Chapter 2: Have His Moment

Sean’s P.O.V

The roar of engines filled the air, and with it, the feeling of contained chaos and adrenaline.

The corners of my mouth curled upward with amusement as the guy with the curly dyed blonde hair, who looked to be no older than twenty-three, had his face draining of color faster than a fading tail light.

“What’s the matter?”I egged him on. “Cat got your courage? Or are you realizing you’re in over your head?” I tilted my head, mock concern dripping from my tone. “You can back out now, save yourself the embarrassment.”

The boy’s jaw tightened, and he clenched his fists. “Fine,” he spat, though his voice trembled slightly. “You’re on.”

I stepped even closer to him, grinning ear to ear. “Good lad. Let’s see if you’ve got the guts to match that big mouth of yours.”

“But I have another condition,” he said loudly when I thought that it was already settled and about to walk away.

“Oh?” I hummed, turning back to him. Interesting. “He thinks he has a chance at winning.” That earned me a round of laughter from our growing audience. “Go on then; let’s hear it.”

“Other than you admitting you are an asshole,” he said, “if I win, I also get to punch you in the face as well. How’s that sound?”

I laughed, and his frown deepened from my reaction, like he wanted to ask me why the hell I was laughing. This guy… oh, he’s a strange one, alright. “Deal,” I said, fighting the urge to ruffle his hair like the arrogant kid he was. “Good luck, then.”

Needless to say, it wasn’t difficult to find other challengers who wished to race against me with a bet. In fact, they all came running as soon as they heard that a face-off was taking place. And so, within minutes, 6 other racers assembled, demanding money as a prize for their victory.

As I adjusted my gloves and got ready for the race, I leaned toward the host, a wiry man with a clipboard and a sharp grin, who was orchestrating the night’s race. “Who’s the kid?” I asked, jerking my thumb toward the blonde boy’s car.

The host glanced at the young driver, who was pacing beside his Ashton Martin Valkyrie. “New face,” the host said, shrugging. “No team, no crew, just rolled in tonight. But get this—he’s already taken out two of the regulars. Both tight wins, but clean. Kid’s got skill.”

I raised an eyebrow at this. “Two wins, huh?” I looked over at the boy again, noting the way he carried himself—not with arrogance, but a quiet determination. There was something about him, about the way he dressed or even the way he spoke, that screamed old money. His car purred like a beast, and I felt a flicker of respect. “So he’s earned his shot, then.”

“Earned it, sure,” the host replied, chuckling. “But you’re a different beast. Kid doesn’t know what he’s in for.”

I smirked but didn’t respond. As I walked back to my car, which was parked next to his, I couldn’t help but glance at the boy, now sitting in his ride, as I got into mine and strapped on.

The kid’s face was set, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the track ahead. There was something there—an edge, a hunger. Probably even a hint of anger.

 It made me curious. Why put everything on the line with such a reckless bet? What was driving him?

The sound of the whistle cuts through the night air, snapping me back into the moment. Engines roared to life, tires screeched, and the world blurred into motion. My trusted Porsche leaped forward like it had a life of its own.

The race was chaos, raw and electric. The track carved through an abandoned industrial complex, its cracked asphalt and tight turns lit by the flickering neon glow of graffiti-covered walls. Engines screamed as the racers blasted off the starting line, the crowd’s cheers fading into the roar of turbochargers and squealing tires.

I shifted gears with surgical precision, the car responding like an extension of my own body. Behind me, the boy—Pakin, the host had finally mentioned—was right on my tail, his Valkyrie defying expectations with its nimbleness on the narrow stretches.

One by one, the other racers fell away, their cars unable to keep up with the blistering pace. It was down to me and Pakin now, our headlights carving twin beams through the darkened streets.

At every straightaway, I pulled ahead, the raw power of my Porsche proving unstoppable. But at each turn, Pakin clawed back the distance.

I glanced in my rearview mirror as we hit the halfway point. The kid was relentless, his face set in fierce concentration. I could practically feel the hunger radiating off him—Pakin wasn’t just racing to win; he was racing for something bigger.

It made me pause, just for a second, wondering what could drive someone so hard.

The final stretch loomed ahead, a series of sharp S-turns leading into a long straight finish. I had the race in the bag; I could feel it. I shifted gears, the Porsche roaring as it ate up the asphalt. But as I glanced back again, I saw the Valkyrie struggle just slightly on a tricky curve.

I smirked, my foot easing off the gas. You’ve got guts, kid. At the next turn, I deliberately widened my angle, allowing Pakin to close the gap. I could feel the crowd’s energy surging as the gap between us shrank to almost nothing.

For a brief moment, our cars were side by side, engines roaring in tandem. I spared Pakin a glance, catching the fire in his eyes. It reminded me of myself, back when I was just a scrappy kid with a car and a dream.

The finish line loomed ahead, the neon lights glowing brighter. I tightened my grip on the wheel, my grin widening. Let’s see what you’ve got left, rookie.

The screech of tires and the roar of engines faded into the deafening cheers of the crowd as both cars crossed the finish line, side by side. The air was electric, the onlookers erupting into chaos. I let out a low whistle, glancing over at the other car as I slowed mine to a crawl.

Pakin was still gripping the wheel, his chest heaving as if he had just run a mile.

I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Well, I’ll be damned,” I muttered under my breath.

As we rolled to a stop, the race guide jogged over, clipboard in hand and disbelief written all over his face. “Sean,” the man said, still catching his breath, “you’re not gonna contest that? It was—”

“A tie,” I cut him off with a lazy grin, stepping out of my car and stretching. “Let the kid have his moment. He’s earned it.”

The guide looked confused but nodded, jotting something down. I didn’t stick around for more questions. I tossed my gloves onto the passenger seat, slid back into the Porsche, and fired up the engine. “I’m done for the night,” I called out, my voice casual as if I hadn’t just raced neck-and-neck with a complete unknown. “Heading home. Save the money.”

Without waiting for a response, I revved the engine and took off, the crowd parting like water as I sped out of the makeshift track. The adrenaline still hummed in my veins, but I forced myself to relax, the hum of my car a comforting constant.

What I didn't know—what I couldn’t see in the haze of neon lights and fading cheers—was the pair of headlights that clicked on a few seconds after I’d left. And they followed me at a distance, careful and deliberate.