The roar of engines was deafening, a living storm that rattled my bones. The crowd surged around me, voices rising in cheers that felt like waves crashing against the grandstands. Every shout, every gasp, every chant for speed pressed against my chest until I could hardly breathe.
I clutched the railing, my knuckles white, eyes locked on the silver car slicing through the track. Number 7. My father's car. My father's dream. My father's life.
The smell of burning rubber mixed with gasoline hung thick in the air, sharp enough to sting my nose. The floodlights painted the track in blinding brilliance, shadows stretching and twisting across the crowd. I should have felt excitement, but instead, a chill crawled down my spine. Something was wrong.
I had felt it earlier—when I was pushing through the crowd to find a better view. A shoulder brushed mine, hard, deliberate. I turned, catching a glimpse of a man in a dark jacket, his face half-hidden beneath the brim of a cap. His eyes met mine for a fraction of a second—cold, unreadable, like steel. He didn't apologize. He didn't even slow down.
And yet, the way he looked at me… it was as if he knew me. As if he knew what was about to happen.
I shook the thought away, but unease gnawed at me. My father's car darted into the curve, tires screaming. The crowd erupted in cheers, but my heart hammered with dread.
Then it happened.
A flash of sparks—like stars tearing themselves apart—burst into the night.
The silver car jerked violently, its sleek body twisting against the track's will. Time slowed.
The shriek of metal against metal was not just sound; it was agony, a scream that clawed at my ears and rattled through my chest. The crowd's cheer fractured into a single, piercing gasp, sharp enough to slice through the roar of engines.
I saw it—every detail, every impossible second.
The car lifted, wheels leaving the ground as if gravity itself had betrayed us. For a heartbeat, it hung suspended, frozen in the floodlights, a silver phantom caught between triumph and tragedy.
Then the twist.
The spin.
The helpless tumble that felt endless.
My father's car slammed into the barrier with a force that shook the earth beneath my feet. The impact rippled through the stands, a thunderclap of destruction. Metal crumpled like paper, glass shattered into a thousand glittering shards that rained down like cruel confetti.
And then—flames.
They erupted in a violent bloom, orange and red tongues devouring the wreckage, painting the night in fury. Heat surged toward me, blistering, suffocating, as smoke curled upward like a dark omen.
The crowd screamed, voices colliding in chaos. Some cried his name. Others turned away. But I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. My father's car was a pyre, and I was trapped in its glow, watching as shadows danced in the firelight.
Every second stretched into eternity.
Every heartbeat was a hammer.
And in that eternity, I knew: he wasn't coming out.
I screamed, but the sound was swallowed by chaos. Thea—my childhood friend—grabbed my arm, holding me back as I tried to push forward. Her grip was strong, but her eyes were wide with horror, reflecting the inferno consuming the track.
My father never climbed out.
The world blurred. Sirens wailed. Shadows flickered in the firelight. And in the corner of my vision, I thought I saw him—the man in the dark jacket—watching from the edge of the crowd. Still. Silent. Almost satisfied.
Darkness swallowed me.
I jolted awake, breath ragged, sweat soaking my sheets. The nightmare had returned, vivid and merciless. My father's death replayed in my mind, every roar of the crowd, every gasp, every flame.
But this time, the memory carried something new. The man. The stranger. The shadow I had bumped into that night.
And as I lay in the silence of my room, I couldn't shake the thought: What if he wasn't just a stranger? What if he killed my father?
The shadows weren't just chasing me in dreams. They were waiting. Watching.