I blended into the crowd, my sharp eyes assessing the treacherous track with its steep inclines and hairpin turns. This newly built rally course in the hills had become the playground for the city’s rich kids to showcase their courage and vehicles.

The massive black Jeep Wrangler Rubicon tore through the muddy course, its oversized tires gripping the terrain with expert precision as it powered up a steep incline. The vehicle crested the hill and landed with a controlled bounce before accelerating around a hairpin turn, sending mud spraying in all directions.

“Mr. Astor! Mr. Astor! Mr. Astor!” The crowd erupted as the Jeep crossed the finish line, a full twenty seconds ahead of the next vehicle.

I stood at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, studying the course with analytical precision.

“Not bad,” I muttered to myself, eyes tracking the suspension movement of the winning Jeep. “Decent modifications. Fox racing shocks, reinforced axles, custom exhaust.” My assessment was automatic, a habit from previous lifetimes when vehicle specs could mean the difference between a successful escape and a bullet to the head.

The driver’s door of the mud-splattered Jeep swung open, and a tall guy in his early twenties jumped out. He wore expensive off-roading gear that looked like it had never seen dirt before today, and his expression carried the unmistakable confidence of someone who’d never heard the word “no.”

“Chase! You were amazing!” A female voice cut through the cheering. A stunning blonde pushed through the crowd, her designer clothes absurdly impractical for the muddy terrain. She wore tight jeans and a crop top that showed off her toned midriff, clearly dressed more for attention than for an off-road event.

Three other young men climbed out of their own mud-covered vehicles, each one looking like it cost more than the entire Morgan family home. They approached Chase, slapping him on the back and offering reluctant congratulations.

“Another race, another win,” Chase announced, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “I told you guys the suspension upgrades would make the difference. Cost me a fortune, but worth every penny.” He paused dramatically. “Though let’s be honest, it’s not just the car—it’s the driver.”

The other rich boys nodded in agreement.

“Alright, pay up,” Chase said, extending his hand. “Five grand each, as agreed. You can Venmo me now.”

I watched as they pulled out their phones, transferring the money without hesitation.

“This is getting boring, Chase,” one of them complained, pocketing his phone. “You win every time. These obstacle courses are too easy for you.”

Chase’s smile widened. “Tell you what—I’ll make it interesting. Next race, I’ll give anyone a twenty-second head start. If they beat me, I’ll pay them a hundred grand. Anyone. Right now.”

The crowd stirred with excitement, but no one stepped forward. I heard whispers about how someone had tried yesterday and nearly flipped their truck in a deep pit, barely avoiding serious injury.

A new voice cut through the murmurs. “Come on! Anyone brave enough to challenge the great Chase Astor?”

I recognized Sterling Huxley, the mayor’s son, acting as unofficial hype man. He was probably hoping to impress these New York rich kids, expand his social connections beyond Cloud City’s limited offerings.

“No takers? No one wants to earn a quick hundred grand?” Sterling continued, scanning the crowd.

“I’ll do it.”

My voice carried across the suddenly silent crowd. Dozens of heads turned toward me, expressions ranging from shock to amusement.

Sterling’s face contorted with confusion. “You?” He looked me up and down. “Listen, honey, this isn’t about getting attention from rich guys. These vehicles are dangerous—”

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