Hiiragi--39-s Practice Diary -final- -k-drive-- Instant

Hiiragi was not normal. And the K-DRIVE was not a normal bike.

“End diary,” she said quietly. “Final entry.” Hiiragi--39-s Practice Diary -Final- -K-DRIVE--

The AI, which she’d programmed years ago with a voice chip from a broken toy, responded in its childish, crackling tone: “You got this, Hiiragi. Let’s fly.” Hiiragi was not normal

Hiiragi knelt beside the bike and opened the maintenance panel. Inside, tucked next to the flux capacitor, was a folded piece of paper—the first page of her original diary, written in smudged pencil. “Final entry

The K-DRIVE’s screen flickered, then displayed words she hadn’t programmed:

Two thousand, one hundred forty-seven days. She’d started this diary when she was fourteen, a scrawny kid who could barely keep the anti-gravity driftbike from scraping its underbelly against the tunnel walls. Back then, the K-DRIVE had been a salvaged wreck—half the conduits fried, the stabilizer held together with zip ties and spite.

“One last ride,” she whispered.