Mercedes: Dantés

Then you hit the Tunnel of Tears —a collapsed metro line where the walls weep sewage and the dark is absolute.

Your father, old Heinrich Dantés, didn't name you after a car. He built you like one. From the moment your neural cradle booted up, your lullaby was the growl of a V12, and your first steps were taken in carbon-fiber exo-boots. The Dantés family didn’t just sell automobiles; they were the last dynasty of internal combustion in a world of silent, humming electric drones. They were kings of the Gendarmerie Rouge , the lawless red-light district where the speed of your machine equaled the length of your life. mercedes dantés

You are the .

You draw alongside him in the tunnel’s final straight. For a moment, your windows align. You see him—sweating, terrified, clutching a manual wheel he never learned to use. He sees you. A phantom in a Kevlar coat. A woman with legs made of war. Then you hit the Tunnel of Tears —a