatever this was.

Carrera's hands clenched tighter around the wheel as she raced down the narrow alley, the sound of the Ferrari's engine reverberating off the surrounding walls. The alley was barely wide enough for the car, the tires scraping the edges of the cobblestones, but Carrera's skill was unmatched. She threw the car into a sharp right turn, narrowly avoiding a dumpster, and then pushed the gas harder, seeking refuge from the street lights and the constant sense of someone on her tail.

Her heart hammered in her chest, but she refused to look in the rearview. She knew what was behind her. She could hear the motorcycle's engine revving with terrifying proximity, the sound of it weaving through traffic, closing in despite her best efforts. A few seconds later, the name Faydra flashed across her screen again, a sudden ring vibrating through the car's speakers.

Carrera threw the Ferrari into a sharp left, then right again, speeding past a row of beachfront houses. Suddenly, a ping sounded from the car's console. A text message. The screen blinked to life, and Carrera's eyes flitted across the words. Before she could react, a synthetic voice broke the tense silence, soft but insistent. Would you like this message to be read aloud to you?

Carrera cursed under her breath but didn't hesitate. "Yes," she muttered, her eyes darting to the road ahead. She had no time to waste, no time to think. The motorcyclist was closer now, visible in her peripheral vision, the black leather jacket flashing like a shadow.

The car's stereo crackled to life, the voice smooth and calculated. "Hi, my name is Faydra. I didn't mean to scare you, but we do not have much time. The owner of the car that you are in has already called the cops and reported his missing car. On top of that, his car has a tracking device that I can disable, but I need to be close to your car for about a good two minutes. If you pull over, I can disable the device and you can be on your way."

A tracking device! She could feel the weight of the situation closing in around her. If Faydra was telling the truth, her plan to take the Ferrari to Victor's shop was already compromised. But if she was lying, Carrera risked getting robbed—or worse, killed—by this stranger. She paused for a few seconds, her mind racing. What could Faydra possibly gain by helping her and sending her on her way? Nothing. There had to be more to this than she was letting on. 

Carrera's gaze snapped to the road ahead. A sign appeared on the right, its white letters directing her toward the highway that would take her straight to Victor's shop. But just a few hundred feet ahead, partially obscured by a row of palm trees, she noticed a small parking lot. It was tucked away, hidden from view, and might just be her best shot at pulling off the risky move the stranger had suggested.

Her foot hovered over the gas pedal, indecision gnawing at her. The highway felt like the safer choice but the nagging thought of that tracker—of the cops already being alerted—kept her on edge. 

Without another thought, Carrera veered toward the parking lot, her tires screeching against the pavement as she cut the wheel. The engine roared in protest as she navigated the narrow entrance, trying to stay calm despite the sharp beat of her pulse.

The motorcyclist followed, sliding into the lot behind her. Carrera threw the Ferrari into park, barely registering the space she'd landed in. Her hands gripped the steering wheel, her breath shallow as she scanned the lot. The motorcyclist was dismounting, moving toward her with precise, calculated steps. Her mind screamed at her to keep driving, but it was too late. She had made her choice. Now, she could only hope she hadn't made a fatal mistake.