Broken Mirrors

The roar of engines echoed through the narrow, rain-slicked streets like a beast waking from a nightmare. Jax’s hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white beneath the cracked leather. His breath came sharp and shallow—every nerve screaming, every muscle tensed.

Ahead, the neon blur of the city twisted into a deadly maze. This wasn’t just a race; it was survival. The air smelled of burnt rubber and gunpowder, a reminder that this night wasn’t just about speed—it was about who’d walk away.

The flash of headlights caught his eye—a rival closing in, no room for mistakes. Jax’s mind sharpened, the familiar sting of trauma bubbling just beneath his skin, fueling his focus. The shot hadn’t missed last time. It wouldn’t miss again.

A flick of his wrist, the car fishtailed on the wet asphalt, and the chase was on.

Jax could feel the engine’s pulse beneath him—a beast eager to tear through the night. His rival’s car was right on his tail, headlights burning like daggers in the rearview mirror. Every turn was a gamble, every second a razor’s edge.

The rain made the streets slick, but Jax knew this city like the back of his hand. He leaned into a sharp corner, tires screaming, heart pounding. Memories flashed — the crash, the gunfire, the screaming. The night that had changed everything.

A sudden crack split the air. Bullets whipped past, pinging off metal and shattering glass. Jax’s grip tightened, his body instinctively ducking, reflexes honed by years in the underground. He pulled the trigger — not from his car, but the small pistol hidden beneath his jacket. Precision was everything.

The rival’s window shattered, the car swerving violently. Jax didn’t wait to see the aftermath. His eyes locked ahead, the finish line just a blur in the distance. Win this race, or lose everything. 

The rain hadn’t let up, drumming like a funeral march on the cracked pavement as Jax wiped the blood from his knuckles. The taste was metallic, bitter—a reminder of just how close he’d come to losing everything tonight.

His rival’s car was a twisted wreck against the guardrail, smoke curling from the hood like a ghost rising from the wreckage. But there was no time to gloat. Not yet.

Jax’s pulse thundered in his ears as footsteps approached, heavy and deliberate. Out of the shadows stepped a figure—cold eyes, a gun hanging loose at his side.

“You’re lucky to be breathing,” the man said, voice low, but hard enough to crack stone. “Next time, you won’t be so lucky.”

Jax’s jaw tightened. This wasn’t just about racing anymore. It was war.

The city’s underbelly had spoken: blood was the new currency, and he was about to pay his dues.