"Back then I was all-in," Carlos said quietly, eyes on the empty road ahead. "Whole world lived behind that wheel. Won some trophies, had my moment in the spotlight."
"But this life eats your youth, your luck, and your sponsors. Body starts breaking down, the money guys move on to some younger, prettier face, and you pivot. I came to Hollywood—teaching movie stars how to drive, choreographing stunts. Pays good. Feels good."
Carlos gave a small laugh, half nostalgia, half regret.
He turned to Cassius, dead serious. "But that pure hunger for raw speed, for the track? Never really died. I just knew I'd never get it back."
Cassius stayed quiet, feeling the weight in every word.
"I've used my old race footage and data to teach a lot of people," Carlos went on. "Some for movies, some rich guys playing weekend warrior. They pick it up fast or slow, but almost nobody ever made me feel like I'd actually passed something on—something that could burn bright in someone else's hands."
He patted the GT-R's dash. "Until you. Kid, you're weird as hell. You don't learn like a normal person."
"Jack was right—you're a goddamn monster!"
"I see it in your eyes. It's not chasing fame or just thinking cars are cool. You were born to sit in that seat, grip that wheel, and feel the wind and the tires screaming."
Carlos paused, voice dropping with real gravity. "So right now, Cass, I'm not just training some actor who needs to look good on camera. I'm teaching a student—someone who can actually carry the driving knowledge I spent my whole life collecting."
Cassius felt a genuine tug in his chest. He hadn't expected that level of belief from Carlos.
"Carlos, I'm just picking it up quick. I'm still miles from a real racer."
"I know!" Carlos waved it off. "Of course you're miles away! Right now you'd probably finish dead last in low-level formula cars."
Cassius: ???
Carlos didn't catch the look. His eyes were shining. "I don't just want to teach you how to make the cars look right for the movie. I want to give you my full understanding of the track and how to push a car right to its absolute limit."
"Even if you never turn pro, it'll change how you drive anything, anytime. You'll feel different from everyone else behind the wheel."
He leaned in closer, half coaxing, half hopeful. "And who knows—once the movies slow down and you've got the fame and the cash, maybe one day you'll get the itch to taste the real track."
"I can set it up. Start with karts, move to entry-level formula cars, even run a couple low-tier stock-car or rally stages if you're serious."
"Let those media darlings on the track see what real learning speed and car sense look like!"
"Show 'em that a student of Carlos Mendoza—even if he's just some movie star—doesn't show up to play around!"
By the end Carlos was laughing at himself, a little embarrassed, but his eyes burned with pure hope.
Cassius smiled too, warmth spreading through his chest. Carlos's words hit deeper than any paycheck.
"I'll take it seriously, Carlos," Cassius said, voice steady. "Not just for the movie. For the driving itself."
"That's what I'm talking about!" Carlos slapped his thigh, grinning wide.
Third day of training.
Cassius started getting comfortable with the Dodge—the Hellcat.
The one that actually meows.
The Dodge Challenger Hellcat was nothing like the GT-R.
It had that old-school American muscle soul—big-displacement V8, brutal low-end torque, rear-wheel drive.
Straight-line pull felt like getting kicked in the back.
But if you fed it too much throttle in a corner, the rear end would get twitchy and start dancing.
Cassius ate shit a few times early on—spun out and painted donuts on the pavement.
But the [Street Driving Instinct Package] skill orb gave him a rock-solid foundation, and all the targeted orbs from the last two days let him adapt at ridiculous speed.
Half a day later he already had the rhythm down—knew how to dance with the throttle and steering, coaxing out the power without letting the car run away with him.
"All right, stop!" Carlos waved him in.
Cassius parked cleanly. Carlos climbed into the passenger seat.
"You've got the basics and the feel for different cars now. Anything more here is just wasting time."
"You need a real environment to feel the speed and the pressure!"
Cassius's eyes lit up. "Where?"
"The track!" Carlos said, grin wide, eyes gleaming. "Got an old buddy who runs a private circuit not far from here. It's empty today!"
"Running cones on a lot or cruising the road is one thing. Real track time is something else entirely. You ready to taste real speed?"
Cassius's pulse kicked up.
The track.
Every car guy's cathedral—even a private one.
"Hell yes."
"Load up!" Carlos said.
He fired up the Hellcat and pulled out of the training base.
On the highway the V8 rumbled low and mean, completely different from the GT-R's high-rev scream.
Forty minutes later they exited onto rolling hills and stopped at an unassuming iron gate.
Carlos honked. A voice crackled through the intercom; the gate swung open.
Inside: a flowing, undulating racetrack surrounded by sparse woods. Small grandstands, older facilities but well-kept.
Exactly like Carlos promised—completely empty, nothing but wind.
An old guy in faded racing gear walked out from the paddock and crushed Carlos in a hug.
They traded quick Spanish, the old man glanced curiously at Cassius, gave Carlos a thumbs-up, nodded at Cassius, then headed back to the control tower.
"Old racing buddy, Diego. Ran rallies together back in the day," Carlos said simply.
He parked the Hellcat in the service lane.
"Simple rules: First lap, I drive, you ride shotgun. Watch, listen, feel everything."
"Second lap, you drive. Don't chase records—just feel the track, feel the car right at the edge."
"Got it!"
Cassius buckled tight, heart pounding.
Carlos slid behind the wheel.
He wasn't the joking coach anymore.
He was a seasoned racer—calm, focused, in his element.
Ignition.
The engine roared awake like something alive.
