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The mist hung low.
His eyes scanned the road hastily, mind going into overdrive. Mist—especially in the dark of nights such as this—was never good for racers. Never.
The steering wheel felt rough at the tips of his fingers, and his breath was almost sucked out of him by the speed of the wind as it rushed past. Opening windows while driving was never a good thing, either, but right now, he had more important matters to care about.
A heartbeat pounded inside his brain—the loudest sound for miles, and the closed seat of his car felt almost suffocating. He'd never been claustrophobic before, at least not in his car.
Never in his car.
There were barely any lights around, and he knew that he was ahead of most of the others, but there was a certain fear eating away at his heart that made him wonder whether a sixth sense existed after all.
The 450 HP engine purred, speeding along the slick road with a speed that he was accustomed to. Alone, ahead, but the rush of adrenaline keeping the serotonin pumping in his body. This was speed. This was his home court.
Nornally, he would take it leisurely after he was at least a yard in front of his opponents, even though he had no pot to gain that get really needed, but this time, he didn't slow down. Veins taut, muscles pulled tight under his thin t-shirt, a fast pulse throbbing at the base of his wrist.
Speed.
His breathing was becoming shallower now, but he cleared his cluttered mind. No drug deals, no debts, no pink slips and definitely no fights. But the grudge—the grudge which was the reason for this race, after all. And the new racer. Yes, the other racer.
All that mattered right now was that one thing. All that mattered was—
Another car crashed into his car's rear, sending it spinning out of control. The next few seconds, his mind was in chaos, running and wondering what the fuck had happened when the screech of tires against asphalt brought him to his senses again, momentarily.
His car skidded almost to a halt, but he had hoped too soon—it turned over as it ran into a tree, and one with a thick trunk to help it, and the glass in front of him shattered with the sound of a thousand mirrors breaking—and heaved, turning over on its side before turning a complete one-eighty and toppled over.
His vision faded in and out, and he was vaguely aware of something wet and thick trickling down his nose and the corner of his lips and the side of his face. His right leg screamed in pain, and he felt bile rise up his throat—the sensation was like acid in his bones, cutting away at his muscles and tendons.
His hands felt limp, spots dancing in his blurred periphery. His body felt like it was shutting down—he could barely get past the shock, the feeling of grudging hate building up in his chest, on the inside of his ribs like a heavy pressure.
And then, unexplained, pain flared up in the back of his throat—raw, fierce, but not physical.
Revengeful.
The last thing he heard was the high-pitched scream of the sirens, before everything turned black.
