Page 200 of Fatality

The fact that, from day one—from the moment I crashed into her and her friend—I couldn't get her out of my head, it was her eyes, the way she wasn't scared, the way she fought back like a cornered wildcat.

I couldn't think about anything else.

I watched her touching herself on her couch and ended up jerking off in front of the floating screen in my apartment like some teenager in heat.

I never followed her in person.

I surprised myself by it and by not barging into her loft and fucking her senseless, even though God knows—and everyone else probably does—that I wanted to.

Instead, I paced, snapped at everyone and everything.

For no fucking reason.

The races are boring. Nothing ever happens anymore—not for me to notice.

The Static Rebels pull the same old shit every week, throwing fire and obstacles onto the track.

Ghost Void, well, they aren't number one for nothing. They keep appearing and disappearing like actual ghosts.

Neon Raiden somehow keeps every vehicle perfectly in formation while flying down the track like they're trying to die.

Golden Kitsune manipulates the race order, the tracks, and even the drones for the new racers.

And the Iron Hounds, you can slam your chassis into their cars as many times as you want, and they're still grinning. Their cars are fucking walls.

The silence in my head never ends.

The only time it does is when I'm watching her from the camera, in my apartment or from my office at the garage.

During business, I fucking kill anyone who talks to me the wrong way.

I snap their necks, drive my fist into their face until there's nothing left but a smashed, bloody mess.

It's always some small-time gang boss or one of their idiots trying to do business with me, steal our cars or bikes, or cross into our territory.

And it only gets worse.

The harder I try to respect what my troublemaker wanted—I don't even know why the fuck I'm respecting it—the worse it gets every fucking day.

Suddenly, my car gets wrenched sideways.

I grit my teeth and wrestle the Charger back under control.

Just like that, I'm ripped out of my head, ripped away from her.

My eyes blaze with fury, I just got this thing fixed. Who the fuck—?

I spot one of the Static Rebels. The pink neon accents on his car—their signature color—flash beside me as he flips me off.

He wants to provoke me.

I grin and slam the gas pedal, the front of my chassis slams into his rear bumper. Hard.

His car starts to swerve.

I accelerate, pull up alongside him, and roll down my window.

“Well, let's see if you survive that!” I shout, not amused in the slightest.