What Happens At The Ending Of 'Drop A Gear And Disappear'?

The day before the race, I burned my car and announced my withdrawal. Overnight, my fanbase collapsed. Supporters unfollowed in droves, and casual fans turned on me just as viciously. Jasper, the man who had always treated me as his only real rival, put on a show of false concern. “Without him, the race feels too lonely. No matter what, I still hope he’ll return to the track and face me properly.” I sneered. In my previous life, the racecar I had painstakingly modified ended up identical to his. No matter how many videos I released of full recordings of every step I personally took, all Jasper had to do was tearfully tell his fans, “Then let Finn use it. He needs it more than I do. I’ll win on my own strength.” And just like that, I became the shameless thief in everyone’s eyes. Later, the moment I started my car, the components inside exploded, and I was left in a vegetative state. His fans called it karma. Even on the day my fiancée pulled out my oxygen tube and watched me die, I still couldn’t understand. Why had everything that belonged to me—my career, my girlfriend—all become Jasper’s? When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day the race schedule was first announced.

I had supported Lauren Geller through seven years of competitive cycling. After she defended her championship title, I handed her the divorce papers myself. Her shining career ended there and then. I had been able to carry her to the summit, and I could just as easily lift someone else in her place. It was not until I appeared before her with my girlfriend that she finally understood. It had never been Lauren who abandoned me; I was the one who chose to walk away.

At the World Rally Championship Final, my fiancee, Brielle Fuller, deliberately gave me the wrong turn call. Because of her, I lost the championship. Right there on the spot, she called off our engagement and ran straight into the arms of my rival, Chase Monroe. Just when I thought I'd lost everything, my childhood friend, Naomi Sutton, proposed to me. "It's okay. To me, you'll always be number one." Seven years later, I rebuilt my career and fought my way back to the top. Just as I was preparing to break Chase's championship record, a brake failure sent my car plunging off a mountainside. While drifting in and out of consciousness at the hospital, I overheard a conversation outside my room. "You're ruthless. You actually did something like this. Weren't you afraid he might die?" "If he dies, so be it. The only person I've ever loved is Chase. I only regret that you married him before I could. Otherwise I wouldn't have had to put myself through that all these years." I stared wide-eyed into the darkness. The love I thought was so deep was nothing more than wishful thinking. If they cared so much about Chase, then maybe I should disappear.

My brother came back from his heir-training course convinced he was destined to marry an ultra-wealthy heiress. He took my car and tried to crash into the rear of Wendy Hewitt's vehicle. That girl was a top heiress in Greateast's elite circle, and my brother wanted to set up a chance encounter with her. I slammed on the brakes and told him the Hewitts were no fools. If my brother were to crash into that car, it would ruin our whole family's finances and then some. Wendy eventually held a grand wedding that shook the whole nation. My brother was consumed by jealousy. He insisted he would have been the groom if I had not stopped him that day. That resentment festered into hatred. In the end, my brother drove his car straight into me. I died. … When my eyes snapped open again, I found myself back in the passenger seat—back on the very day my brother tried to create that so-called chance encounter. A smug smile tugged at his lips as his eyes stayed fixed on the car ahead. "The moment Wendy sees me, I'll have her heart. And then I'll ditch this scrap metal." I didn't stop him this time. My brother stepped on the gas and crashed straight into the 50-million-dollar supercar.

At a highway service area, the man parked in the next space points under his van and shouts that it's leaking fuel and is about to explode. I am a veteran auto mechanic with ten years of experience. Without hesitation, I slide under the vehicle and, within ten seconds, clamp off the fuel line. The moment I crawl back out, I catch the smell of mineral water. The owner, Billy Dickson, immediately pulls out his phone and starts a livestream while several of his accomplices pin me against the hood. "Watch this, everyone! We set the perfect trap and caught a gang of catalytic converter thieves! See how smoothly he got under the chassis? He's obviously a repeat offender. Every missing part at this service area has to be his doing!" Covered in dirt and grease, I try to explain to the crowd that I only cut the line because I thought the vehicle was about to catch fire and endanger everyone nearby. Billy spits a thick wad of phlegm right onto my shoe. "Who asked you to stick your nose into my business? You crawled under my van because you wanted to steal parts! Either you pay for a brand-new vehicle today, or I'll hand you over to the police and make sure you rot in prison!" Not wanting to delay getting my wife, who's about to go into labor, to the hospital, I grit my teeth and transfer them 20,000 dollars to settle the matter privately. Three days later, on a long downhill stretch of a winding mountain road, Billy's van completely loses its brakes. Black smoke pours from the tires. He recognizes my car and frantically blares the horn. Rolling down his window, he begs me to tell him how to survive. I simply press down on the accelerator and widen the distance between us, my face completely expressionless. "Back for another livestream to chase views? Give me a break. To prove I'm not a car thief, I already threw my wrenches into the river. You'll have to figure out for yourself how to jump out of the van."

During the May Day holiday, my roommates decided it would be funny to act like rich girls and got into character the second we got in an Uber. I knew better than to show off in front of strangers, so I tried to smooth things over, telling the driver, Andrew Houstead, that they were just joking. The moment my roommates' act fell apart, they flushed red with embarrassment and got out of the car. I didn't get the chance to follow. Andrew locked the doors and grabbed me. "Since you helped them out, you can pay the price for them," he said, smiling in a way that made my stomach drop. What followed was something I barely survived. I made it back to the city by sheer luck and went straight to the police. During the investigation, my roommates turned on me without hesitation. "She jumped into the front seat the second we got in. What do you think she was after?" "Exactly! And after we got out, she stayed behind. Obviously, she wanted something exciting with the driver." Their words didn't stay in that room. Andrew's wife heard them. She dragged me by the hair, screaming that I was a homewrecker, then put all my personal information online. Strangers I had never met piled on, calling me shameless, saying I got what I deserved. Andrew took it further. He sent my nude photos to my mother. She couldn't handle it. She had a heart attack and died on the spot. Not long after, I followed. In the end, my roommates used my death to secure guaranteed admission to graduate school, smiling like they had won. When I opened my eyes again, I was back in that Uber, right at the moment they started playing rich.