That night in the racing car.
The air at the illegal street racing circuit was thick with the smell of fuel and burnt rubber. Zane stood near the starting line, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted his racing gloves. His face was gaunt, and the dark circles under his eyes made him look like he hadn't slept in days.
"Zane, back off," his friend, a tall mechanic, said firmly. "Look at your face, man. You're a mess. Anyway, after last time, they don't want you on the track."
Zane looked at his friend, his eyes bloodshot and desperate. "No, I don't care. If they don't let me race, I will burn this place to the ground. I need to move."
"Seriously, Zane. You can sit and watch. Have a drink. But you are not getting behind that wheel," the man insisted, placing a heavy hand on Zane's shoulder.
Zane shoved the hand away. "I didn't come here to be a spectator. I need to race."
"No," the man said, his voice dropping an octave. "You don't look good. Sit down or go home."
