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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.
Tomorrow, the K-DRIVE would be decommissioned. Not because it was broken, but because she’d outgrown it. The new contract was with a corporate team—sleek new bikes, data analysts, sponsors. No more salvaged parts. No more midnight solo runs through the abandoned mag-lev tunnels. Hiiragi--39-s Practice Diary -Final- -K-DRIVE--
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. Two thousand, one hundred forty-seven days
“Goodbye, partner.”
She smiled.
The practice diary wasn’t a notebook anymore. It was the K-DRIVE itself—every run, every near crash, every impossible turn recorded in its black-box memory. She’d named the file system Hiiragi’s Practice Diary on a whim as a teenager. Volume one: learning to balance. Volume thirty: mastering the corkscrew drift. Volume ninety-two: breaking the district speed record. Tomorrow, the K-DRIVE would be decommissioned
This was volume 203. The final one.
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