The wind howled past his ears. A banshee’s scream, rising, rising. The tires gripped the blacktop like a predator’s claws, devouring the highway in furious gulps.
He was going too fast.
Didn’t matter.
The dashboard lights pulsed, an electric heartbeat in the dark. He could feel it now—speed crawling through his veins, a rush so pure it hurt. The needle climbed. Eighty. Ninety. One hundred. His fingers ached from gripping the wheel.
The night blurred into streaks of silver and shadow. Headlights flared in the distance, a constellation of strangers on their own paths. He was beyond them, beyond anything. Untouchable.
Until the curve.
The sign had been there. A warning. 45 MPH in bold, yellow letters. He laughed. Who the hell did they think they were, trying to cage him in?
The road bent. His tires screamed, but there was no mercy in the asphalt. The back end fishtailed. A second of silence—horrible, absolute—before gravity took control.
He felt it before he saw it. The world turning upside down. The windshield shattered like brittle ice. He was airborne. A shooting star with burning rubber wings.
Then, nothing.
Somewhere, in the wreckage, the radio still played. A guitar solo screaming into the void.
