The sun barely peeked over the skyline of Veyron City, but Kael Veyron was already awake. The faint rumble of his engine in the driveway served as a welcome alarm. A new day. A new opportunity to dominate, to flaunt, to live exactly how he wanted.
His apartment perched atop one of the city's tallest skyscrapers, overlooking the neon veins of streets pulsing with traffic and life — all moving at a slower pace than him.
Kael slid into the driver's seat of his custom hypercar, the leather still warm from the open sunroof. The dashboard glowed with telemetry only he could interpret. Every button, every gauge, every whisper of the engine felt like an extension of himself. The car roared to life, and with a flick of his wrist, he was gone — streaking through the city streets, weaving effortlessly between traffic.
In Veyron City, racers weren't just athletes. They were celebrities, entrepreneurs, trendsetters — living monuments to speed and skill. Every corner held a story. A neon-lit diner where he'd once spun a rival's car into submission during a street duel. The skyline bridge where he'd clocked 320 km/h in a charity time trial, cameras flashing, fans cheering. Every street, every turn, every alley was a canvas — and Kael painted it with the tire marks of legends.
As he approached the city center, the roar of engines grew louder. The streets were alive with racers — some riding the latest hypercars, others on motorbikes so loud they felt like thunderclaps. People lined the sidewalks, phones out, cheering for the champions of the city. Kael waved casually, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Fame was a comfortable garment he wore every day.
His destination today was the exclusive celebration for his Dakar Rally victory: a private rooftop party atop the Veyron Tower, hosted by sponsors, fans, and elite racers alike. Champagne flowed freely, music pulsed through the skyline, and photographers captured every moment as if he were a deity walking among mortals.
Kael parked with a flourish, stepping out in a designer suit that contrasted perfectly with the grit of his racing lifestyle. Cameras snapped as he made his way through the crowd, handshakes and congratulations coming from every direction. Yet, in the midst of it all, Kael's mind wandered.
I've won again. Everyone's impressed. Everyone's relevant. But… what now?
The party was a blur of laughter, chatter, and flashing lights. Sponsors whispered about new deals. Rivals feigned humility while plotting comebacks. Fans crowded for selfies, desperate to touch the legend before them. Kael smiled, nodded, laughed on cue — the perfect social performance.
But behind the mask of celebration, a flicker of restlessness burned. He had spent decades racing against others, yet the thrill of competition lately felt hollow. He wanted something raw, unfiltered. Alone. Without cameras, without fans, without accolades — just survival, challenge, and a test of skill that no audience could judge.
The night deepened. Neon reflections danced on his face, glasses of champagne in hand, laughter ringing around him. Kael remained untouchable, untamed, the center of attention. Yet as he stepped onto the balcony to admire the city lights, one thought cut through the haze:
Even this empire of speed… can't prepare me for what comes next.
The streets glistened under a light rain as Kael slid into his hypercar once more. The champagne buzz hummed in his veins, and his ego told him he was untouchable. He would drive himself home — of course. Why would a legend need a chauffeur? I've handled faster, harder, crazier… this is nothing.
The engine growled beneath him, tires slicing through wet asphalt. Every corner became an opportunity to assert mastery, every curve a canvas for brilliance.
Then came the sharp bend near the riverfront. Kael leaned in with absolute confidence, fingers gripping the wheel, foot pressing harder on the accelerator.
The rear tires slipped. Just a fraction.
Kael corrected — too late. The car fishtailed violently, momentum betraying him, sliding into the opposite lane. Oncoming headlights cut through the rain-soaked night like knives. A massive truck loomed, horn blaring a warning that barely pierced the storm of chaos.
"Move!" Kael shouted, white-knuckled, but the car ignored his commands. Years of victories, mastery, domination — all meaningless here.
The collision was thunderous. Metal screamed. Glass shattered. Airbags deployed in a blinding explosion of force. Pain ripped through Kael's body, chest slamming into the seatbelt, head snapping violently.
Rain poured over twisted wreckage. Steam rose from the crushed hood. The truck skidded to a stop, the driver shouting. But Kael's consciousness was slipping — drifting away from the city, from fame, from everything he had ever known.
For a fleeting moment, fragments of his life flashed before him: Le Mans, Dakar, the cheers, the parties. The arrogance. The smirks. The untouchable aura — all crashing down.
I've… underestimated… everything…
And then, darkness.