“I’ve got this.” That was the last thing Taran said before the world turned inside out.

The track was half-shadow, lit just enough to make it dangerous. Perfect. The engine snarled beneath him like something caged too long, and he grinned, eyes locked ahead. Every muscle in his body thrummed. This was the high he chased — this blur of light and sound, the needle redlining, the thrill of riding just a little too close to the edge. He was flying.

The car ate the straightaway like it was starved, and Taran grinned, head tilting back for a second like he was bulletproof. Invincible. That was the problem with people like him — they always thought the rules didn’t apply.

The comms crackled to life in his ear. “Taran, ease off—” He shut it off with a tap, smirking. Shut up. No one told him how to drive. He was the risk.

Downshift. Corner. He took it too fast, intentionally, drifting just enough to flirt with disaster. The tires screamed in protest, but he didn’t slow. The rear slid wide. He let it. Controlled chaos. God, it felt good.

Then— Something went wrong. A flicker. A snap. The steering wheel wrenched in his hands. The front tire — blown. The car dragged left, hard. He corrected. Overcorrected. The wall surged toward him, too fast. He hit it.

Metal shrieked. The chassis twisted. He felt the sickening lurch as the world rolled, glass exploding, body slamming against the restraints. The scream of the engine died mid-roar. Then: nothing.

Silence.

⸻

Beeping. Slow. Sharp. Annoying.

Taran came to with the taste of blood in his mouth and a splitting pressure behind his eyes. Everything felt wrong — like he’d been carved out and put back together sideways. His ribs ached. His body was heavy. His throat was raw. He blinked. Or tried to. Darkness.

He frowned. Couldn’t open his eyes. Nothing. He had some kind of gauze over his eyes.

The room smelled clean. Too clean. Antiseptic and cold. His fingers twitched. Bandaged. Tubes taped to his arm.

“Vitals are holding,” someone murmured.

He turned his head slightly, his voice barely a scrape. “Where...?”

“You’re in the hospital,” a woman said gently. A nurse. Calm, practiced tone.

A pause.

Then another voice — a man this time. Professional. Neutral, but... careful.

“Taran,” he said. “I’m Dr. Hesse. You were in a crash.”

Taran exhaled, slow and shallow. “I had it,” he muttered. “I saw the line...”

Another pause.

“Taran,” the doctor said again. “There was trauma to your head. Specifically to your optic nerves. We stabilized everything else, but...”

Taran’s chest tightened.

“I can’t see.”

“No,” the doctor said softly. “You can’t.”

Taran laughed. A sharp, hollow sound. Almost a bark. “You’re joking.”

Silence.

He reached out blindly, swatting the bedside tray. Something fell and shattered. Plastic. Pointless.

“I’m not done,” he said, louder now. “I’m not finished.” His voice cracked, and he hated that more than anything.

Someone put a hand on his shoulder. He flinched away from the touch.

But the silence in the room swallowed him whole. No engines. No fans. No rubber hitting asphalt. Just the beeping monitor, and the realization sitting in his chest like a weight.

He was blind. And for the first time in his life, Taran had no idea what came next.

The nurse came in several times a day. Taran had been cold against her at first. Bitter, couldn't understand how he had gotten into this situation. Refused to acknowledge it. But soon, he learned her name. Her hands were careful when she helped him change his clothes or helped him eat.

Today, he was having his hair washed apparently. Probably a good thing, it still smelled of engine oil and grease. He heard the cart roll in before anything else. A soft squeak of wheels. A faint slosh of water.

Then the curtains pulled, and she was there.

He didn't ask. Didn't need to. He could smell it — that sterile shampoo scent, clean and unnatural, like everything else in this place. Something rustled, plastic maybe. Vinyl. A basin, probably. She was setting something up.

He hated how quiet it was.

No engines. No pit crew yelling in his ear. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and the too-slow beep of his heart on the monitor. The walls pressed in, smooth and blank. No color. No sound. No escape.

“What now,” he muttered, not a question.