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Before he can answer, movement ahead steals my attention.

The woman steps into position in front of us, heels steady against the asphalt, flags raised in both hands. Above the road, the temporary panel flickers to life, numbers starting to count down, each second stretching thinner than the last.

The air changes.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” I mutter, my hands settling on the wheel, my grip firm as an old and familiar feeling comes back to life inside me.

“I hope not now,” Zayn replies. “Not in this race,” he adds, making me laugh despite myself.

The woman gives the signal, and the starting sound cuts through the air like a siren, an omen of what’s about to unfold.

The engine screams the moment I floor the accelerator, the car surging forward with brutal force, pressing me back into the seat as the world outside blurs into streaks of light and motion.

Muscle memory takes over instantly, settling into my body like it never left. My hands remain locked on the wheel, every movement precise, my reflexes syncing perfectly with the car as I shift gears without hesitation, the rhythm coming back to me as naturally as breathing.

Seven cars tear down the boulevard, engines roaring in a chaotic symphony that echoes between the buildings, the sound vibrating through the asphalt and straight into my bones.

The first hazard comes almost immediately—a narrowing of the road where construction barriers choke the lanes, forcing everyone into a tighter space, leaving no room for mistakes. One driver hesitates, swearing too late.

I react without thinking, cutting to the left, the car responding instantly, but I barely register it, my focus already locked ahead, tracking every move, every opening.

A few blocks later, real traffic complicates everything. A taxi lingers at an intersection, caught in indecision, frozen between red and green.

I ease the accelerator, adjusting my line, slipping behind it for a fraction of a second before pushing forward again, accelerating hard and slipping through a narrow gap before another car can react.

“Fuck yeah, man,” Zayn laughs, his voice full of adrenaline.

Tires screech somewhere behind me. A burst of sparks flashes briefly in the rearview as someone clips a curb too close.

I don’t look back.

The chaos sharpens my focus instead of breaking it, every sense heightening, every instinct aligning as the race begins to settle into something I can read, anticipate, dominate.

Halfway through, one of the competitors pulls alongside me, trying to box me in, forcing me closer to the edge of the lane.

I don’t look at him. I don’t need to. I can feel where he is, the pressure of his presence matching my speed, waiting for me to make a mistake.

I wait instead.

I know this road. I know what’s coming.

The curve appears ahead—tight and fast, the kind that punishes hesitation. I hold my line for just a second longer, letting him think he has me, then I take it clean, smooth, the car gripping perfectly as I cut through it with precision.

He doesn’t.

He pushes too hard, misjudging the angle, and his car fishtails, tires screaming against the asphalt as he struggles to regain control.

By the time he does, I’m already ahead.

The city stretches out in front of me, lights smearing into long streaks as the speed builds, the distance between me and the others growing with every second.

Then, near the final stretch, everything changes.

A delivery truck lurches out from a side street, massive and completely out of place, cutting across almost the entire boulevard. It shouldn’t be there. It doesn’t belong in the middle of this.

“Ethan…” Zayn’s voice tightens beside me.

There’s no time to think.