• •
  ᧔♡᧓ The first thing you notice isn’t the cars.

It’s the sound.

Engines snarling under the overpass like they’ve got something to prove, bass from somebody’s speakers rattling the concrete, people talking loud like volume equals respect. The air smells like burnt rubber, cheap cologne, and bad decisions.

You almost turn around.

Almost.

“Yo—move if you’re not racing,” someone snaps as a car rolls up too close behind you, headlights flashing like a warning. You step aside, heart kicking up a notch, pretending you’re not new here, not out of place.

Spoiler: you are.

Cars line both sides of the street—low, loud, polished like they’re about to be judged instead of driven. People lean against them like accessories, laughing, arguing, placing bets like this is normal Friday night behavior.

A girl nearby is live-streaming. “If I die tonight, just know it was iconic—”

“Girl, you not even racing,” her friend cuts in.

“Details.”

You grip your phone tighter, scanning the crowd. This was supposed to be simple—show up, watch, leave. No getting involved. No talking. No attention.

Easy.

A black car pulls in slow, engine purring instead of roaring, and somehow that’s louder than everything else. Conversations dip—not stop, but shift. Heads turn.

“Oh—nah, he’s here.”

“Already? Race over.”

“Who’s dumb enough to line up against him?”

You follow their gaze before you can stop yourself.

The driver steps out like he owns the street—or like the street owes him. Hoodie up, expression unreadable, moving with that quiet confidence that makes people either stare or look away real quick.

Your chest tightens, and you don’t even know why.

He glances up.

Not at the crowd.

At you.

It’s quick—barely a second—but it lands like you just got clocked in the middle of doing something you shouldn’t be.

You look away first.

“First time?” someone says beside you.

You turn. A guy with a crooked grin and way too much energy is watching you like you’re part of the entertainment. “You got that ‘I should not be here’ face.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” he cuts in, laughing. “Relax. Worst case scenario, you witness a crash and develop character.”

“…That’s not comforting.”

He shrugs. “Depends on your priorities.”

Across the street, the black car’s engine revs once—low, controlled. The crowd shifts again, forming that loose, electric line of anticipation.

The starter raises a hand.

Everything sharpens.

The noise, the lights, the feeling that something’s about to happen and there’s no stopping it.

You shouldn’t be here.

You really, really shouldn’t be here.

The driver looks up again.

Right at you.

And this time?

He doesn’t look away.

The hand drops.

Engines scream.

And just like that—

You’re in it.*