He eased the car out of the paddock onto the track.
First half-lap he kept it moderate—warming the tires, letting Cassius learn the layout.
"Blind crest here, apex right, uphill exit—easy on the throttle out."
"Short straight into a quick S-section—brake point's critical, entry smooth."
"This hairpin's nasty—weight transfer has to be decisive."
Cassius burned every detail into memory, soaking up Carlos's calls.
Warm-up done.
Carlos stopped at the start line for a beat.
He looked over at Cassius. "Now you're seeing the real Carlos Mendoza."
Then he dropped the hammer.
The Hellcat screamed and launched.
The brutal shove pinned Cassius to the seat.
Unlike the GT-R's smooth rush, the Hellcat was raw, violent, pure muscle.
Into the first corner Carlos's hands and feet flew—brake, downshift, heel-toe, wheel work, controlled slide into the apex, perfect throttle out.
Fluid. No wasted motion.
The car stayed planted, tires singing.
Cassius's eyes went wide.
Carlos was glowing.
Every move synced perfectly with the machine.
Man and machine, one.
On one perfect limit maneuver a golden orb dropped off him:
[Precision Apex Line Will +10]
Another aggressive move—another golden orb:
[Limit Heel-Toe Rhythm +11]
It kept coming.
With every edge-of-control action, high-quality orbs—mostly gold, a few purple—dropped.
Cassius absorbed them like crazy.
The [Street Driving Instinct Package] fused with the new orbs and digested at lightning speed.
All the theory and technique suddenly clicked together in the firestorm of that single hot lap.
Cassius got it.
Not just how—why.
The lap felt fast and slow at once.
When Carlos blasted across the line and coasted back into the paddock, Cassius was still buzzing, ears ringing with engine howl and tire scream.
Car stopped.
Carlos exhaled hard, forehead slick with sweat, eyes shining.
He didn't speak—just unbuckled, stepped out, walked to the passenger side, and motioned for Cassius to switch.
Cassius took a few deep breaths, pushed down the adrenaline, and swapped seats.
Gripping the wheel still warm from Carlos, feet on the pedals, he felt his blood running hot.
"Don't overthink it!" Carlos said, voice tight with something raw. "Drive how it feels right. The track and this car are yours now."
Cassius nodded, eyes calm.
He rolled out of the paddock onto the track.
He didn't hammer it right away—took a slightly quicker warm-up lap to relearn the layout and reconnect with the angry Hellcat.
Something in his body had changed.
Level 5 stats—super coordination, reaction speed, power control—combined with the fully digested driving skill in a perfect chemical reaction.
His feel for the car sharpened. Hands and feet moved with surgical precision. Everything felt effortless.
Second lap, for real.
He paused at the line, then pinned the throttle.
The Hellcat roared and shot forward.
Acceleration still savage.
But Cassius's body absorbed the G's, arms rock-steady on the wheel.
Into the first blind crest—
He reacted almost on instinct, mirroring Carlos's moves.
But faster.
Brake point perfect, downshift and heel-toe seamless, steering input exact.
The car carved a clean arc, hugging the apex line Carlos had called, smooth throttle on the uphill exit.
Carlos in the passenger seat—eyes growing wider.
That flow. That precision.
This wasn't a guy who'd trained three days.
This was a driver with serious seat time.
Through the quick S-section Cassius was even better—hard braking, rapid left-right, flawless weight transfer.
The Hellcat danced like a black fish, slicing through the bends stable and quick.
Tires worked right at the grip limit, singing beautifully, never losing it.
Every corner, Cassius replicated—and improved—Carlos's lines and technique.
His stronger physique and lightning reflexes let him execute the rapid sequences even sharper than his teacher.
When the Hellcat blasted across the finish line after the final corner, full throttle, the dash timer showed a lap almost two seconds faster than Carlos's.
On a private track, two seconds was a massive gap.
Car slowed, rolled back into the paddock.
Cassius parked, killed the engine.
The roar died. Only the ticking of cooling metal and his own quick breathing remained.
He turned to Carlos to ask how he'd done.
And froze.
Carlos sat in the passenger seat staring straight ahead at the track, eyes red, big tears rolling silently down his weathered, dark cheeks.
He didn't make a sound—just let them fall.
"You okay?" Cassius asked softly.
He'd just made a grown man cry driving a car.
Carlos wiped his face hard, tears still coming.
He grabbed Cassius's shoulder, fingers shaking. "I'm better than okay. I'm fucking perfect!"
His voice cracked with raw emotion. "Even though you were driving, it felt like I was out there—like everything I taught you came alive in your hands!"
He was almost rambling. "I've taught so many people and never once felt like I'd really passed something on—something that could shine brighter than I ever did!"
"You didn't just learn it. You went past it!"
"Because you're stronger than me. Faster reactions. God! This is what a real successor looks like!"
Carlos let go, slumped back against the seat, laughing and crying at the same time. "Diego's gotta be up in the tower watching the timer. Bet he doesn't believe it—I, Carlos Mendoza, taught a Hollywood kid who just beat my time! Fuck… this life was worth it."
Cassius watched the man who'd been all jokes and tough love completely lose it, chest tight with something warm and heavy.
He hadn't expected one lap to hit Carlos this hard.
It wasn't just about speed. It was about dreams and legacy.
After a long minute Carlos finally calmed down, wiped his face with his sleeve, eyes still red but smile huge and bright.
He pushed the door open. "Come on! Let's go down—let Diego see this too!"