Hate to race

Japan 1.2

Charles sat in the wrecked car, his chest heaving, struggling to catch his breath.

The world around him seemed to tilt, the rain hammering against the broken chassis, blurring his vision. But that wasn't why his hands trembled as they clutched the steering wheel.

It wasn't the crash that made his pulse pound in his ears—it was the fear, the raw fear, gripping his chest like a vice.

The same corner. Jules's corner.

His godfather, his mentor. The one person he looked up to, who had died at this very spot in conditions like these. And now here he was, his car a wreck, his body screaming in pain, but none of that mattered.

He couldn't get Jules out of his head. The images came in waves—Jules' crash, the rain, the helplessness.

Charles squeezed his eyes shut, but the memories wouldn't leave. He felt trapped, as though history was repeating itself, and he was powerless.

He tried to shake the thought away, but it clung to him, suffocating his mind.

He blinked, but all he saw was Jules' crash. The violent spin, the metal folding in the rain, the silence afterward—the kind that made you feel like the world had stopped, even though you were still alive. Why couldn't he stop thinking about it?

Why did the fear always return, gnawing at him the way it did now?

A shudder ran through him as he fought to focus on his breathing. But the panic didn't fade. His head pounded. His body felt like it was shutting down under the weight of it all—the fear, the pain, the anger.

Was this how Jules felt? No, of course, it wasn't.
He was dead before he could feel anything.

Why did Max do this?

Charles knew it wasn't an accident.

He could see it—could feel it—Max didn't make mistakes like that, especially not in a fight with him. That hurt more than anything.
Max, who he had hated but somehow started to understand—Max had just destroyed everything in one reckless moment.

And for what?
To remind him they were still enemies?
To tear down whatever sliver of humanity might've passed between them?

Charles blinked hard, tears mixing with the rain on his face. His body ached, and his heart pounded violently in his chest.
The medics were moving, telling him to get out, but he didn't move.

He sat there, frozen, the weight of it all pressing down on him, wishing for one moment that everything would just stop.

Maybe it would be easier to just... stay here. To let it end here.

He was so tired of fighting. Tired of the pain, the fear, the memories that haunted him every time he stepped into this car. Jules' corner. The rain. The never-ending battle to keep it together when all he wanted to do was fall apart.

His body shook as he slowly unbuckled his harness, hands trembling. His vision blurred, the world spinning in a nauseating swirl, but still, he didn't move to get out.

Why? Why keep going when everything hurt this much?
When he would rather be dead than feel the weight of this day, this place, this life?

But as his legs moved slowly to step out, something jolted him. He caught sight of the medics rushing toward him, shouting something he couldn't hear over the roar of the rain. His foot hit the ground, but he almost stumbled, his legs weak. They grabbed him, guiding him to the stretcher, but all he could think of was why.

Why did Max push him like this?
Why did it always have to end like this?

As they led him away, a mixture of fury and helplessness boiled up inside him. He couldn't believe Max had done this, not here, not now.
Anywhere else, but here.