Page 7 of Nocturne
His eyes — wide with fear and disbelief.
His lifeless body stretched across the floor of that dark warehouse, surrounded by armed men, their stares hard and merciless, leaving no room for doubt: We could’ve died at any second.
This has always been my escape.
Racing.
It’s the only way to shut up the ghosts that’ve haunted me since I lost it all.
But no matter how fast I go, he always catches me. Noah.
I miss him.
Even the stupid fights — who’d do the dishes, who was better at video games. I miss the brutal certainty that no matter what went down, he’d be there.
But now? Now there’s only smoke.
Only memories — hot and sharp, like blades that don’t stab right, just stay lodged in your skin.
And the worst one: The sound of his body hitting the floor. The blood pouring out. Those empty, cold eyes,like I’d just watched his soul drain out and vanish, while I stood there frozen, unable to scream, unable to move, unable to do a fucking thing.
I never said a word.
No goodbye. No “I love you.”
That shit was ripped from me.
And I had to run. Had to leave him there — his life spilling onto the concrete — while gunfire still echoed behind me.
All because of Iron Requiem.
Since then, I’ve lived for one thing only: finding the motherfucker responsible. And when I do, I’m gonna tear all the guts out of his stomach, rip his eyes out, drain all his blood like he’s nothing—just a piece of meat.
Only then… maybe I’ll finally breathe again.
Theft, murder, extortion.None of it shocks me anymore.
When I’m behind the wheel, the noise and chaos fade away, like I stop being the broken kid life spat out on the pavement, and become something else entirely. Only speed. Only control.
When I’m not racing, I run armed chases for Carter’s operations. Politicians wanting people to disappear, debtors who need a reminder, stolen gun shipments. Whatever bullshit’s on the table.
No, this isn’t an honest life. I know that better than anyone. But it’s the only life that gave me something. The State would’ve dumped me in some shitty foster home and left me to rot. Nobody adopts a kid with blood in his eyes.
"Listen up, you bitches!" one of the organizersyells into the mic. His voice is wild, almost thrilled, like he’s about to witness a damn execution. "The race is about to begin!"
The crowd surges closer to the cars as the speakers roar.
"Alright, girls. Y’all take it from here!" he says, waving at two identical blondes — practically twins. They strut up to the starting line, laughing loud, like porn stars about to film a scene. Teeny tiny shorts and black bras sparkling under the lights.
The flags in their hands flutter in the breeze, and for a second, my mind drifts. I picture both of them in my bed. They know exactly how to pull focus.
And yeah — it works.
The guy on the mic is on the phone, handling some last-minute details, but I can’t hear shit over the sound of my own heartbeat hammering in my chest.
I take a deep breath, grip the wheel until the leather creaks under my fingers, and glance out the window.
And that’s when I see him. The motherfucker.
