Slalom left across the curb cut on 18th. A judicious boost between the supports of the Six Fronts memorial. And straight through the middle of the pack.

District 125's streets are dark at night, the streetlights few and far between. The occasional neon sign is diffused by the running lights and exhaust trails of a dozen Sparrows jockeying for space.

Farrukh hunkers down over his restored EV-34 Vector Infinite, his pride and joy. His whole fireteam put down the last of their Glimmer and materials to upgrade her and get a seat at this race. Without sanctioned SRL events, it's drag racing betting rings where Guardians can make their profits.

And they need it bad.

Farrukh's gloves creak on his handlebars. He takes a risk going tight around a corner and cuts off a Warlock on a Sharklight, aiming for the front-runners.

The big names are here tonight: Boaz, Gris, Cron-8, even the up-and-coming Niik. Their skills might secure this win. But they don't want it the way Farrukh does.

It gets worse every week, their debt piling up. The Spider's smirk audible even through his filters, offering worse deals, dirtier jobs. They need a clean break. Clean Vanguard work. Just one race and they can buy their way out.

Serapion gutted his Sparrow's braking system for Farrukh's EV. Tammuz-4 pawned their first bond. It's Farrukh on the track tonight, but his team's with him.

Streetlights flash by faster as the pack leaves the warehouses behind, drifting hard around an overpass. Farrukh's near the middle, waiting on his last boost.

Street racing's all about calculated risks. And this is their biggest.

He waits for the moment–waits as the Sharklight passes him again, and the racers around him slam their boosts–and hits his own for the final push. Half a block to make up. Half a block between him and his team's future.

He weaves through the pack, pushing his boost hard just as all the others wear out, and slams into the finish with another Sparrow an inch behind his nose.

The roar of the crowd is a physical force, slamming into Farrukh like a Sentinel's shield.

The racer in second yanks off their helmet and points straight at Farrukh. "How did you pull that out of your antique?"

Farrukh looks out through the crowd for Tammuz and Sera, shouldering their way over to him, looking as shellshocked as he feels. They made it. They're safe.

He smiles, heart going 160.

"It's not what you're racing," Farrukh says. "It's who you're racing for."