"Racer01..."
The voice rolled out of the darkness beyond the light—rough as gravel, cold as winter steel. It wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be. It carried weight. Authority. The kind of voice that expected obedience and had never been denied.
Racer01's heart didn't just beat faster—it lurched, slamming against his ribs in an irregular, panicked rhythm that he could feel in his throat, his temples, his fingertips.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump.
Each pulse was a hammer blow. Each breath was a struggle.
"That's a pretty name... Don't you think so?"
The words sent a shockwave through Racer01's nervous system. His mouth went dry. His tongue felt like sandpaper.
"Do you know who I am?"
The question hung in the air like a blade suspended above his throat.
How could he know? He couldn't even see. The light had stolen his vision, and the voice—that voice that planted ice in his veins and turned his muscles to water—gave him no clues. Only dread.
Racer01 tried to speak. His lips parted, his tongue moved, but no sound came out. His throat had closed up, seized by fear so profound it was almost paralyzing.
The saliva in his mouth had turned thick and salty. He tried to swallow and nearly choked.
"Are you dumb?"
He flinched violently, his whole body jerking as if he'd been struck. The saliva he'd been trying to swallow went down wrong, and he coughed—a wet, desperate sound that made him feel even more helpless.
The night air was frigid, but sweat poured down his face, his neck, his back. It soaked through his shirt and made the rope around his wrists slip slightly in his own moisture. The contrast was maddening—freezing and burning at the same time.
"Mhm..." The sound escaped him, barely human. A whimper. "N-no."
He hated how weak he sounded. How broken.
"They call me the Death Fury."
Every tendon in Racer01's body went slack. His muscles simply gave up. He felt warmth spread across his lap—humiliating, uncontrollable—as his bladder released. The urine soaked through his pants, pooled beneath him, and he couldn't even muster the energy to feel ashamed.
The Death Fury.
Everyone in Lost City knew that name. It was whispered in garages and shouted in racing arenas. The King of the First Legendary Elite. The undefeated champion who'd never lost a race, never shown his face, never been touched by the law or his enemies.
A ghost. A legend. A nightmare.
And he was here. Standing in front of Racer01. Speaking to him.
Why?
Racer01 tried again to open his eyes, desperate now to see the face behind the legend, but the floodlights were unforgiving. They burned through his eyelids, turned his vision into a white void. He could make out a silhouette—tall, broad-shouldered—but no features. No humanity.
Just a shape in the light. A monster in the dark.
"Do you know why I'm here?"
Racer01's mind raced, tearing through every repair job he'd done in the past year. He'd worked on dozens of cars—high-end sports cars, custom racers, machines worth more than his entire neighborhood. He'd fixed engines, rebuilt transmissions, calibrated systems with the precision that had made him the best in the Rust Quarter.
But he couldn't think of a single mistake. Not one. He was meticulous to the point of obsession. Machines made sense to him in a way people never had. They followed rules. They didn't lie. And he never, ever let a car leave his garage unless it was perfect.
"N-no."
The stammer wasn't natural to him. He'd never had a speech impediment in his life. But fear had rewired his brain, turned his tongue clumsy and his thoughts sluggish.
"My baby girl," Death Fury said, and there was something almost tender in the way he spoke the words. "The car you repaired. A 1967 Mustang. Blue and white. Beautiful machine."
Racer01's stomach dropped. He did remember that car. He'd spent three weeks on it—replacing the transmission, recalibrating the engine, perfecting every detail. It had been a masterpiece when it left his garage.
"I was supposed to race her in the Celestial God Speed Elite Race," Death Fury continued, his voice dropping lower. "The biggest race of the season. The one that determines who moves up to the Legendary tier. The one that changes everything."
A pause. Racer01's heart filled the silence with its frantic percussion.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
"I was going to win. I always win. But your car—my baby girl—she failed me. Engine seized up on lap three. Cost me the race. Cost me my advancement."
The words landed like stones in still water, each one creating ripples of understanding and dread.
"Do you know what that means?" Death Fury asked. "Do you understand what you've taken from me?"
Racer01's mind spun. The Mustang had been perfect. He'd tested it himself—had one of his trusted teammates take it for a run to verify everything was working. It performed flawlessly.
Unless...
Unless something had gone wrong after it left his garage. Unless the driver had pushed it too hard, too fast, beyond its limits. Unless—
"I find it very odd," Death Fury said, and now there was an edge to his voice, sharp as broken glass, "that a mechanic of your reputation never takes a test drive himself. Never personally verifies his work. Never sits behind the wheel to feel how his repairs perform."
The words hung in the air like an accusation.
"How do you know your work is truly perfect if you've never driven the car?"
Racer01's heart didn't just skip—it stopped. For one terrible moment, his chest was empty, silent, and he thought this was it. This was how he died. Not from a bullet or a blade, but from sheer terror stopping his heart.
Then it kicked back in, harder than before, painful in its intensity.
No. No, no, no.
He'd never driven a car. Not once in his twenty-three years of life.
