2 Lamborghini Here

The driver of the Aventador stepped out. He was in his late sixties, dressed in worn jeans and a faded flannel shirt. Silver hair, crinkled eyes. He looked less like a supercar owner and more like a retired rancher.

The old man nodded slowly. “Best reason to drive.”

He pulled back onto the road and, against all reason, floored the sedan. It groaned and shuddered, but he kept the two Lamborghinis in sight, tiny specks that grew smaller by the second. Then, ahead, he saw them slow down. They pulled over at a derelict gas station—a relic with cracked pumps and a single working soda machine. 2 lamborghini

The Huracán’s driver was a woman, maybe thirty, with a messy bun and a paint-stained hoodie. She stretched like a cat and yawned.

They stood in silence for a moment. The only sound was the ticking of hot engines and the distant buzz of cicadas. The driver of the Aventador stepped out

“Nice rentals,” Leo said, leaning against his sedan, trying for casual and failing.

The desert highway unspooled like a black ribbon under the Nevada sun. Heat shimmered off the asphalt, warping the distant mountains into liquid mirages. In the middle of this emptiness, two dots appeared in the rearview mirror—low, wide, and moving with the unnatural speed of fighter jets on afterburner. He looked less like a supercar owner and

Leo blinked. “So… you two know each other?”