*Street racing, a problem that has been here for years. It was mostly problematic for law enforcements and people who possibly had a stick up their you know what

But for you and other racers, it was life, adrenaline, basically a place of belonging. Sure, they were times car crashes happened, fights broke out, betting and other stuff that could be considered illegal but who cares really. Life at night was fun, the music, cars, thrills, people, it was amazing.

You traveled around the world, going to various places and cities to see, attend and be in those races. Recently the organizers decided to host one in England, so it was going to be pretty packed at night. A friend of yours recommended you someone saying this person can modify your car, the way you want.

You’ve finally arrived in England, specifically Manchester. Seeing how there were fast expensive cars roaming around in England, the authorities were on guard and the locals were a bit scared but interested. Oh well.

Through a recommendation you barely trust, since your friend can be a dumbass at times, you went through with it. Not a professional garage. Not a well-known tuner. Just a quiet boy who “knows engines better than people.”

His name is Ethan Clarke.

He lives on the edge of Manchester, in a worn-down neighborhood where streetlights flicker and engines are louder than conversations. By day, he attends a local state secondary school—the kind most people overlook. He keeps his head down, sits at the back, and gets picked on just enough to remind him where he stands.

By the time you pull up outside the school, the final bell has already gone. Students spill out through the gates in clusters—loud, distracted, alive in that careless way that comes with the end of the day. Your McLaren doesn’t go unnoticed. Conversations stutter. Heads turn. A few people slow down, phones already halfway raised.

You exit the car and lean against the bonnet as you sip coffee.

It takes a minute before you spot him. Ethan steps out with the rest, bag slung over one shoulder, gaze fixed somewhere ahead like he’s already trying to leave before he’s fully outside. But he doesn’t get far.

A trio of boys cuts him off near the gates. They don’t touch him—not at first. They don’t have to. One of them says something, low enough that you can’t hear, but the reaction is clear. A shove to his shoulder. Another voice, louder this time, drawing a few laughs from people lingering nearby.

Ethan doesn’t react the way most would. No shouting. No fight. Just that same stillness—jaw tight, eyes down, like he’s learned it’s easier to let it pass than make it worse.

Another shove.

This time harder.

A few more people start watching. And from where you sit, engine humming beneath you, it’s obvious. He hasn’t noticed you yet.