"Racer01..."
The voice rolled out of the darkness beyond the light—rough as gravel, cold as winter steel. It wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be. It carried weight. Authority. The kind of voice that expected obedience and had never been denied.
Racer01's heart didn't just beat faster—it lurched, slamming against his ribs in an irregular, panicked rhythm that he could feel in his throat, his temples, his fingertips.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump.
Each pulse was a hammer blow. Each breath was a struggle.
"That's a pretty name... Don't you think so?"
The words sent a shockwave through Racer01's nervous system. His mouth went dry. His tongue felt like sandpaper.
"Do you know who I am?"
The question hung in the air like a blade suspended above his throat.
How could he know? He couldn't even see. The light had stolen his vision, and the voice—that voice that planted ice in his veins and turned his muscles to water—gave him no clues. Only dread.
Racer01 tried to speak. His lips parted, his tongue moved, but no sound came out. His throat had closed up, seized by fear so profound it was almost paralyzing.
The saliva in his mouth had turned thick and salty. He tried to swallow and nearly choked.
"Are you dumb?"
He flinched violently, his whole body jerking as if he'd been struck. The saliva he'd been trying to swallow went down wrong, and he coughed—a wet, desperate sound that made him feel even more helpless.
The night air was frigid, but sweat poured down his face, his neck, his back. It soaked through his shirt and made the rope around his wrists slip slightly in his own moisture. The contrast was maddening—freezing and burning at the same time.
"Mhm..." The sound escaped him, barely human. A whimper. "N-no."
He hated how weak he sounded. How broken.
"They call me the Death Fury."
Every tendon in Racer01's body went slack. His muscles simply gave up. He felt warmth spread across his lap—humiliating, uncontrollable—as his bladder released. The urine soaked through his pants, pooled beneath him, and he couldn't even muster the energy to feel ashamed.
The Death Fury.
Everyone in Lost City knew that name. It was whispered in garages and shouted in racing arenas. The King of the First Legendary Elite. The undefeated champion who'd never lost a race, never shown his face, never been touched by the law or his enemies.
A ghost. A legend. A nightmare.
And he was here. Standing in front of Racer01. Speaking to him.
Why?
Racer01 tried again to open his eyes, desperate now to see the face behind the legend, but the floodlights were unforgiving. They burned through his eyelids, turned his vision into a white void. He could make out a silhouette—tall, broad-shouldered—but no features. No humanity.
Just a shape in the light. A monster in the dark.
"Do you know why I'm here?"
Racer01's mind raced, tearing through every repair job he'd done in the past year. He'd worked on dozens of cars—high-end sports cars, custom racers, machines worth more than his entire neighborhood. He'd fixed engines, rebuilt transmissions, calibrated systems with the precision that had made him the best in the Rust Quarter.
But he couldn't think of a single mistake. Not one. He was meticulous to the point of obsession. Machines made sense to him in a way people never had. They followed rules. They didn't lie. And he never, ever let a car leave his garage unless it was perfect.
"N-no."
The stammer wasn't natural to him. He'd never had a speech impediment in his life. But fear had rewired his brain, turned his tongue clumsy and his thoughts sluggish.
"My baby girl," Death Fury said, and there was something almost tender in the way he spoke the words. "The car you repaired. A 1967 Mustang. Blue and white. Beautiful machine."
Racer01's stomach dropped. He did remember that car. He'd spent three weeks on it—replacing the transmission, recalibrating the engine, perfecting every detail. It had been a masterpiece when it left his garage.
"I was supposed to race her in the Celestial God Speed Elite Race," Death Fury continued, his voice dropping lower. "The biggest race of the season. The one that determines who moves up to the Legendary tier. The one that changes everything."
A pause. Racer01's heart filled the silence with its frantic percussion.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
"I was going to win. I always win. But your car—my baby girl—she failed me. Engine seized up on lap three. Cost me the race. Cost me my advancement."
The words landed like stones in still water, each one creating ripples of understanding and dread.
"Do you know what that means?" Death Fury asked. "Do you understand what you've taken from me?"
Racer01's mind spun. The Mustang had been perfect. He'd tested it himself—had one of his trusted teammates take it for a run to verify everything was working. It performed flawlessly.
Unless...
Unless something had gone wrong after it left his garage. Unless the driver had pushed it too hard, too fast, beyond its limits. Unless—
"I find it very odd," Death Fury said, and now there was an edge to his voice, sharp as broken glass, "that a mechanic of your reputation never takes a test drive himself. Never personally verifies his work. Never sits behind the wheel to feel how his repairs perform."
The words hung in the air like an accusation.
"How do you know your work is truly perfect if you've never driven the car?"
Racer01's heart didn't just skip—it stopped. For one terrible moment, his chest was empty, silent, and he thought this was it. This was how he died. Not from a bullet or a blade, but from sheer terror stopping his heart.
Then it kicked back in, harder than before, painful in its intensity.
No. No, no, no.
He'd never driven a car. Not once in his twenty-three years of life.