Hate to race

China 1.2

Max.

Max had come out of nowhere, his face twisted with rage.

Before Charles could even react, Max was on the first guy, throwing a hard punch to his face. The man went down, crumpling to the floor in a heap.

The chaos inside the club was a blur of lights, bodies, and noise. Charles was pushing through the crowd that blocked him, his eyes fixed on Max, who was in the middle of a brawl. No talking, no hesitation—Max's fist slammed into another guy's face, and Charles saw the man crumple to the ground, blood splattering from his nose.

Max didn't stop at that.

His breathing was wild, fists still clenched, eyes blazing with an anger Charles had never seen before. He never looked at Charles that way.

Thank god.

Max definitely wasn't pulling his punches.

He looked like he was out for blood, like he wasn't even thinking anymore. Charles had to get to him, and fast.

Another swing, and the guy went down, groaning, trying to crawl away. Max's boot caught him in the ribs, sending him sprawling.

Max lunged, the next punch already cocked back. Charles bolted forward, shoving his way through, hands outstretched to grab Max before he could hit again. But it was like trying to stop a force of nature. Max's fist collided with the man's jaw, sending him reeling.

"Max, what the hell—" Charles started, but Max was already on the next one.

The third guy barely had time to react before Max shoved him to the ground, his fists slamming into the man's face again and again, with a fury that Charles had never seen from him before.

"Max! Stop!" Charles screamed, but Max was drunk, wild, completely out of control. He was punching the guy with reckless abandon, his face dark with anger.

Charles shoved past a few people, heart hammering. He could see the blood on Max's knuckles, smeared and dripping, and his stomach twisted.

Charles felt his chest tighten in fear.

He pushed through the last of the crowd and grabbed Max by the arm just as he was about to swing again. "Max, stop!" he shouted, yanking him back with all his strength.

Max spun around, and before Charles could react, Max shoved him—hard. Charles stumbled back, catching himself on a nearby table.

"What the fuck?!" Charles yelled, his own temper flaring now. But Max wasn't done. His eyes were still wild, still locked on the group of men.
Blood smeared across his lip, and his fists were clenched so tight his knuckles had turned white.

Charles lunged forward again, grabbing Max by the shoulders and pulling him back. "Verstappen!" he snapped, shaking him, trying to knock some sense into him. "You're gonna kill someone!"

But Max's eyes were blazing, barely registering Charles's words. His body was tense, coiled like a spring, ready to strike again.

Charles barely had time to react before Max shoved him again, this time harder. He slammed into the table, pain shooting up his side, but he didn't let go. He couldn't let Max keep going.

"Fuck off!" Max spat, his voice raw, eyes locked on Charles now, fists still raised. He shoved Charles again, and Charles had to grab a chair to keep from falling over.

Charles's own anger flared now, adrenaline rushing through him. He wasn't going to let Max go on like this, wasn't going to let him destroy everything. He pushed back, shoving Max with all his strength, but sending him stumbling only a few steps back.