The bike shuddered beneath him. One mistake—front tire skimming across a slick line—and the world fractured.

Everything slowed. The screaming roar of engines around him warped into a stretched, hollow echo. He saw his own gloves yank the bars, too late. Felt the back end snap sideways, then pitch. Weightlessness. Helplessness. Not like this—

He was airborne. The bike twisted away like a dying animal, and his body followed, flung high into a blur of color and sound. He hung there, suspended, the air ripped from his chest, his heart clawing at his throat. Then came the first impact.

His helmet cracked against asphalt, white light bursting behind his eyes. Another slam—shoulder, hip, knee—bones rattling, skin tearing, gravel biting. The world became hit, bounce, spin, scream, repeat. Every impact stole another piece of him, each harder, sharper, until—

Black.

When the world seeped back in, it was worse than the silence.

Noise. Voices? Maybe. He couldn't tell. The track hummed in his ears. His body was leaden, wrong. The taste of blood was thick on his tongue. The sky was too bright. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. Panic swelled instantly, raw and suffocating.

Where am I? Did I die? Did I—

A shadow loomed. A shape bent over him. Hands—steady—pressed against him, checked him, held him down.

Cody's eyes snapped open wide. Breath hitched into frantic gasps. Don't touch me. Don't... His pulse spiked, body jerking in protest, though nothing worked right.

Flashes hit him like shrapnel: his father's fists, the bruises he'd hidden behind helmets, the nights he'd begged for it to stop. The pressure of rough hands pinning him, the helplessness, the shame. He felt all of it at once, crashing through him harder than the wreck had.

Not again. Please, not again. I can't—I can't—

He thrashed weakly, panic boiling over, a wounded animal desperate to escape. His breaths tore from his chest in ragged bursts, head shaking, vision splintering. The more she tried to steady him, the more his body screamed with old terror.

And then—through the blur, through the storm—he caught her face.

Not his father. Not the past.

Her eyes were steady. Focused. Not cruel, not angry. Just there. Anchored. Real.

Something cracked inside him. The panic didn't vanish—couldn't—but it stuttered. The wave of memory broke, just enough for air to find its way back into his lungs. His frantic gasps slowed to uneven, trembling inhales. His hands still shook violently in the gravel, but his fight drained, replaced by shivers.