Autocross Assault! (2)
“Ah, fuck!”
Kim Ji-hyun had kicked off her shoes and was standing barefoot on the asphalt for a moment when the searing heat made her jump. At her outburst, a nearby official asked what was wrong.
“Ah, fuck, is this really fall? The track’s insanely hot.”
Kim Ji-hyun grumbled to the official. “Aigoo, global warming or whatever they call it these days. But that kid you’ve been shadowing and coaching all day—what’s the deal? No real reason to go that far for just a student.”
Kim Ji-hyun paused, thinking it over. It was about Han Dae-jin.
“I don’t know. The other students feel like names in my phone contacts, but that guy? He’s like a die in my pocket—I can’t stop fiddling with it, checking what it’ll roll.”
The official looked puzzled by her words. “Like a prized disciple?”
“Deeper than that. Maybe a lover, or a little brother.”
“Come to think of it, he kinda reminds me of your actual little brother from back in the day.”
Kim Ji-hyun hesitated at the official’s words. Just then, Han Dae-jin finally launched into his first run, tearing through the course. But with the track temperature climbing, he kept sliding, butchering his time. When he crossed the finish line, his lap was even slower than before.
“Hold up. I gotta go rip that little shit a new one.”
Kim Ji-hyun stood and trudged over to where Han Dae-jin was. He looked flustered by his trash time. She marched right up and flicked his helmet hard with her knuckle.
“You fucking asshole. Cut the weaving bullshit from now on. It’s hot as balls out here—no need to force it.”
Han Dae-jin nodded. “At this grip level, the rear should hold fine. Just commit to the motions with confidence. It’s tighter than a circuit, so ride it with half-slides.”
He replied that he got it, but deep down, he wasn’t sure he could pull it off. Meanwhile, both he and Kim Ji-hyun had watched Yoon Ha-rin prepping her run—weaving and braking hard before launch. The two sank into thought.
Second session. Han Dae-jin took off again, skipping the weave and diving straight into the slalom. Maybe heating the tires in the slalom is enough—don’t need it elsewhere, the logic bubbled up in his head. He clipped the u-turn pylon just enough to graze without knocking it over. Into the circle drill: like Yoon Ha-rin’s run earlier, he flicked the nose right, then snapped left with ferocious weight transfer that lifted the left rear wheel. Straight into the long right corner after. For the first time, he pushed speeds where understeer loomed. Then the right-angle turn—he razor-close to the pylon on the u-turn, charging the final hairpin. There, post-brake, he modulated the E-LSD with throttle alone to carve the apex.
Course clear. His time: second among second-session runners.
Kim Ji-hyun rushed over, clapping and high-fiving him. Yoon Ha-rin went next. She looked solid until the circle drill, but grimaced entering the long right. “Listen to me... turn, damn it...!!!” She fiddled the throttle to fight understeer, but the time was wrecked. Crossing the line, she placed three spots below Han Dae-jin. She slammed the wheel with her fist, yelling.
Third session. Han Dae-jin led off; Yoon Ha-rin watched intently. He nailed clean lines through every corner, no pylons down. She gaped at his third-place jump, hopping in her car to prep. Her turn: burnout spewing white smoke, then slalom. She felt the rear lag. Braked earlier than morning for the u-turn. Circle drill clear, into the long right—but massive understeer sent her plowing pylons, veering off-course. She barely stopped, screaming and pounding the wheel. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck!”
“Ha-rin! Get off the course! Next car’s session!”
An official shouted. Yoon Ha-rin snapped to, smashing pylons as she limped off. Han Dae-jin and Kim Ji-hyun watched, feeling not triumph but a heavy sorrow. She scratched the rest. Post-race, Han Dae-jin’s final: fourth overall. No podium, but solid. Checking her car, they saw her tires shredded—steel belts exposed. Kim Ji-hyun said nothing.
“Can you make it home?” Han Dae-jin asked.
Yoon Ha-rin sniffled, silent.
“Ha-rin. Calling a tow.”
“I can make it.” She drove off sans outro shoot.
Han Dae-jin filmed his, then drilled bonus sessions per Kim Ji-hyun before heading home. Exiting Jeongpyeong Resort, they spotted Yoon Ha-rin again—flat tire en route. Han Dae-jin pulled over; they approached. She was mute.
“Tow called?”
“Dunno...” Her voice was weak.
Kim Ji-hyun made her call insurance; tow came. Yoon Ha-rin and Dori piled into Han Dae-jin’s back seat. Watching her car hauled, they hit Seoul.
“Why help like this?”
“Just. Fellow wheelmen.”
“That it?”
“Still hate your guts, but stranding you? Nah.” Yoon Ha-rin chuckled.
At her place, she and Dori hopped out with thanks; he honked back. Next, drop Kim Ji-hyun.
“Ugh, fuck, I’m beat.”
“Home soon.”
“Dinner?”
“Dinner? What, full suratgam spread?” He laughed.
“Close. I’ll tell them.” She called ahead about menu and guest. Hung up, dozed off claiming a nap.
At her Pyeongchang-dong mansion, the butler spotted Han Dae-jin’s car, opening the garage. Inside: black Saab 9000 Aero, Benz, dusty Saab 9-5, two 9-3s race-prepped. He woke her; they followed the butler into the palatial home.
While she freshened up, he was led to the dining hanok annex—glass walls gleaming. Seated, awed as hanbok-clad Kim Ji-hyun ordered and dishes flowed: every side a gourmet Korean feast. Bulgogi mains, meats galore.
“For me and Ji-hoon.” She lifted her rice bowl lid, scooping.
Han Dae-jin gingerly took brass chopsticks, mirroring. Midway, he bit back car questions.
“You look wiped. Crash here—Osan’s far.”
“Nah, Monster’ll perk me.”
“That shit’s temporary, dumbass.” She sipped crystal fruit punch, munched rice cakes.
He caved, bedding in Kim Ji-hoon’s old room—sim rig, trophies, suits. Alone on the king bed, he drifted off.