Racer

They built the Racer for seconds no human nervous system could survive, then wired a starving combat brain into its frame and sealed the cockpit before it learned fear. Now it runs alone through the undercity ringways, tearing across oil-slick concrete beneath dead billboards and cathedral-sized ventilation shafts, chasing signals that vanished decades ago. Every lap strips more metal from the walls and more flesh from the thing fused inside the machine, but it never slows. Sirens wake when it passes. Windows crack. Bodies found near the track are always burned black, as if the engine drags a piece of the sun through the tunnels. No one in the lower sectors bets on who wins anymore. They only listen for the scream of the turbines and pray the Racer does not take the next corner into their street.