Page 44 of Fatality

A Mercedes-AMG C63 up ahead.

It gives me the wrong energy—It’s not clean, nor confident.

It twitches in its lane, tiny corrections stacking on top of each other, hesitation bleeding into every movement.

A novice.

My grin spreads.

“Oh...” I floor the pedal again. “You're gonna break easy.”

The gap disappears in seconds.

I don't ease in behind it—I invade its space, my front bumper practically kissing theirs.

No warning. No buildup.

Brake lights flash in front of me.

Big mistake.

I laugh under my breath, edging even closer until I'm practically riding their rear bumper.

“Don't do that...” My voice comes out low and mocking. “Don't panic on me already.”

The car ahead swerves, trying to create some distance. I mirror it instantly, sticking to it.

Leaving no escape.

A man's voice cuts through the noise—muffled, but loud enough, angry and shaky.

“What the fuck are you doing?! Back the fuck off!”

I tilt my head slightly. Listening to him is entertaining.

Why would I stop? Breaking novices thinking they can compete here is way funnier.

“Nah.”

I snap the wheel left, surging alongside the car—close enough to be seen, too close, our mirrors nearly clipping.

The Mercedes is forced wide, its flank grinding against the barrier, sparks exploding into the dark.

The driver jerks his head toward me, shouting, furious.

I don't even look at him.

His voice is nothing more than background noise.

A dark chuckle escapes me as I start feinting, nudging my car toward his side before pulling away at the last second.

“Oh!” I fake a note of fear. “This is getting narrower. Better be careful!”

Something in my peripheral vision catches my attention.

Beside the copper-haired driver.

My eyes flick over and stop.