Page 106 of Stricken

I accelerate onto the interstate, the cityscape blurring into a fractured image behind the tinted windows. Neon signs and streetlights melt together into a psychedelic dreamscape of urban decay. Each flash of color is a memory I'm desperate to outrun–my father's cold eyes, my mother's lifeless body. Nico's wounded gaze.

The speedometer climbs. A digital tally of my desperation. My thoughts are a tangled web of rage and need, each thread pulling tighter until I'm sure I'll snap.

"You don't have to do this," Ivan murmurs over the purr of the engine. His usual stoicism cracks for a second.

I don't answer. There's no explaining this mayhem inside me, the sudden hurricane of negative emotion threatening to tear me apart. Instead, I push the accelerator further, chasing that razor's edge where everything else falls away.

* * *

On the fringe of the city, where nothing but commercial lots and buildings are chaotically grouped together, the Enclave materializes out of the darkness. All lit up and flashy, as if telling anyone who dares to trespass that this is not their territory.

The Enclave guys don't get involved in the crime underbelly machine unless someone wishes to hire them for their talents. Otherwise, they don't have any claims.

Which works well for everyone.

But they don't like people coming around uninvited either.

Still, I dare.

I dare to impose at the main gate where two armed guys stop my vehicle. After a short delay tocheck in with the presidentthe metal gate slides open and I drive through.

A cacophony of revving engines and screeching tires assaults my ears as I steer the car to the main building. Window rolled down, I inhale deeply. Inhale it all—the acrid stench of burning rubber, high-octane fuel, old leather, adrenaline drenching the air itself.

I pull up to the pavilion where the rest of the participants are gathered. The racing track sprawls before us, a vast expanse of asphalt carved into the wilderness at the city's edge. A foreign developer's playground, now the domain of self-proclaimed racers and criminals.

"Home sweet home," I mutter, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

Ivan's eyes dart nervously. "Boss, maybe we should—"

"Stay with the car," I cut him off, climbing out into the electric atmosphere.

The crowd, eyes curious, parts as I stride past the sea of painted chrome. There are whispers behind my back. But that's okay. People have been misjudging me all my life. One of my superpowers.

I'm a shark in a pool of minnows, and they know it. They've seen me race, seen me in action. They don't collect my fee at the gate anymore. They collect it here, at the hub of all the VIP activities.

The pavilion rises ahead as I approach the entrance where a makeshift throne room is erected for the king of this asphalt jungle. I spot him immediately–the main man of the Enclave.

He's not always here but he is today, perched on a black chair atop a small pedestal. Every lithe inch of him screaming that he is the ruler of his domain. Slim and tall, with shoulders that speak of hours spent sculpting perfection. His face is a contradiction of features–puffy lips and high cheekbones, and sharp eyes that calculate my every move.

Leather clings to his body—jacket and tight pants—in a way that you wonder if he was born this way. He's a jewelry man. A thick chain around his neck. Several rings on his fingers. Both ears are pierced, a definite act of rebellion against the societal norms of his mother's land.

For a fleeting moment, I allow myself to imagine a different scenario—bumping into this man at a bar, buying him a drink, seeing where the night leads. But reality crashes back as he flashes a foxy smile, acknowledging me with a slow nod. If I didn't know Nico, if I didn't feel things for him, I would have probably like someone like Jun Serra.

"Look what the cat dragged in," he drawls, voice smooth, but the hint of sarcasm is there. "I didn't think Vlad Solovey would stoop so low and come over to race himself. I thought last time you were here was a matrix glitch."

I meet his gaze, refusing to be cowed. "What can I say? Sometimes you need to get your hands dirty."

He leans forward, interest piqued. "And what has the great Vlad Solovey so... desperate for a thrill?"

Memories of Nico resurface. "Let's just say I have some steam to blow off."

"Don't we all?" He chuckles, his eyes roaming over me. "Well, you know the rules. Entry fee's steep for newcomers. Once you complete ten races, then we can talk about a discount."

I reach into my jacket, pulling out a thick envelope. "Will this cover it?"

His eyebrows raise slightly as he takes in the sum. "My, my. Someone's feeling lucky tonight."

As he pockets the cash, I ask, "And you? Feeling lucky yourself... Jun?"

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