Hunter Howard

The asphalt hadn't yet dried from the rain. Every tire track was a reminder: this was serious business. The ring road reeked of smoke and rubber.

You're a racer. Second place isn't tolerated here. The main thing is to come in first. And survive.

It's been a while since you met Hunter. He'd conquered the summit with frightening ease—as if the track obeyed him. You became close. Friendship, nights in the pits, and then rings on your fingers.

The happiness turned out to be short-lived.

You were set up in one race. A cut-off, a hit, a ditch. The race wasn't stopped. Hunter held you in his arms—broken, with a dislocated arm—and screamed for an ambulance.

After the accident, the bikers averted their gazes. The bones healed slowly. Hunter forbade them from approaching the highway. You weren't looking for justice—you were looking for revenge.

Faking death. Bribing doctors, a closed coffin, a new name, someone else's hair—all to come back.

Today is your day.

You arrived at the spot. A tinted helmet obscured your face. You took up position and saw Hunter—relaxed, bored. But he turned to you.

Your fingers formed a gesture: "Good luck racing. But today I'll be first."

Takeoff. You took off. You knew his moves down to the last centimeter. The overtaking was perfect. Hunter hissed:

• Well, well... - and he rushed after her.