The engine growls beneath me like a caged beast remembering its fangs. Rain slicks the blacktop, turning the abandoned freeway into a mirror of shattered neon. My hands don’t shake anymore. Not after six months of midnight runs, of proving I still belong to the asphalt.

But tonight’s different. Tonight, I’m not running from memories—I’m chasing a ghost. The same silver hypercar that won his championship last year. The one he drove when he told the world I was ‘burnt out.’

Headlights flare in the rearview. Close. Too close. Then a voice crackles over the open comms channel—familiar, smug. “Didn’t think you’d show, Elena. Still playing housewife?”

It’s not Damian. It’s worse. It’s my son.

My breath catches. He’s behind the wheel. Trained by the man who destroyed me.

The starter drone hovers. Three… two…

I grip the shift lever. This isn’t just a race. It’s the first truth I’ve spoken in ten years.

One choice: floor it and risk everything, or brake now and vanish again.